Chapter 1
Holly
Big City Events, Midtown Manhattan
“Congratulations, girl! I heard you landed the Callahan account.”
Darlene’s voice carries across the office as I’m shoving my laptop into its case, my third cup of coffee gone cold beside a stack of contracts.
The place is half-dark—most of the team already clocked out—but Darlene Feinman never misses an opportunity to gossip.
She saunters over, grinning, her lipstick as bright as the blinking red reindeer on her sweater.
“Clementine Callahan! I mean, oh my God, Holly! That’s huge! The Drew’s House Holiday Gala? You’re going to be all over the society pages. But, girl, do you know what you’re doing?”
I glance up, tired but amused.
“I’m thirty-one, not twenty,” I scoff. “And I’ve been running events for six years now. It’s not like it’s some big surprise, Darlene.”
“Oh, puhleeze, Holly!”
She flicks her perfectly highlighted hair over her shoulder.
“You’re still practically a baby compared to half the fossils in management.
But seriously—Clementine Callahan? Do you know how much pull she has?
Between her father’s, now her husband’s, security company and her whole Volkov family connections.
Not to mention those superstars she’s always photographed with. ”
Her eyes go dreamy.
“Have you seen those men? I mean holy freaking hotness!”
I groan.
“Darlene, please. They’re all head-over-heels for their wives. And I got the account because I’m good at what I do, not just because Clementine and I go to the same yoga class.”
I giggle—and okay, maybe I’m lying a little.
That’s definitely how I got my foot in the door.
“Well, Ambrose sure isn’t thrilled,” Darlene sing-songs. “He was convinced he’d get the promotion after how Molly handled the Kline wedding disaster. But now? You’re the golden girl.”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair.
“Ambrose can have the spotlight. I just want the event to go smoothly.”
Truth is, I hate tension. Always have. And Ambrose Pierce is the kind of man who carries a grudge like a designer briefcase—always visible, always ready to swing it at someone.
Darlene laughs, pats my shoulder, and grabs her purse.
“Yeah, well, too bad that’s not for him to decide. Anyway, I gotta run. You work too hard, Holly. Don’t stay too late, okay? I swear, if I come in tomorrow and find you asleep at your desk again—”
“I’m just finishing up some vendor confirmations,” I protest, smiling. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
She gives me a skeptical look, then waves and disappears down the hall, her perfume lingering behind her.
And then it’s quiet.
Thank God.
Just me, the soft hum of the building’s heating system, and the glow of my monitor as I type out a few last emails to caterers and lighting techs.
The Drew’s House Gala is coming up fast, and every detail has to be perfect.
It’s the biggest event of my career—and the one I can least afford to mess up.
Still, as I close my laptop and reach for my coat, a shiver slides down my spine.
Lately, it’s been harder to shake that feeling of being watched.
It started small—unmarked envelopes on my windshield, calls that went dead when I answered, that uneasy sense of eyes on me when I locked up the office.
I’ve told myself it’s stress, paranoia.
But the truth? It feels personal.
I shut off the lights, making my way to the elevator. The building is empty except for the hum of fluorescent bulbs and the low murmur of Frank, the night guard, talking on his radio at the front desk.
“Night, Ms. Winters,” he calls as I pass.
“Night, Frank. Oh—here.”
I walk up to the desk and hand him a small white box tied with a gold ribbon.
“Anisette cookies. I made them last night.”
His eyes widen.
“Wow! These smell fantastic. You didn’t have to do that!”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” I say, smiling. “I remember you telling me you hadn’t had any since you were a little boy, so I googled the recipe.”
He laughs, that deep, genuine kind of laugh that always makes me feel a little safer on my late nights here. “Well, I can’t wait to try them. Thank you, Ms. Winters.”
“Anytime, Frank. Have a good night.”
He gives me a friendly salute as I head toward the glass doors.
The motion sensors hiss them open, and a rush of icy air hits my face. The city lights blur behind the frost on the glass, and I tug my coat tighter as I step outside.
The parking lot is mostly empty, a thin sheet of frost glinting under the streetlights.
My breath clouds the air as I cross the asphalt, boots crunching softly.
Everything looks normal—until I notice the far corner, where one light is out.
Of course, it’s the one above my car.
“Perfect,” I mutter under my breath, tugging my coat tighter. My boots crunch on gravel as I cross the lot, every echo of my footsteps sounding too loud.
My tiny blue hatchback sits beneath that dark patch of asphalt, glittered with frost.
I pause, digging through my bag for my keys.
The world feels too quiet out here. The buzz of traffic is a faint hum in the distance, but the lot itself is still—eerily so.
It’s late.
The city beyond the chain-link fence buzzes with honking taxis and Christmas lights, but here—it’s just me and the shadows.
My heartbeat picks up as I near my little blue hatchback, sitting in shadow.
That’s when I see it.
A red envelope, half-crumpled and glistening with melted frost, the edges torn and damp, wedged beneath my windshield wiper.
I freeze.
It’s the third one this week.
The wind cuts through my coat, but the chill running down my spine has nothing to do with the weather.
My pulse starts to pound in my ears as I reach out, the paper cold and wet beneath my fingertips.
“Goddamn it,” I whisper, opening the envelope with trembling fingers.
The ink has run, but not enough to hide the single line scrawled across the front in jagged, black marker:
You shouldn’t have said yes.
My pulse is racing now because I know what it means.
The threats aren’t stopping.
They’re getting worse.
It wasn’t stress.
It wasn’t coincidence.
Someone’s watching me.
The air feels too thick. Too heavy.
I shove the letter into my bag and glance around, eyes darting to the edges of the lot.
The shadows seem deeper tonight, darker.
They’re the kind of shadows that hide things.
Okay, Holly. Breathe. Just get in the car, lock the doors, and drive—
“Excuse me—whoa!”
The deep male voice comes out of nowhere.
I spin, heart leaping to my throat, and before I can think, instinct takes over. My purse becomes a weapon, swinging hard and fast toward the threat.
“HELP! HELP!”
“Easy! Hey—don’t you know not to yell help in New York?”
The man’s voice is sharp, commanding, a growl that vibrates through the cold night air. Then he’s there—close, too close—catching my wrists mid-swing.
“Let me go!” I shout, breath hitching as his grip closes around me.
“Not until you stop trying to knock me out with your purse,” he snaps, lowering his head until we’re face to face.
And wow. Big mistake.
Because holy hell—he’s huge.
Broad shoulders under a dark leather coat, hair short, but thick and impossibly dark, eyes the color of good whiskey, and a perfectly chiseled jawline.
He’s the kind of man who looks carved from shadow and muscle, every inch built for control and sin.
“Who are you?” I demand, jerking against his hold. “I don’t know what you want, but you better leave me alone or I’ll—”
“You’ll what, Tinsel?”
The nickname throws me off just long enough for him to loosen his grip—but not step back.
His mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile, more like a challenge.
My pulse skitters.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then stop hitting first and asking questions later.”
He lets go slowly, carefully, like he knows I’m one flinch away from bolting.
Then he reaches into his coat pocket, movements deliberate.
“I’m going to show you something—”
“No thank you, buddy. I’ve already seen one!”
He makes a face and shakes his head.
“Really? Look, I’m going for my license. Don’t swing again, yeah?”
I hesitate, watching as he pulls out a leather wallet and flips it open.
A badge gleams in the dim light.
Sigma International Security.
“I work for Sigma,” he says evenly. “Your boss’s boss, technically. Connor Callahan. His wife, Clementine, sent me.”
My breath catches. “Clementine?”
He nods once.
“Yeah. She asked him to check on you. So, he sent me. Looks like it’s a damn good thing she did.”
I blink, mind racing to catch up. “You’re saying Connor Callahan sent you here? Tonight?”
He nods again, scanning the lot with sharp, assessing eyes that seem to miss nothing.
“Yeah, he told me about the threats. I was on my way up to your office when I saw you head out alone. Not smart, by the way.”
I bristle, folding my arms over my chest.
“Excuse me for not having a personal bodyguard on speed dial.”
“Good thing you’ve got one now.”
He steps closer, the scent of cedar and clean winter air hitting me all at once. It’s distracting—way too distracting for a woman who was just panicking about being stalked.
I tilt my chin up, trying to keep my voice steady. “And you are?”
“Noel Kane.” His gaze meets mine, steady, unreadable. “You can call me Noel.”
Of course, his name sounds like Christmas. Perfect.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I mutter.
“Good,” he says, leaning in just enough for his breath to brush my cheek. “I’m not one. I’m here to keep you alive.”
Heat prickles up my neck, an absurd reaction considering I just attacked this man with my purse.
“Well, I was doing fine before you scared the crap out of me.”
His mouth twitches again, that almost-smile returning.
“Sure you were, Tinsel.”
“Stop calling me that!” I shoot back, clutching my bag like it might somehow save me from spontaneous combustion.
“Not a chance,” he says, his voice lowering to something rough and quiet—like gravel wrapped in velvet. “It suits you.”
I blink up at him, incredulous.
“Why? Because it’s annoying, makes a mess, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t get rid of it?”
He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth that could set off fire alarms.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if he’s actually considering it.
“Nah,” he murmurs, stepping a little closer—close enough for me to feel the heat rolling off him, for his cologne to hit me.
It smells like pine trees and cold air, with something darker underneath.
He’s still talking, and I have to focus to listen.
“It’s because it’s pretty. And no matter the mess, it’s always the one thing everyone wants on their tree. It’s the tinsel that makes it shine.”
Holy. Freaking. Cow.
I’m not saying my ovaries just started a pyrotechnic display worthy of Times Square on New Year’s Eve, but if there were a fire extinguisher nearby, I’d probably grab it.
He’s standing so near now that my pulse stutters. Every part of me is screaming that this man is dangerous—not because I think he’ll hurt me, but because the way he’s looking at me makes me want things I shouldn’t even be thinking about right now.
“You are ridiculous,” I manage, but it comes out breathier than I intend.
His gaze dips, lingering just a second too long on my mouth before dragging back up to meet my eyes.
“Maybe,” he says, voice softer now, like it’s a secret meant just for me. “But you’re still keeping the nickname.”
My heartbeat goes haywire.
“You’re impossible.”
He finally steps back, smirking in that infuriatingly calm way men do when they know they’ve rattled you.
“And you’re late getting home. Get in the car, Tinsel. I’ll follow you, make sure you get there safe.”
For a long, charged second, neither of us moves.
The world narrows to the pulse pounding in my ears and the faint glint of amusement in his eyes.
Then he steps back, the spell breaking.
“Get in the car. I’ll follow you home. We’ll talk about security there.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“You don’t have to.” He gestures toward my car door. “The Callahans already did. Congratulations, Tinsel, you’re important to some very important people.”
I exhale, feeling somewhere between annoyed and oddly safe.
Fine. Let the overbearing giant follow me home. Anything’s better than being alone right now.
“Right,” I say, fumbling my keys, because apparently, I’ve forgotten how to be human. “Bodyguard or stalker, still up for debate.”
That earns me a low, rough laugh that does things to my insides I don’t want to talk about.
“You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
And with that, he turns and strides toward a sleek black SUV parked a few rows down.
Broad shoulders. Long, steady stride. The kind of man who commands attention without even trying.
I exhale shakily, leaning against my car for a second to collect myself.
Who even talks like that?
Who compares a woman to tinsel and makes it sound like the most flattering thing ever?
I’ve had boyfriends. Dates. Disappointments. But no one’s ever made me feel like this.
Like I’m awake and buzzing after a decade of just going through the motions.
And that’s terrifying.
Because if I’m not careful, the man who’s supposed to protect me might end up being the one who completely wrecks me.