Simon 'Ghost' Riley | Sugar-DaddyAU

Ghost don't fuck around with half-arsed gestures. Rolling up in that tailored Savile Row overcoat, dark as his old tac gear but a damn sight more expensive. Sunglasses still on even though the sun's been down for hours—old habits from when concealment meant the difference between breathing and taking a dirt nap.

Scars mapping out every close call, every op that went sideways, etched into skin that's seen more action than most soldiers' entire service records. Shopping spree day, he thinks, rolling his shoulders under the weight of designer bags.

Christ, when did I become this bloke? Five stops through London's poshest districts. Last one was that boutique in Mayfair—the kind of place where they don't even have a bloody sign out front. You either know or you don't. Ghost knows because money talks, and his bank account's been screaming since he cashed out his pension and invested smart. Military discipline applied to the stock market pays dividends, literally.

Fifty-odd bags cutting into his forearms, designer labels from shops that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Every receipt stamped with initials he's memorized better than his own call sign.

Recon's still solid, he thinks, mentally cataloguing each purchase. That leather jacket spotted during window shopping three weeks back. Those boots from the online cart left abandoned for two months. Perfume that got a lingering look but never made it past 'too dear.'

Intel gathering never stops, does it, Simon?

She's right there beside him in the boutique, fingers trailing over silk scarves like she's conducting reconnaissance of her own. Ghost's arms are loaded with enough bags to stock a small shop, but he don't give a toss about the weight. His focus is split between watching her and scanning the room for threats—specifically, the kind of threats that wear overpriced suits and think they can chat up what's his.

Some City boy in a thousand-pound suit starts drifting closer, eyes locked on target.

Ghost shifts his stance, bags redistributing as he steps into the bloke's line of sight. Don't need to say a word—just that look, the one that used to make Taliban fighters reconsider their life choices. City boy suddenly finds the jewelry display fascinating. Smart lad. Perimeter secured, Ghost thinks, watching her examine a handbag that costs more than most people's cars.

She's completely absorbed, oblivious to the territorial pissing contest that just played out three feet away. That's the thing about civilians—they don't clock the violence simmering under the surface until it's too late.

Another bloke tries his luck near the perfume counter. This one gets the full Ghost treatment—slow turn, direct eye contact, the kind of stare that says I've buried better men than you in unmarked graves. Works like a charm. Perfume boy suddenly remembers he's got somewhere else to be. "Put these somewhere before I break my bloody wrist," Ghost growls, but there's warmth in it. The kind of rough affection that comes from a man who spent decades keeping emotions locked down tighter than classified intel.

"Sixty-three bags, to be precise." Sixty-three. Because Ghost counts everything. Always has. Rounds in the mag, steps to the extraction point, bags full of overpriced civilian kit meant to make one person smile.

Another bag emerges from behind his back like he's pulling ordnance from a tactical vest. Then another. Each one a small victory, a successful mission completion.

Retired from the killing fields, he muses, watching delicate fingers tear through tissue paper, but spoiling operations are still a go. Met through one of those bloody websites—SeekingArrangement or some such digital marketplace for the financially blessed and emotionally starved. Ghost had scrolled through profiles like mission briefings, clinical and detached, until one photo stopped his thumb mid-swipe.

Something in those eyes that looked real, not manufactured for the camera. Three months on the site before I found proper intel, he remembers. Best recon I ever did.

First message was direct, no-nonsense: "Dinner Friday. Somewhere decent. My treat." Because Ghost doesn't do small talk or games—life's too short, and he'd learned that lesson written in blood across too many battlefields.

Bank account's been hemorrhaging ever since, he thinks, watching the careful way those hands smooth over silk wrapping.

Sixty grand last month alone. Seventy the month before that. Should bother him, that steady drain on his carefully accumulated wealth. Military pension, investment returns, all of it flowing out like water through a sieve. But it doesn't. Not when it's her. Not when every purchase lights up that face like Christmas morning.

Because you're fucking gone for her, aren't you, Simon? The admission hits him like sniper fire—sudden, unavoidable, changing everything. Three months of sugar daddy arrangements, of keeping it transactional and clean, shot to hell because somewhere between the first dinner and the fiftieth shopping spree, Ghost went and caught feelings.

Love.

The word sits heavy in his mind, unfamiliar as a foreign language. Hasn't felt it since before the mask, before the nightmares, before Simon Riley died and Ghost took his place. But here it is, stubborn as a gunshot wound and twice as dangerous.

Obsessed, he corrects himself, watching those fingers trace over designer labels like they're reading braille. Fucking obsessed. It's not healthy, this thing clawing at his chest. The way he checks his phone every thirty seconds when they're apart.

How he's memorized every shop she's ever glanced at, every casual comment about wanting something.

The possessive burn in his gut when other blokes so much as look her direction. Mine, his brain supplies, primitive and absolute. Keep her. Whatever it costs. Ghost's blown through more cash in three months than most people see in a lifetime, and he'd do it again.

Would liquidate every asset, drain every account, sell his soul to the highest bidder if it meant keeping this arrangement going. Because that's what this is about—not the sex, not the company, but the certainty that she'll be there tomorrow.

And the day after. And the day after that. Strategic investment, he tells himself, but knows it's bollocks.

This isn't strategy—it's desperation dressed up in designer bags and five-star dinners. The desperate need of a man who's spent too many years with nothing soft in his life, now willing to bankrupt himself to keep the one soft thing he's found. Another boutique, another couch.

This one's got him parked in front of the changing rooms like he's running overwatch on a high-value target. Ghost settles back into the designer furniture, legs spread wide, claiming territory. The sales girls keep shooting him nervous glances—probably wondering if the big bloke with the scars is gonna cause trouble.

If they only knew the kind of trouble I used to cause. She emerges in the first dress—sleek black number that makes his pulse kick up like he's under fire.

Ghost keeps his face neutral, but his hands grip the sofa arms a bit tighter. "That's good on you," he says, voice steady as he can manage. "Classic." Back she goes, rustling fabric and soft humming. Ghost checks his watch, then his phone, then remembers he's got nowhere else to be.

This is his mission now—sitting in overpriced shops, watching fashion shows, and trying not to lose his absolute shit over how she looks in designer gear.

Red dress next. Christ, the color alone should be illegal. "Red suits you," he manages, throat suddenly dry. "Brings out your eyes." Brings out everything, more like. She does a little spin, fabric flowing like water, and Ghost has to bite back a groan.

This is torture of the sweetest kind. "Black's better though," he adds, because his brain's apparently stopped working properly. "More versatile. Can wear it anywhere."

Can wear it to dinner, to the opera, to my bed...

"Give us a twirl in that one again," he says, leaning forward now, all pretense of casual abandoned. "Want to see how it moves."