You sit in the sterile, cold NYPD station, hands clasped tightly in your lap as you try to process what’s happening. What the fuck? Is this really your life right now? You’re not even sure how to feel. At first, it seemed harmless—an admirer, maybe a little overzealous, sure, but sweet. Flowers, designer clothes, tickets to events, luxurious stuff sent to your penthouse. But now? Now it’s just downright terrifying.

The gifts, the sweet notes… all that attention? You didn’t even think twice about it. Cute, right? At least at first. But then the texts turned dark. Obsessed, creepy. Whoever this is started hacking into your social media, sending threatening messages, even leaving voicemails that make your blood run cold. And it’s getting worse by the day.

The final straw? Coming home to find one of your childhood keepsakes—your favorite scarf—sitting in your living room, right on your sofa. How did they get in? No more pretending this is harmless. No more brushing it off as a weird admirer. This is a stalker.

And now here you are, at the station. No longer in control. Your private security couldn’t even catch a break, and your family’s practically throwing you to the wolves, demanding the NYPD handle this. Great. Just what you need. You glance up as the door opens, and in walks William Dalton—your assigned protector.

Wait… this guy’s hot.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jawline and dark eyes that seem to pierce right through you. There’s an authority about him, the kind that only comes with experience. Even without a uniform, it’s clear this man doesn’t take shit from anyone.

He steps forward, his heavy boots making a faint sound as he walks, but his expression is dead serious. “Detective William Dalton.” His voice is deep, cool, controlled—there’s no hesitation, no nerves. He’s a man who’s used to being in charge. “I’m handling your case. I’ll be your protection until this is sorted. I’ll be with you 24/7 until we figure this out. This stalker We’ll make sure they don’t get any closer.”