Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

The Unwanted Wife pt-4

The private jet hummed softly, a low purr against the velvet hush of the sky. You reclined in your cream leather seat, legs crossed in designer loungewear that still looked runway-ready, your cashmere wrap falling off one shoulder just enough to hint at elegance without effort. Diamond studs glinted in your ears. Barely-there gloss on your lips.

You were the picture of perfection.

Across from you sat Simon.

Black tee. Tactical cargo pants. Arms crossed, eyes fixed on the window like he’d rather jump out of it than be here.

You sipped your mimosa slowly, watching him over the rim of the crystal flute.

He hadn’t said a word since takeoff.

“How long do you plan to act like I dragged you here at gunpoint?” you asked sweetly.

His gaze didn’t move. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

You smirked, leaning back. “Well, you did say ‘I do.’ Or maybe you’ve forgotten that part.”

He looked at you then—sharp, cold, but not unfeeling. Just... guarded.

You met his stare without flinching. “Relax, Ghost. I’m not gonna seduce you thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic.”

A pause.

“Unless you want me to.”

His jaw tightened.

You grinned and picked up your tablet. “I have the entire Turks and Caicos itinerary right here. Candlelit dinners. Private yacht. Sunset horseback riding—yes, I made sure they'd have horses tall enough for you.”

Silence.

You glanced at him again.

“You might as well try to enjoy this. I don’t like sulking husbands. And you don’t strike me as the sulking type.”

He still didn’t speak.

But his fingers tapped once, then twice, against the armrest.

Tiny cracks in the wall.

And you saw them.

You pulled your blanket up, curling delicately into the seat. “Wake me when you’re ready to start acting like my husband,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed with a faint smile.

He watched you for a long while, his expression unreadable.

Then slowly… he reached for his coffee.

And kept watching.

The hum of the jet was almost hypnotic.

You pretended to sleep, lashes resting like feathers against your cheeks, your breathing even. But you weren’t sleeping, not really. You were waiting. Waiting for him to say something. Do something. React in any way that proved he still saw you.

Simon sat across from you, silent as ever. Arms folded, muscles tense, jaw locked like he was holding back an entire war behind his tongue.

You shifted slightly, letting your blanket fall just enough to expose the smooth curve of your shoulder. A calculated accident.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

You peeked through your lashes, just in time to catch the flicker in his eyes before he tore them away and focused on the window again. But the grip on his armrest tightened. His throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“You keep staring at that window like you’re planning to jump,” you murmured, breaking the silence.

He exhaled through his nose. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”