Chapter 4 Close Encounter
Celeste Bellerose
Celeste barely had a chance to breathe before Nick’s phone rang, shattering the tension between them. His body tensed, his arms still caging her against him as he yanked the device from his pocket.
“Malone,” he answered, his voice clipped.
Graham’s voice was sharp. “This isn’t good, Malone.”
Nick, already bracing for whatever came next. “And just when I thought tonight was getting interesting.”
“Get serious. We’ve got a situation.”
Nick’s gaze drifted to Celeste, still wrapped in his arms, her breath uneven, her fingers curled against his chest like she wasn’t ready to let go. Neither was he.
He straightened, his grip on his phone tightening. “Yeah. I know.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“Security pulled the surveillance footage from the ballroom,” Graham said. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
Celeste shivered. Nick felt it, his protective instincts flaring up like a live wire.
“We’ll be there in ten.”
Nick ended the call and turned to Celeste. “Change out of that dress. We need to go.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Footage from the gala. There’s something on it we need to see.”
Celeste hesitated, rubbing her arms. The night had already turned her world upside down. Now, another unknown loomed ahead, something she wasn’t prepared for. But Nick? He was a fortress. A human wall of steel and purpose. For some ridiculous reason, it steadied her.
She nodded once. “Give me five minutes.”
***
The drive to the 13th Precinct was tense, filled with silence and of something neither of them wanted to talk about, not just yet. Celeste stared out the window, fingers drumming against her thigh, pretending she wasn’t still shaken.
Nick saw right through it.
“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice low.
She didn’t turn. “I’m thinking.”
“About?”
She hesitated, then glanced at him. “What if it’s him?”
Nick’s fingers flexed around the wheel, his jaw set like stone. “Then he just made the worst mistake of his life.”
The simplicity of his answer sent a ripple through her. Like there was no scenario where he let Adrian win. The unwavering confidence in his voice made her heart skip a beat.
Celeste looked down at her hands. “I thought I was done being scared of him.”
Nick’s grip tightened around the wheel. “Fear’s not a weakness. It means you understand the threat.”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t want to live like this.”
“You won’t,” he promised. “Not while I’m around.”
***
The footage was worse than she expected.
Adrian Wolfe wasn’t just at the gala.
He was in every frame, blending seamlessly with the crowd, positioning himself in places that made her stomach lurch. Near the bar. At the edge of the dance floor. Leaning casually against a column just beyond the VIP section—each time, his gaze locked on her.
Tracking her.
Anticipating her every move.
Celeste gripped the edge of the desk, her nails digging into the smooth wood as her chest constricted. He’d been so damn close. If she hadn’t turned when she did—if Nick hadn’t pulled her away—
She swallowed hard.
Nick stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he studied the screen like it was evidence in a homicide case. His jaw was set, but it was his silence that sent an electrifying surge down her spine.
Because she could tell—he wasn’t just watching.
He was reading Adrian.
The way a predator assesses another.
“Pause it.” His voice was low, rough.
Graham froze the screen.
Nick leaned in, scanning the footage, his expression stern. Then, slowly, he exhaled. “He wasn’t just watching you.”
Celeste turned her head, pulse hammering. “What?”
Nick didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on the frozen frame, zeroing in on Adrian’s stance, the tilt of his chin, the way he positioned himself so he was never in the direct line of sight of security cameras. He was careful—too careful.
“He was predicting you.” Nick’s voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. “The way you moved. Where you’d go next.” He pointed at the screen. “Here. Before you turned toward the main ballroom entrance, he was already shifting left—before you made a move.”
Celeste gasped for air.
Nick continued, his tone turning sharp. “He anticipated your hesitation at the bar. He knew exactly when you’d slow down to greet someone, and he adjusted, staying just far enough away to go unnoticed. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was practiced strategy.”
A cold shiver ran down her spine. “Practiced?”
Nick turned to her, his gaze steady, unwavering. “How long has he been watching you?”
Her stomach twisted. “I—I don’t know.”
But that wasn’t true, was it?
A memory slammed into her.
A restaurant in Paris. A business dinner with her father’s associates. She had glanced toward the entrance, a strange sensation creeping over her skin. And there he was. Across the street. Not staring, not approaching—just standing. Watching.
Waiting.
She had told herself it was nothing. That it was just another coincidence.
She had been wrong.
Celeste’s fingers curled into fists, her breathing uneven. “The last time I saw him—before tonight—I was in Paris.”
Nick’s face darkened. “How long ago?”
Her throat felt tight. “Ten months.”
He muttered a curse. “Then he’s been planning this for at least a year.”
The words sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. Ten months. Ten months of lurking in the background, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She wrapped her arms around herself, this was all too much.
Nick saw it.
And he moved before she could flinch.
His palm settled at the small of her back—not forceful, not demanding. Just there. Warm. Steady. Real.
She should pull away.
She didn’t.
“Ms. Bellerose.” His voice was low, deliberate. “He’s not stopping.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I know.”
Nick’s grip tightened. “But neither am I.”
Her lashes fluttered open. His face was close—close enough that she could see the storm in his dark eyes, the unwavering promise behind them. It struck something deep inside her, something raw and unfamiliar.
The conviction in his tone stole the breath from her lungs. Celeste looked up, and for once, there was no distance, no resistance.
And for once… she believed that might actually be enough.
All she knew was, she needed him.
And God help her, she wanted him too.
***
The penthouse was draped in shadows when they returned, the city’s neon glow filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, casting fractured light across the sleek marble floors.
High above the streets of Manhattan, the skyline stretched endlessly, a glittering backdrop of privilege and power—but inside, the air was still, heavy with renewed tension.
Minimalist yet impossibly luxurious, the space exuded understated wealth.
Plush furnishings in shades of deep charcoal and midnight blue softened the modern edges, their velvety textures catching the ambient light.
The open-concept design flowed seamlessly, from the expansive living area to the gourmet kitchen, where glass cabinets housed bottles of expensive imported whiskey and crystal.
Floor-length curtains, currently drawn open, framed the panoramic view of the city, making the vast space feel both infinite and isolating.
A sculptural fireplace sat unlit against the far wall, its black slate surround sleek and cold.
The scent of vanilla and faint jasmine lingered—Celeste’s signature fragrance woven into the very fabric of the home.
Yet something was off.
A subtle disturbance in the air, like an unwelcome presence had slipped through unnoticed. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was charged.
And Nick felt it instantly.
Celeste turned, her pulse hammering. “Nick—”
He was already there.
She barely had time to inhale before he was beside her, his hands sliding up her arms, grounding her. “I’ve got you,” he murmured.
Something inside her broke.
She surged forward, crashing into him, her fingers tangling in his jacket as she dragged his mouth to hers. Nick didn’t hesitate. His grip tightened, hauling her closer, deepening the kiss like he had been waiting for this moment as long as she had.
Heat exploded between them.
Celeste moaned as Nick backed her into the wall, his hands sliding down her back, pulling her flush against him. He kissed her like she was something he couldn’t afford to lose, like he needed this just as badly as she did.
She tugged at his shirt, her breath hitching as his lips trailed down her throat. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake.”
Nick’s grip tightened, his breath warm against her skin. “I don’t do this.”
Celeste pulled back slightly, searching his face. “Do what?”
“This. Casual.”
A slow breath left her lips. “Me neither.”
The confession hung there between them, raw and real.
Nick brushed a thumb down her cheek, his voice low. “That should probably stop us.”
Celeste swallowed, her fingers still curled in his shirt. “Probably.”
Neither of them moved. Neither of them stopped.
And then, Nick kissed her again—slow, deliberate, like he was making damn sure neither of them could take it back.
Her fingers curled against his shoulders, her body arching into his. “Or maybe not.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
His mouth claimed hers again, demanding, devouring, unraveling. He backed her toward the bedroom, his grip firm, fingers splayed over her hips like he was memorizing the feel of her beneath his hands.
Celeste’s heart pounded, the room spinning as Nick kissed her like a man who had been holding back for too long. There was no hesitation, no slow build. It was heat, urgency—pure, unrelenting need.
He reached behind her, yanking the zipper of her dress down with one swift motion. The silky fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of luxury.
Nick exhaled sharply, his gaze darkening as he took her in—bare skin glowing in the dim city light, curves that made his pulse pound harder.
"Christ," he muttered, his fingers tracing the edge of her waist before sliding lower. “You’re beautiful.”
Celeste shivered at the roughness in his voice.