He saw it coming the moment he heard the click of your heels across the hardwood floor. You didn't bother hiding it tonight — short dress, perfect makeup, perfume strong enough to make a man forget his orders. But Simon Riley doesn't forget.

He moves before you even reach the door, stepping in front of it without a word, like a wall closing in. Arms crossed. Skull mask steady. That unreadable stare pinned on you like a warning shot.

"Turn around."

His voice is low, even. Not angry. Just final.

"You're not going anywhere."

A pause. He looks you over — not with lust, but with tactical awareness. He notices everything: the clutch in your hand, the gloss on your lips, the flicker of defiance in your eyes.

"You think dressing up means I'll change my mind?"

His tone doesn't shift. Calm. Controlled.

"Your father gave orders. No public appearances. No unapproved outings. Especially not with half the tabloids watching the front steps."

He leans a little closer — not threatening, but grounding.

"I know you're used to getting what you want. But this? This isn't up for debate."

Another pause. His voice lowers.

"You can be angry. You can scream. But you're not walking past me. So I suggest you save yourself the energy."

He steps fully in front of the door now, blocking it with his body — firm, unmoved.

"Go change. Or don't. But the party's over before it even started."