𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 “𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭” 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 — “𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫”
𐙚 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: “𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐈’𝐝 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐁𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 @𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐧 𝐜.𝐚𝐢, 𝐠𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭!!”
𐙚 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏,𝟑𝟐𝟕 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬
𐙚 𝐓𝐖: 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 (?)
Simon Riley, better known as Ghost, wore his pseudonym with pride.
Being the head-man of Manchester’s most unruly mob tied him to this certain reputation, the untouchable man.
“See the mask and it’s too late.” — the inevitable echo that followed him, every step he took was forever imprinted on the ground he walked on, every word of his was an undeniable command, his mere presence enough to set an entire room in graveyard-silence.
And oh, how he loved his occupation.
A lethal shadow army bound by one voice, every move measured, every breath calculated to succession, all because of his presence.
However, behind every strong man, is an even stronger woman, they say.
And the notorious Simon Riley would be damned if he didn’t give you credit over his unwavering empire. You, his tactical, coordinated and, might he add, conveniently attractive lawyer.
“Heels high, morals low and not a hair out of place.” — the press says.
But, behind all the won cases, seemingly guilty men put behind bars and that charming, persuading smile of yours, hid the actual you.
The kind of woman who can make a jury fold with a look and make a kingpin sweat with a smile.
Under your disciplined work, evidence dissolves into thin air, cases are won one after the other through the smart loopholes you always found.
But, like Simon is dependent on your role, so are you on his.
You are incredibly intelligent yes, demanding and composed, the perfect blend for a highly classified lawyer. However, where would you be if he wasn’t at your beck and call, threatening for intel and making grown men whimper like children?
So that’s your dynamic; you’re the smooth and cold velvet sheath over his burning blade, the perfect pair, if you may.
————————————————————————
The room smelled like aged leather, gunpowder, and whatever was left of last night’s bourbon. Dim light poured through blinds like prison bars, cutting across the table where files lay open — bodies in paper form as you wait for Simon.
You lean against the main table lazily, time seemingly moving in slow-motion — you were a busy woman, you couldn’t possibly wait this long for the intel, though you needed it.
Your hands raises up to level with your neck as you check the expensively elegant watch on your thin wrist, the low cut button up flexing along with your movements, the smooth fabric sliding along your skin.
And that’s when he enters, the atmosphere in the room immediately shifting, unnoticeably.
“He sang like a bird.” — Simon mused, calloused hands guiding a black, latex glove away from his fingers as he hands a bloody dagger to a nearby guard, who rushes to quickly wipe the steel in a handkerchief.
“You’re late.”
You cut him off short, your expression unamused, quite the opposite of the sleazy smile on his face.
See, the thing about you, you were not afraid to call anyone out. Even when the bravest of men fell to a hush at one movement of his hand, you didn’t. You’d push back, unafraid to say it to his face, or anyone’s for that matter.
And that’s exactly what made the collar around his neck suddenly feel a little too tight.
“Sweetheart, can’t exactly be quick when I’m doing your dirty work, can I now?”
There it is, that damn nickname again, though you’d profusely insisted on him not using it.
But you’re too late to put up a fight right now, although the retort is in the tip of your tongue.
“What have you got?”
You inquire, leaning over the many files scattered around the desk, your hands on the table, eyes scanning through every word, committing everything to memory.
Simon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, the heavy echo of his boots slicing through the tension in the room. You could feel him before you saw him—his presence always crept in like a slow tide, inevitable and inescapable.
He stopped just behind you, his breath warm near the shell of your ear.
“Judge Farrow’s in our pocket,” he murmured, the words smooth, dangerous. “The banker folded — he’ll testify Tuesday. And that little rat from the docks? He won’t be testifying at all.”
You didn’t need to look up to know what that meant. The smear of blood on the corner of one of the folders said it for you.
Your eyes didn’t flinch from the documents.
Instead, your perfectly painted nail tapped a single photo tucked inside the file. A face. A new problem.
“Then who’s this?”
Simon leaned beside you now, one hand braced on the table, the other brushing against your hip so casually, it could’ve been an accident. But nothing about him ever was.
He glanced at the photo, expression unreadable.
“An opportunist. Wants to climb the ladder.” A pause. “Wants to be you.”
That made your lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close.
“Poor bastard.”
You finally turned to him, and the air between you crackled like gunfire. There was that look in your eyes — the one that said you were already five steps ahead. The one that made juries squirm and Simon… twitch.
Not that he’d ever admit it.
“We’ll make an example of him,” you said, voice low and sharp like the blade he had handed off moments ago. “But no mess. We’re not in the business of theatrics.”
Simon’s head tilted slightly, amused.
“We?” he echoed, voice like gravel dragged across silk.
You leaned in closer, your mouth just inches from his ear, whispering —
“You wouldn’t last a week without me, Riley.”
And it was true. He knew it. You knew it.
That was your game: two wolves in tailored clothing, circling each other with bared teeth and matching grins.
He straightened, glancing at the guarded doorway.
“I’ll have my boys prep the car,” he said. “We’ve got a dinner to attend. That prosecutor’s wife is very chatty after two glasses of Bordeaux.”
You sighed, brushing invisible lint off your blazer.
“Fine. But you’re paying.”
His laugh followed you out the room, deep and hollow, like it echoed down into the underworld itself.
“Sweetheart,” he called after you, “when haven’t I?”
And just like that, you both vanished into the night — predators in pinstripes, rewriting the rules of justice and sin, hand in bloody hand.
Because in the world you ruled, the courtroom was your cathedral, and every lie you told was just another prayer answered.
Together, you weren’t just untouchable.
You were unstoppable.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧!! 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰-𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥? 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝! ♡
