SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader
From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.
Palm Jumeirah, Dubai - Midnight.
The lights inside the mansion flickered, once-just a glitch, a flutter of voltage-but Rose's pulse skipped all the same. It always did now. The walls felt too close. The air, too quiet. No house this beautiful should feel like a cage, but hers did. Behind its manicured gardens and imported marble, the mansion wasn't a home. It was a gilded prison.
Massimo had made sure of that.
She hadn't been allowed to leave in weeks. Her phone was replaced. Her laptop filtered. The staff now wore polite smiles that never met their eyes. Rose had grown used to surveillance: the cameras hidden in chandeliers, the microphones embedded in vent grilles, the locks that clicked shut when they weren't supposed to.
But she still had one ghost left in the machine.
She padded barefoot into the darkened study, the only room she was never searched in. Inside the antique desk drawer was a tiny circuit board connected to a hidden port-one she'd built herself back when she still had freedom. It looked like a piece of the HVAC system, but under the hood was a different story.
She was about to use her only remaining ally: an old AI security system she had personally installed before her staff were replaced. It's disguised under the house's climate control and lighting apps-Massimo's men never even noticed it.
Late at night, she writes a command.
A hidden SOS, encrypted and buried under code.
She can't name herself, can't give details.
Her fingers trembled as she typed into the dim screen.
>High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction.
She uploads it to an old abandoned GitHub repo registered under a pseudonym she once shared with a boy who used to sit at the back of her chemistry class.
The message was anonymous. There was no name, no coordinates. Just metadata buried in lines of an old GitHub repository registered under a long-forgotten pseudonym.
A joke. A nickname from school. One she had once shared with a boy who never smiled.
She didn't even know if he was still alive.
And hoped the wind still remembered her name.
Location: Undisclosed SAS Safehouse, Northern England
Simon was SAS now. Special Forces.
The alert came through on a cold Thursday night.
He monitors that GitHub repo out of habit. It's nothing but sentiment, a scar he keeps reopening.
He hasn't checked it in years.
Simon Riley sat in the quiet glow of his monitor, the rain painting war patterns against the window behind him. He barely touched the internet. Except for this.
He hadn't checked the repo in years. It was a dead habit, something he did every few months. Nostalgia with no reward.
> Last push: 2 hours ago.
Encrypted within the code wasn't just a distress call.
He didn't breathe for nearly a full minute.
Ghost stood slowly, fingers curling into fists as a cold burn lit up in his chest. He hadn't heard her name since he'd buried it. Since the night he left without a goodbye.
Encrypted in the code is a name he hasn't heard in half a decade:
He goes to his superiors.
The request is unofficial. Shadow ops.
But the words hostile containment and high-value civilian raise flags.
It gets buried under a private bodyguard detail ordered by a powerful British defense ally with silent interest in Massimo's dealings.
No name. No address. Just Palm Jumeirah, high-value civilian, hostile containment.
Enough for an unofficial op.
And the name that gets assigned?
His name was the first one on the assignment.
48 Hours Later a black SUV rolled past the iron gates like it belonged there.
Rose stood in her hallway, arms wrapped around herself, watching from behind the curtains.
One man stepped out. Alone.
Massimo's guards stood straighter.
Tall. Broad. Black tactical gear that looked too sharp for Dubai's heat. A skull mask covering his face, balaclava beneath it. His eyes were cold, unreadable. Like winter.
He didn't speak as he passed the guards. Just handed a sealed letter.
Authorization for close protection detail.
One of Massimo's men, it said.
Rose didn't buy it. But she didn't argue.
She stood at the top of the stairs as he entered, heart hammering.
There was something about him.
Something terrifying and familiar.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
He stopped just a few steps from her, the skull mask gleaming under the crystal chandelier.
"Ghost," he said. Just that.
The name tasted like ash.
Her voice trembled. "You're one of Massimo's men?"
"Something like that," he answered. Low. Controlled. British accent like frostbite.
She swallowed. The fear in her blood was real. She'd seen hitmen. Thugs. Brutes.
But this one was different.
An Alpha among the wolves.
The black cargo pants hugged his powerful thighs like a sculptor's sketch in motion. Every inch of him said: do not cross.
She stepped back as he approached. He didn't follow.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," Ghost said quietly, almost too softly for a man like him.
Because deep inside her, something screamed that she knew him.
And that scared her more than anything else.
The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peace of luxury, but the silence of surveillance, the kind of silence that watches you breathe.
Ghost stood by the edge of the marble balcony, framed by the dim amber of Dubai’s dying sun. The call had come. The assignment given. No backup, no fanfare, just a flight, a briefing, a skull mask, and a destination: Palm Jumeirah.
He hadn’t expected it to be real. The message hidden in the GitHub code had been too poetic to believe. Too her.
48 Hours Earlier, She had stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours.
> "High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction."
No names. No cry for help. No traceable language.
Just enough to mean something, to the right person.
Rose encrypted the text in base-64, nested it into an update in an abandoned GitHub repository linked to a fake climate control API, something she and Simon had once joked about building back in school. Back when he was still just Simon. Before he disappeared like mist.
The skull mask stepped through the threshold like a shadow that had grown legs. Black tactical gear. Gloves. Thick black cargo pants that stretched over thighs built like war machines. Combat boots that echoed like the ticking of an ending.
The guards nodded, not questioning his clearance. Massimo trusted him now. The cover had been placed well.
She was in the living room. Pale as bone, curled up in a silk robe on the ivory settee.
She looked up, and froze.
The weight of him was a presence.
“Who are you?” she asked, voice small, breaking.
"Name's Ghost," he said finally, voice deep and northern, cracked like winter pavement. "Massimo brought me in for security. I’m here to watch you."
Her brows creased, fear threading through the delicate angles of her face. “I don’t need another one of his men watching me.”
He tilted his head, slowly.
“No offense, but I’m not one of his men.”
Her throat worked. She stood, slowly. The robe fell just enough to show a bruise. Faint. But there.
His jaw ticked under the mask.
“I don’t trust anyone,” she whispered.
“Good,” he said. “That means you’re not stupid.”
A beat passed. The chandelier hummed above them.
She turned away, but not before he saw the tremble in her hands.
He had to earn her trust. Carefully. Quietly. Not with the truth, because the truth was dangerous. To both of them.
So he watched. And waited. And followed. Like a loyal shadow.
There was only Ghost now.
The sun bled orange into the Gulf, casting golden ripples across the water as the massive white yacht sliced through the marina like a predator in silk. Palm Jumeirah, glittering like a crown in the ocean, had seen its fair share of luxury, but even here, the arrival of Don Massimo Toricelli turned heads.
Ghost watched from the top floor of the mansion through a sliver in the blackout curtain. He recognized the yacht, custom-built, three decks, helipad, and a private lounge with imported marble flooring. He’d studied it in the brief.
His yacht, a gleaming, multi-million dollar Leviathan, rocked gently in the turquoise water, tethered just off the private dock of her Palm Jumeirah estate. It gleamed like his ego, always visible, always looming.
The Italian stepped off the yacht with the confidence of a man who owned the world and everything in it. Black suit sharp enough to cut, sunglasses shielding eyes that never missed a detail.
The black Maserati had barely stopped outside the mansion before Massimo Toricelli stepped out, flanked by his two most loyal bodyguards. He wore his usual armour of a designer three-piece suit, sunglasses despite the low golden sun, and that chilling smirk that made Rose’s stomach turn. The man smelled of cologne and control.
He carried a box in his hand. Velvet black. The kind of box that didn’t contain anything simple.
Rose was summoned to the lobby. Always summoned, never invited.
Inside the mansion, Rose was being prepped. She didn’t want to go downstairs, Ghost could see it in her face. Her robe was replaced by a floor-length designer dress, her makeup immaculate. A doll on display.
She descended the marble staircase slowly, her every step echoing in the grand, hollow luxury of the mansion she couldn't escape. The lobby was vast, double height ceilings, Italian chandeliers, crystal vases she didn’t pick, all curated to reflect a life she no longer had control over.
He stood in the corner of the marble lobby, arms crossed, skull mask reflecting the light from the chandelier above. Every nerve in his body burned.
Massimo entered like a storm in human skin.
Massimo sat in one of the velvet armchairs like he owned the place. Because he did. Or at least, he owned the cage around her.
"Bellissima," he purred, his voice smooth and poisonous. “Dubai suits you.”
Rose managed a smile, tight, hollow. “Massimo.”
Ghost stood in the corner, near the mirrored console table. He was motionless, silent, a black sentinel in full tactical gear. Skull mask on. Hands behind his back. The perfect blend of menace and restraint.
Massimo glanced at him once, indifferent. "You can leave us."
Rose lifted her chin. "He stays."
Massimo gave a faint chuckle and gestured dismissively. "As you wish, tesoro."
He reached into a bag one of his men handed him and pulled out a velvet box.
"Cartier," he said simply, like it was an apology. "For your good behavior."
She took it with stiff fingers, murmured a thank you that made her mouth taste like ash. The necklace inside was encrusted with diamonds. Cold. Lifeless. Like a chain pretending to be a gift.
Ghost’s hands curled into fists in the shadow of his sleeves.
Massimo’s eyes flicked toward him.
“And you must be the new shadow. What do they call you? Phantom? Skull?”
Massimo chuckled. “Fitting. Let’s hope you’re as loyal as the last one.”
Rose shifted, her discomfort palpable. Ghost could feel it in her silence.
Massimo turned his attention back to her. “I’ve missed you. We’ll have dinner this weekend. I’ll have the chef flown in from Florence. You’ll wear the necklace.”
He leaned in closer, voice a whisper of threat and lust. “Say yes.”
She didn’t answer. Just nodded.
Massimo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You look tired. Are they feeding you well? Are you sleeping?"
He smiled wider. "Still so stubborn. That’s what I like about you. We’ll talk again soon."
Massimo straightened, pleased with himself.
And then he stood. Kissed the air beside her cheek.
Left as quickly as he arrived.
He left the box in her hands and turned, his coat swaying as he walked out. The doors shut behind him.
Only then did Rose exhale.
Ghost stayed still. Watching. Planning. Rage crawling up his spine like wildfire.
He couldn’t move. Not yet.
He hadn’t called Task Force 141.
Because this wasn’t the moment.
And when it did, Massimo wouldn’t walk away.
The moment the double doors shut and his footsteps faded, she turned and ascended the stairs quickly, almost running.
Ghost followed, his boots quiet behind her.
She reached her bedroom, the velvet box still clutched in her hand like it had burned her.
Once inside, she hurled it across the room. The lid snapped open. The necklace hit the floor with a sharp, cold clatter, scattering light across the marble.
She sat down beside it. On the floor. In her silk gown. Head bowed, fists clenched, tears pooling in her eyes like they had nowhere else to go.
Ghost stood by the door. Watching. Silent.
She didn’t notice when he stepped closer.
Until he knelt down beside her.
"You don't have to do what he says," he said softly.
He reached forward, hesitantly, almost reverently, and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek with a gloved thumb.
The same way she had, years ago, trembling in a glittering gymnasium, her heart in her throat as she offered her hand to a boy who never took it.
"You don't have to deal with this alone," he said gently.
She stared at the hand. At the shape of it. The calloused palm. The curve of his fingers. So familiar.
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Simon...?"
He didn’t say anything at first.
The silence cracked around them like thunder.
Her lips parted, her chest rising with a thousand emotions she couldn’t name.
He slowly removed the mask.
Older. Harder. Scarred. But still him.
His eyes locked onto hers.
"I came back for you, Rose."
And this time, when she took his hand, he didn’t let go.
