She doesn’t need saving. He doesn’t want commitment.
She doesn’t need saving.
Pixie Sinclair has spent her life keeping everyone at arm’s length. In the cutthroat world of power, money, and corruption, she’s learned the hard way how to protect herself. Cold, calculating, and fiercely independent, Pixie hides behind her success, her guarded heart, and a fortress of secrets.
But all that changes the moment Wyatt Steele walks into her life.
Wyatt is a man who’s used to being in control. A former soldier turned elite Secret Service agent, he’s spent years protecting others with unshakable discipline. But when he’s assigned to protect Pixie, everything he’s worked for is threatened. As her icy walls begin to crack, he’s drawn into a dangerous game—and into a passion he never saw coming.
When a brutal figure from Pixie’s past resurfaces, hell-bent on claiming what he believes is his, Wyatt is forced to go deeper than he ever has before. As enemies close in and their trust is put to the ultimate test, the stakes skyrocket, and the line between duty and desire blurs.
He doesn’t want commitment.
With danger at every turn and betrayal lurking in the shadows, Pixie and Wyatt must fight not only for survival but for a love neither of them expected. Wyatt is forced to look at his life—and decide if there’s space for someone just like Pixie, a woman who can stand up to him and keep him in check.
In a world where secrets can kill, can they survive the storm, or will the darkness of their pasts tear them apart forever?
General Release Date: 14th October 2025
Pixie’s three-inch patent heels clicked through the halls of President Armstrong’s Palm Beach estate. Four years of serving the First Lady in this fortress of security.
A low murmur of voices and the hum of authority filled the air. With the president entering campaign mode, the Secret Service was running on high alert, updating risk assessments.
She rounded the corner—and there he was. Wyatt Steele. At the center of a group of agents, giving orders with effortless command.
Broad-shouldered, impossibly self-assured, his gray suit tailored to perfection, he radiated quiet intensity, making everyone snap to attention.
Pixie pressed herself against the wall, unnoticed for now. She’d known he was here—but seeing him again still sent a jolt through her.
Wyatt Steele was dangerous. Not in the obvious way, but in a way that could unravel everything. A rogue who didn’t play by the rules. Every time she tried to rein him in, he ignored her, argued her down, or made her feel like she was the one out of line.
And it drove her mad that it worked.
The agents around him nodded, muttering acknowledgments before scattering, leaving Wyatt standing alone, his back to her. His stance was relaxed, his hands in his pockets, but there was an undeniable alertness to him, like he was ready to spring into action at any moment.
Pixie straightened her posture, schooling her expression into its usual mask of scorn, and stepped forward.
“Steele,” she called out, her tone clipped and professional.
Wyatt turned slowly, and for a moment, his gaze locked with hers. His blue eyes, as piercing as ever, scanned her face, lingering just long enough to send a ripple of heat down her spine. Then his mouth curved into a faint, maddening smirk.
“Sinclair,” he drawled, his voice low and deliberate. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Pixie’s jaw tightened. “I assume you’ve been briefed on the First Lady’s expectations for her detail this week.”
Wyatt tilted his head, a mock-thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Oh, you mean the list of rules you sent over? Yeah, I saw them.”
“And?”
“And I’ll take them under advisement,” he said with a casual shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to laugh.
Pixie’s hands tightened around the folder she was holding. “This isn’t a suggestion, Steele. Those expectations are nonnegotiable.”
His smirk widened, and he took two steps, closing the space just enough to make her pulse quicken. “Nonnegotiable?” he repeated. “That’s cute, Sinclair. But you know I don’t work for you, right?”
Pixie’s nostrils flared, her calm slipping. “No, you work for the First Lady. And as her Chief of Staff, I represent her interests, which means—”
“You get to boss me around?” he interrupted, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Is that it?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I expect you to respect the chain of command.”
Wyatt leaned in slightly. “And I expect you to stop wasting your breath trying to control things you can’t.”
For a moment, the air between them crackled with tension, sharp and heavy. Pixie’s heartbeat thundered in her ears, but she refused to back down, lifting her chin in defiance.
“You’re a liability, Steele,” she said, low and cutting.
Wyatt’s smirk softened into something harder, his gaze unwavering. “And you’re still trying to figure out why that bothers you so much.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving Pixie standing there, her carefully maintained composure shattered.
She hated him.
And most of all, she hated that, for all her disdain, he still got into her head in a way no one else ever had.
* * * *
Wyatt Steele stood at the edge of the great room, his sharp eyes cutting through the crowd. His team was in perfect formation, guarding every angle of the First Lady’s appearance. Caroline Armstrong was the picture of grace, her smile magnetic, her poise effortless, charming donors and supporters.
But Wyatt’s focus wasn’t on her tonight.
It was on Pixie Sinclair.
Wyatt’s gaze lingered on Pixie longer than he intended, his trained eyes taking in every detail with the precision of a man who noticed everything—whether he wanted to or not. Her bleach-blonde hair was pulled into its usual perfect coiffe, not a strand out of place, a sharp contrast to the dark, enigmatic eyes that could cut through him with a single glance. That skin of hers, always tanned to a golden olive tone, made her seem like she lived in perpetual sunlight, though her personality was anything but warm.
Wyatt had dealt with every personality imaginable during his career in the Secret Service—politicians who thought themselves untouchable, celebrities who couldn’t stop testing the boundaries of their protection, even the occasional agent with a chip on their shoulder. But Pixie Sinclair? She was a different beast altogether.
The First Lady’s Chief of Staff was supposed to be diplomatic, someone who could effortlessly navigate the tightrope of politics and public scrutiny. Pixie, however, wielded her words like weapons, cutting sharp and clean. There was no tact in her commands, no deference in the way she addressed people.
Wyatt’s jaw tightened as he watched Pixie approach Caroline, her black heels clicking like gunfire against the marble floor. She leaned in close to the First Lady, whispering something into her ear. Caroline laughed, her eyes lighting up, but Wyatt didn’t miss the faint exasperation that grew across Pixie’s expression. Concern? Empathy? No. That wasn’t a word he’d use with Pixie Sinclair.
The First Lady needed a Chief of Staff who understood her, someone who reflected her grace and priorities back into the world. Pixie was more like a bulldozer, smashing through subtlety with a confidence Wyatt might have admired if it weren’t so grating.
And then there was the matter of respect.
Pixie had none for him.
Wyatt clenched his fists at his sides, careful to keep his expression neutral. He could recall half a dozen instances in the last two weeks where Pixie had overstepped. She barked orders at him like she ran the Secret Service. She didn’t just question his decisions—she outright undermined them.
Like last week.
Wyatt’s jaw ticked at the memory. They’d been preparing for Caroline’s visit to a new children’s hospital. He’d outlined security in painstaking detail, accounting for every possible risk. But Pixie had breezed into the room, glared at his plans, and called them ‘overkill’. She’d insisted the First Lady didn’t need to be treated like a ‘fragile doll’, and when he’d tried to calmly explain why each precaution was necessary, she’d cut him off with a sharp, “You work for me, Steele. Not the other way around.”
I don’t work for you, he’d wanted to snap. But he hadn’t. Because Wyatt Steele didn’t lose his cool, not even when someone like Pixie Sinclair made it damn near impossible not to.
He sighed, his gaze flicking back to Caroline. She deserved better. She deserved someone who could be assertive without being a tyrant, someone who could advocate for her without stepping on everyone else in the process. Someone who didn’t make him grit his teeth every time they walked into a room.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Pixie appeared at his side.
“You’re standing too close to the First Lady,” she said, barely sparing him a glance.
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” Wyatt replied, his tone calm but firm.
She crossed her arms, her icy blue eyes narrowing at him. “Well, your ‘need’ is obstructing her photo ops. Shift back.”
Wyatt held her gaze, refusing to move. “Her safety comes first. The cameras can work around it.”
Pixie huffed, her irritation radiating off her in waves. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, spinning on her heel and stalking away.
Wyatt watched her retreat, biting back the urge to say something he’d regret. She was svelte and fit, the kind of woman who moved with the fluid grace of someone who cared about every inch of herself. And tall—taller than most women, especially in those ridiculous heels she wore like weapons.
He took a slow, deep breath, forcing himself to refocus. He should have been thinking about Caroline Armstrong, the First Lady he was sworn to protect. About the entrances, the exits, and the agents stationed at each. About the shifting crowd dynamics and the potential threats lurking in plain sight.
But instead, his attention was stuck in one place.
Pixie moved like she owned every room she entered, chin high, shoulders squared, her sleek pencil skirt highlighting how her hips swayed with an infuriating kind of rhythm. Even in retreat, she was impossible to ignore.
And that was the damn problem.
Wyatt gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he forced his eyes to track the room again, scanning for potential threats. Focus, Steele. Do your job. But his gaze betrayed him, flickering back to her.
It wasn’t just her disdain for him—though there was plenty of that. It was the way she carried herself, with all the subtlety of a lightning strike. The way she seemed to thrive in conflict, like sparring with him was less about the job and more about sheer enjoyment. She wasn’t deferential, not even a little, and maybe that’s what gnawed at him. He was used to people treating him with respect, acknowledging the weight of his position. Pixie Sinclair didn’t just ignore that weight—she stomped all over it with her designer heels.
And yet, despite everything, she fascinated him.
Wyatt hated that word. Fascinated. It made him sound like some starry-eyed rookie instead of the hardened professional he prided himself on being. But how else could he describe the way his attention snagged on her whenever she entered the room? It wasn’t her looks—though she was beautiful, objectively speaking. Blonde hair always swept into a no-nonsense bun, sharp cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass, and those cold eyes that could freeze him in place with a single glance. No, it wasn’t that.
It was the fire underneath it all. The passion in the way she argued with him, the way her lips pressed into a line when he pushed back, like she wanted the fight but hated to admit it. She was so tightly wound, so fierce, that Wyatt couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to crack that icy exterior. To see what was beneath all that armor she wore so well.
He dragged a hand through his short, dark hair, exhaling slowly. This wasn’t the time or place to dissect his feelings—or whatever the hell this was. He had a job to do, and getting tangled up in his fascination with Pixie Sinclair wasn’t part of it.
But damn it, she was under his skin.
As if she could feel his gaze, Pixie turned, her cold gaze cutting across the room to meet his. For a moment, neither of them moved, the distance between them crackling with unspoken tension. Then she lifted one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a challenge clear in her expression, before spinning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd.
Wyatt sighed, shaking his head.
“Get a grip, Steele,” he muttered under his breath.
But deep down, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
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