Chapter 1 Collision
Nick Malone
Nick Malone had no patience for this kind of bullshit.
The flash of cameras, the soft clink of champagne glasses, and the polite murmur of Manhattan’s elite made his skin itch.
He didn’t belong here—not in the world of high fashion, billionaires, and air-kissed greetings.
He belonged out on the streets, patrolling real crime, not standing stiff in a pressed uniform while women in silk gowns swept past him like he was part of the décor.
He adjusted his stance near the edge of the ballroom, one hand resting lightly on the thick leather leash in his grip.
Sabre sat at his side, silent and still, his dark coat blending into the polished floor, his sharp eyes scanning the room. The Tervuren Belgian Malinois was trained to be alert, to detect tension before it snapped into violence, to track the scent of adrenaline rising in the air.
Nick trusted this dog more than he trusted most people.
Despite the luxury of the event, tension buzzed, a quiet hum of unease that only someone like Nick would pick up on.
He'd worked security for high-profile events before, and he knew that the more glamorous the setting, the more dangerous the undercurrents.
These were the kinds of places where power deals were made in whispered conversations, where enemies shook hands over champagne, and where threats came dressed in designer suits and couture gowns.
It was all about appearances, but appearances could be deceiving.
Sabre shifted slightly at his side, ears twitching, his trained senses undoubtedly picking up on the same undercurrent of unease. It wasn’t anything obvious, not yet, but Nick had learned long ago to trust his instincts. The same instincts that told him someone in this crowd didn’t belong.
The gala was an extravagant spectacle, the kind of event where old money mingled with new, and reputations were cemented over champagne toasts.
Held in one of Manhattan’s most opulent ballrooms, the space was a cathedral of wealth—high vaulted ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers, gilded columns stretching toward the sky, and an orchestra tucked into a corner, playing a delicate waltz.
The scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey clung to the air, mixing with the faintest hint of tension.
This wasn’t just any social gathering. It was the opening night of New York Fashion Week, a high-stakes event where designers showcased their most daring creations and socialites clamored for the front row.
The VIP section was lined with the industry’s power players—CEOs, models, critics, and celebrities, all draped in the finest couture.
Beyond the velvet ropes, photographers jostled for position, their lenses trained on the elite, hungry for the next headline.
It was a security nightmare. Too many access points, too many unknown faces drifting through the crowd.
The flashing lights from the photographers created a strobe effect, making it difficult to track movement clearly.
Waitstaff weaved through clusters of guests, balancing trays of champagne flutes, their crisp uniforms blending together in a sea of black and white.
Conversations hummed at every turn, a mixture of polite laughter and murmured negotiations, making it impossible to single out any one voice.
The layout of the room didn’t help. Oversized floral arrangements sat atop mirrored pedestals, obstructing visibility.
Plush velvet drapes pooled along the far corners, perfect for someone to linger unnoticed.
Even the elegant winding staircase leading to the private balcony provided too many places for a threat to hide.
Nick had been in war zones that felt less chaotic than this.
His gut told him something was off.
The private security hired for the event looked sloppy, distracted. Too many entry points, too many unfamiliar faces. Nick scanned the far end of the ballroom, catching sight of a man lingering near the VIP entrance. He shifted too much, adjusted his cuff too often—a nervous tick.
Nick filed the guy away in his mental database of potential threats.
He scanned the rest of the crowd, mapping out potential exits and bottlenecks.
The flow of people shifted as more guests arrived, creating natural choke points where security should have been tighter.
A few of the private guards were stationed near the main entrance, but they weren’t paying enough attention.
One was checking his phone, another was too busy nodding along to whatever a socialite was saying to him. Useless.
Nick worked hard to suppress his irritation.
If something went down tonight, he wasn’t going to count on the hired help.
It would be him, Sabre, and whatever split-second decisions he had to make to keep people safe.
The problem was, he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for yet.
Just that it was there, waiting to make itself known.
Just as he was about to move closer, a streak of pale blue flashed in his peripheral vision.
The next thing he knew, a woman crashed into his chest.
Nick caught her automatically, his grip firm but controlled, stopping her from toppling them both over. She stumbled, hands catching against his chest, her head tilting up in surprise.
Then she went still.
Celeste Bellerose.
Nick recognized her instantly.
Sabre did too.
Before Nick could register the movement, the K-9 circled Celeste once, then jumped up, placing his paws lightly on her hips and nudging her face with a lick.
Nick’s entire body locked up.
Sabre never did that. Not without a command.
Celeste made a startled sound, caught between a laugh and surprise, one hand automatically brushing through Sabre’s fur. Not pushing him away, not freezing up in fear.
“Well,” she said, blinking up at Nick. “I don’t think he got the same memo you did.”
Nick scowled, pulling the leash slightly. “Down.”
Sabre obeyed immediately, dropping back into a perfect sit at Nick’s side, ears pricked forward, still watching Celeste like she was something worth guarding.
Nick’s gut twisted.
She stepped back, smoothing the silk of her gown, eyes flicking back up to him with interest. “And here I thought cops were supposed to be intimidating.”
Nick’s jaw ticked. “We are.”
Nick was known for his jaw ticking expressions, more like his signature gaze.
She tilted her head, lips curving. “Well, at least your dog likes me!”
Hell, if he knew why Sabre acted the way he did, but he did agree Sager had great taste in women.
As she turned and walked away, Nick found himself still watching her.
The scent of her perfume lingered—something expensive, floral but with a hint of spice, like an invitation wrapped in fire.
He hated that he noticed. Hated even more that for a split second, he almost liked it.
He exhaled sharply, shaking it off. This wasn’t his world, and Celeste Bellerose wasn’t his problem. But the night was still young.
Before he could come up with the answer, movement over her shoulder caught his eye. The man near the VIP section was gone. But another figure—a catering staffer—was slipping a folded note into another waiter's hand before disappearing behind a set of velvet curtains.
Nick’s gut told him everything about this night was wrong.
Then his earpiece crackled.
“We have a situation backstage. Possible threat. The target? Celeste Bellerose.”
His gaze snapped back to her.
Celeste was still standing in the middle of the ballroom, completely unaware that someone was targeting her.
Nick moved.
He cut across the ballroom, his boots soundless against the marble floor, Sabre keeping pace beside him. The crowd parted instinctively as he approached, a few guests giving him wary glances, but he barely noticed. His focus was locked on Celeste.
She was halfway to the VIP section when he reached her side. She turned, startled, her blue eyes flashing in irritation. "Are you following me now?"
Nick didn’t waver. "Not by choice. I'm your assigned protection detail while you're in town."
Celeste blinked. Then she laughed, a soft, disbelieving sound. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he said evenly. "Your security team requested NYPD reinforcement. You have a stalker, and until the department clears the threat, I’m your shadow."
Her expression waivered—annoyance, skepticism, something else, almost a this could be fun expression. "And no one thought to tell me this before tonight?"
"I was briefed an hour ago. Figured it was better coming from me than blindsiding you with it."
Celeste folded her arms, shifting her weight. "And you think hovering around me like some brooding bodyguard is appropriate?"
Nick’s patience thinned. "I think keeping you alive is the appropriate. Whether you like it or not."
She stared at him, unreadable for a beat. Then, with a tilt of her chin, she exhaled sharply. "Fine. But don’t step on my dress."
“Noted”. Then Nick fell into step beside her, Sabre’s ears twitching as they moved deeper into the gala, where more eyes were watching than she realized.
A well-dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perfectly tailored suit clapped Celeste on the back with a wide grin, oblivious to the tension in her posture. "Celeste, my dear! Stunning as always. The collection this year—magnificent."
Celeste mustered a polite smile, but Nick saw the way her shoulders tensed for a fraction of a second before she masked it. "Thank you, Martin. I’m glad you approve."
The mogul was already turning to his next conversation, but Nick didn't miss the way Celeste released her breath slowly once he was gone.
She looked unaffected to the untrained eye, but Nick had seen that kind of tension before.
She was used to playing a part, smiling even when she didn't want to.
And for some reason, that realization unsettled him more than it should have.
He glanced down just in time to catch Celeste brushing her fingers over the bracelet on her wrist—a delicate, diamond-studded piece that looked more sentimental than fashionable.
A habit, maybe, but there was something about the movement that made Nick pause.
Like she wasn’t just adjusting jewelry. Like she was reminding herself of something. Or someone.
A scar peeked from beneath the chain’s delicate links before she let her hand fall away.
Nick's gut tightened. Just another rich girl who thinks she’s untouchable. The thought had settled in his mind the moment he’d recognized her, but now it didn’t quite fit. There was something else under all that polish and poise, something he instantly had to know.
And he had a feeling he was about to find out exactly what that was.
The music swelled, the strings of the orchestra filling the room with an elegant waltz, but beneath the refined atmosphere, something felt wrong.
Nick’s attention shifted to a waiter moving too quickly toward the service corridor.
He wasn’t carrying a tray, wasn’t stopping at any tables.
Just a straight, purposeful walk through the shifting crowd.
Sabre let out a quiet huff, barely audible over the hum of conversation. A warning.
Nick’s spine stiffened.
Celeste, still unaware, plucked a flute of champagne from a passing tray, bringing it to her lips with an ease that screamed practiced composure. But he didn’t miss the way her fingers curled tightly around the stem, holding it just a little too hard.
She was trying to look calm.
Nick took a step closer, his voice low. "Stay where I can see you."
Celeste glanced up at him, arching a brow. "I thought you were supposed to stay where you can see me."
Before he could respond, a flash of movement caught his eye. Across the room, near the grand staircase, a man in a dark suit was watching them. Not watching the gala, not blending into the crowd—watching Celeste.
Then, just as quickly as Nick spotted him, the man turned and disappeared up the staircase.
Nick’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t losing sight of this one.
"Come with me," he murmured, already guiding Celeste toward a quieter section of the ballroom. "Now."
Celeste let out a breath, clearly annoyed but not resisting as Nick guided her through the crowd. He moved with purpose, his grip firm but not forceful, keeping her within arm’s reach. Sabre stayed close, his sharp eyes scanning, muscles coiled in anticipation.
The further they moved from the center of the ballroom, the quieter the noise became.
The laughter and music dulled, replaced by the hushed murmurs of VIPs indulging in more private conversations.
A long hallway stretched before them, flanked by gold-framed mirrors and decorative sconces casting soft pools of light against the walls.
Celeste glanced sideways at him. "You know, if you wanted a moment alone with me, Officer Malone, you could’ve just asked."
Nick ignored the comment, his focus sharp. "Tell me about your stalker."
Her playful smirk faltered just slightly, but she recovered quickly. "There’s nothing to tell. He’s a nuisance, but I don’t let him dictate my life."
Nick stopped walking and turned to face her. "Then why did your security team request me?"
She lifted her chin. "Overreacting, I’m sure. I get a few unsettling messages, and suddenly, it’s the crime of the century."
Nick took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Unsettling messages don’t warrant a full NYPD protection detail. So, either you’re downplaying it, or someone knows more than they’re letting on. Which is it?"
She hesitated, and for the first time, he saw something in her expression—uncertainty. Maybe even fear. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the same polished facade she’d worn all night.
"It’s nothing," she said, too easily.
Nick wasn’t convinced. "If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind telling me why your hands are shaking."
She glanced down, fingers tightening around the stem of the champagne flute she still held. A beat of silence passed before she set the glass on a nearby marble ledge. "Look, I appreciate the concern, but I know how to handle myself. I don’t need a bodyguard."
"Good thing I’m not your bodyguard," Nick shot back. "I’m your damn shield. Until this threat is gone, you’re my responsibility. So either start talking, or get used to having me breathing down your neck."
Celeste’s lips parted, like she was about to argue, but before she could, a shadow appeared in the mirror behind her.
Nick reacted instantly.
He grabbed her wrist, spinning her behind him as he reached for the weapon holstered beneath his jacket. Sabre let out a low, guttural growl, his body tensed, ready to lunge.
The figure darted out of the corridor, a flash of movement disappearing through a side exit before Nick could get a good look.
His grip on Celeste loosened slightly. "Still think it’s nothing?"