Chapter 1

Indira

I arrive at the sponsor’s headquarters on a brisk afternoon, the London skyline a steel-gray backdrop behind me. My ribs are still tender from a job two nights ago—some overconfident drunk who needed escorting out of a private MMA afterparty. He took a swing at me, and I handled it, but not before he got in a lucky shot with a bottle. The bruise spans from my side to just beneath my left shoulder, pulsing with a dull ache each time I inhale. That’s the sort of pain I can live with. It reminds me I’m still here, still fighting for what matters.

The building is a towering column of glass and brushed chrome, with a gleaming reception area that smells of citrus polish. Sharp-suited businessmen and a scattering of public relations personnel stride past me with curated smiles, each step echoing on the marble floor. A woman at the front desk, wearing a pin bearing the sponsor’s iconic racing logo, looks up.

“Name?” she asks in a crisp accent.

“Indira Khan,” I say, pausing to roll my shoulders in an attempt to ease a flash of tension. “I have a meeting with Mr. Donovan.” I glance at the clock behind her: 2:13 PM. I’m two minutes early, which is the closest I get to being late.

She checks her screen, eyes flicking back to me. “He’s expecting you. Twenty-second floor. Elevator is on your right.”

I nod my thanks. I’m careful not to flash too much friendliness. In my line of work, everything about my demeanor needs to project control and calm. My tank top is hidden under a tailored blazer, but I still feel the crackle of the bandages under my clothes. The bruise throbs again as I step into the elevator.

The ride up is silent, aside from a faint hum of mechanical movement. My reflection in the mirrored wall catches my attention: a tall, lean figure with short-cropped hair on the sides and a neat bun on top. Dark brown skin that looks a bit sallow under the fluorescent lighting. Eyes that can go unreadable when I want them to. Right now, they’re reflecting tension. My features betray little else.

I need this job. The money is nearly double what I typically earn in six months. And I have to bring my daughter home. Zara. Her name is a chord in my chest, vibrating with every breath. My ex is playing dirty in the custody battle. I’ll do anything to secure an advantage. If that means babysitting some arrogant race-car driver, so be it.

The elevator doors open onto a corridor lined with portraits of successful Formula One champions, each sponsor’s brand emblazoned on the frames. There’s a massive image of Zion Vale near the end, arms crossed over his chest, an infuriating smirk curving his lips. I’ve heard rumors about him—reckless, addicted to adrenaline, a poster boy for talent wasted on wild impulses.

“Untouchable,” the tabloids call him. The next shot shows him kissing a trophy, hair tousled and eyes blazing with triumph. I notice the tattoos wrapping his fingers, half-hidden by racing gloves. Another story altogether.

I press my lips together and push open the frosted glass door at the end of the hall. Inside is a tastefully decorated waiting room with plush cream chairs and a sofa. A man in a tailored navy suit stands as I enter. He’s in his early forties, with hair styled so precisely it might not move in a hurricane.

“Ms. Khan,” he greets, voice warm but businesslike. “I’m Trevor Donovan, Director of Special Client Relations. Please, have a seat.”

I make sure to maintain eye contact, a subtle sign that I’m in control of myself and my environment. “Thanks,” I say, remaining standing for a moment before I finally sit. He takes the sofa across from me.

He folds his hands. “I appreciate your coming on such short notice. But I trust you understand the urgency.”

“I’ve been briefed, though not in detail,” I respond. “Something about your driver, Zion Vale, needing a full-time security specialist.”

Trevor exhales, a quiet nod acknowledging the problem. “Zion is a public relations goldmine and a nightmare all in one. He’s one of the youngest driver to break certain records on the track, but he also finds trouble faster than we can handle it. You might have seen the headlines—there was a viral video last week of him punching a fan outside a club. That’s turning major sponsors skittish.”

I glance at my bandaged knuckles, half-hidden by the sleeves of my blazer. “I heard about the altercation.”

“Here’s the thing,” Trevor continues, crossing his legs at the ankle. “We can’t afford any more catastrophes. Zion’s father—Rupert Vale—owns the team, and he’s managed to shield his son from total career collapse. But everyone has their limits. With brand deals on the line, I’ve been instructed to hire professional protection and…damage control. That’s where you come in.”

I tilt my head, letting the details sink in. “So I’m a bodyguard-slash-babysitter?”

Trevor flashes a half-smile. “If that’s how you want to phrase it. But we prefer ‘personal security manager.’ You’ll stick to him like glue, keep him from injuring himself, or anyone else, before the next race.”

My posture stiffens. “And if he crosses a line?”

“You neutralize the threat. Preferably without adding to the scandal columns.” Then his smile fades. “Zion has talent. No one denies that. But he’s untouchable in the sense that his father’s influence runs deep. That doesn’t mean we can’t try to minimize the chaos.”

I nod, pressing my lips into a thin line. “Understood.”

He stands, motions for me to follow him down a short hallway. The walls are filled with more framed racing memorabilia—signed gloves, pieces of car bodywork, trophies captured in photographs. I can sense the capital and power behind every glossy surface.

We enter a smaller conference room. A round table sits in the center with a folder neatly placed in front of each seat. Trevor gestures for me to sit again, and I do. He opens a folder, revealing Zion’s photo and a dossier that looks thick enough to kill a small rodent if thrown properly.

“I’ve already read some of the basic details,” I say, “but if there’s anything crucial I should know, now’s the time.”

Trevor’s expression hardens. “Zion is… Well, he’s got plenty of emotional baggage. A controlling father, a rocky home life. He turned to racing at a young age, and it was the one area where he excelled without question. Now, though, he’s letting every bit of anger spill into the public eye. Just last month, after a race in Monaco, we had to pay off half a dozen bar owners to hush up various bar fights.”

I flick through the pages, noticing repeated mentions of aggression, erratic behavior, and a note about “pain-seeking tendencies.” Pain-seeking? I make a mental note to ask about that, but not now.

Trevor continues, “We tried hiring a typical security firm—guys in suits who’d stand behind him and look intimidating—but it didn’t work. He either ditched them or provoked them. He’s a cunning individual. But from what I hear, you’re different. An ex–MMA fighter with a strong track record in close protection for high-risk clients.”

My jaw tightens as I remember the fights, the bruises, the echo of the crowd’s roar in my ears. “I left that world for a reason,” I say quietly. “But I still know how to handle myself.”

“That’s precisely why we want you. Zion respects strength, not bureaucracy. Maybe he won’t respect anything at all, but if we’ve got a chance, it’s with you.”

Silence hovers. I’m aware of the tension in my muscles. I want to ask if they expect me to wrestle Zion into compliance. But I need this job too badly to start second-guessing the entire arrangement. The hush stretches until Trevor clears his throat.

“Your fee is substantial,” he says, “and it’ll be transferred upon completion of each race you get him through without significant incident. As we discussed, there’s an extra incentive if you keep him from tangling with paparazzi. Sponsors are threatening to jump ship if he pulls another stunt on camera.”

I nod. The money could change everything. Legal fees for my custody case have been strangling me, and my ex is a man who thrives on control. The less financially stable I am, the more he stands to keep Zara. That is not an option.

I close the folder. “Fine. I’ll do it. Where do I meet him?”

Trevor checks his watch. “He’s wrapping up a private training session at an exclusive gym on the outskirts of the city. We can arrange a car for you, or you can go on your own. But watch yourself. Zion Vale is a force of nature—one that even his own father can’t fully rein in.”

Something about the way Trevor says it sends a ripple of curiosity through me. I don’t bother showing it. “I can handle ‘force of nature.’”

We exit the conference room, and he leads me back to the lobby. People in polished shoes and expensive suits continue streaming past, likely dealing with million-dollar decisions every day. Meanwhile, I’m about to sign up for something that might be more volatile than any contract I’ve ever accepted.

At the front desk, Trevor hands me a small envelope. Inside, I find a key card and a neatly printed address. “Your hotel suite is booked for two nights. Zion’s schedule has him heading overseas in less than seventy-two hours for the next race. You’re expected to accompany him.”

I arch a brow. “So I’m uprooting my life until further notice?”

“That’s the reality of traveling security, Ms. Khan. And with him, it’s more than a standard watch-and-protect gig. You’ll need to be prepared for… unpredictability.”

“Understood.” My voice stays level, even though my thoughts whirl with the magnitude of the arrangement. This means I’ll be away from Zara even longer. But the payoff will be worth it. One big score could secure our future.

Trevor hands me a business card. “Call if you run into any complications. And Ms. Khan… good luck. You’ll need it.”

I meet his gaze. “I don’t rely on luck.”

Leaving the building, I step onto the crowded London street. Cars pass in a blur, double-decker buses rumble by, and a light drizzle has started to fall. There’s a tension in the air, or maybe it’s the tension in me.  The buzz in my pocket startles me. I pull it out to see my lawyer’s name.

“Derek,” I answer, raising my voice over the noise of the traffic.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

I keep walking, weaving past a group of tourists who have stopped abruptly. “I have a job. The pay is big, so no more stalling tactics on the custody front. Let’s push forward.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Derek says. “But your ex is playing the ‘dangerous environment’ angle hard. Says you surround yourself with violence.”

My teeth clench. “I protect people, Derek. That’s the opposite of violence.”

“I know. The judge might not see it that way. But keep your nose clean, gather proof of steady employment, and we stand a fighting chance.”

“Count on it.” I hang up, stuffing the phone back into my pocket.

I catch sight of my reflection in a glossy storefront. My posture is rigid, coiled like I’m ready to spring. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the cage, it’s how to channel that energy when it matters. Right now, it matters for my daughter. For us.

Pushing through the drizzle, I head toward the tube station that’ll take me out of central London to the address Trevor provided for Zion’s private gym. It’s an exclusive spot in the city’s outskirts, known for hosting celebrities and wealthy clients who can afford top-tier trainers—and all the secrecy they demand.

Once on the train, I settle in a corner seat, ignoring the sideways looks at my battered duffel bag. The city slips by outside the window: brick facades, steel structures, bright graffiti bridging the old and the new. My thoughts wander to Zion Vale. I recall his face on those polished posters—young, proud, eyes full of something I can’t quite name. Pain, maybe. Or the thrill of living a split second away from disaster.

The tabloids paint him as a cautionary tale: a man unafraid of consequences. Could be an overblown myth. But Trevor’s remarks echo in my mind: “He’s untouchable.” That suggests a protective shield around him, courtesy of his family’s wealth and power. It also suggests he’s never faced real accountability, or he’s faced something so severe that no public scorn can faze him anymore.

I arrive at my stop and transfer to a taxi, giving the driver the address. In less than twenty minutes, we pull up outside a squat building with high walls and tinted windows. Large men in black polo shirts stand at the entrance, but they don’t look like your standard gym employees. More like specialized security.

When I step out, I notice one man immediately sizes me up, his gaze flicking to my shoulders, measuring my stance. Good. He’s assessing potential threats. I walk past him without a word, and he just nods. Inside, the space opens into a reception area decorated with framed photographs of world-class athletes: MMA fighters, boxers, even some track stars. The air smells of sweat and disinfectant.

A lean woman behind the desk glances up. “Membership’s private. You have an appointment?”

I hold up the key card from Trevor, but she doesn’t even glance at it. “I’m here for Zion Vale.” My voice is even, not a question.

She arches a brow. “He’s in the back, finishing up. Good luck.” That last part drips with meaning—everyone here seems to know exactly what Zion is like.

I walk deeper into the gym, following the sound of fists hitting a heavy bag. My heart thuds once, a memory of countless training sessions. For a moment, I can’t decide if I feel nostalgia or tension. The corridor leads me to a large practice room where a single punching bag sways. A figure stands behind it, his hands still raised.

It’s not Zion—just a staff trainer. He points further down a hallway. “He’s in the private ring.”

Quietly, I step around the corner, and that’s when I see a row of glass windows overlooking an enclosed sparring ring. Two men are inside. One of them is definitely Zion Vale—I recognize the messy golden-brown curls damp with sweat, the ink on his forearms, and the posture of someone who thrives on physical intensity. He’s shirtless, wearing only track pants and gloves.

Across from him stands a trainer, but from the ragged look on the man’s face, Zion hasn’t been pulling his punches. Vale lunges forward, cracks a hook into the trainer’s pad, then spins and delivers a lightning-quick cross.

I don’t step forward yet. Instead, I remain at the glass, observing. He moves with lethal fluidity—like a predator shaped by both skill and desperation. Every movement is sharper than I’d expect from a typical driver. He’s clearly accustomed to pain. He’s seeking it out, trying to find the sweet spot where exertion becomes punishment.

My fingers tighten on the strap of my duffel. Zion is exactly the kind of man I’ve avoided for years—unpredictable, fueled by anger, on a collision course with everything around him. But I’m not here to like him. I’m here to protect him, whether he wants it or not, so that I can secure the future I’ve been fighting for.

I watch another combination from him—jab, cross, low kick—and the trainer shakes his head, looking winded. Then the man raises a hand to call time, but Zion doesn’t halt immediately. The trainer yells something, likely telling him to stop. Finally, Zion relents, ripping off his gloves and throwing them to the side. His chest rises and falls in quick bursts, muscles under a sheen of sweat.

I can’t help but note the bruises on his torso. Purple and yellow blooms that speak of either frequent collisions or an obsession with physical punishment. Possibly both.

The trainer steps out of the ring, rubbing his shoulder like it’s strained. Zion tosses him a half-hearted apology. It might not even be an apology; it’s more of a grunt. Then he leans against the ropes, head tilted back, breathing hard.

I exhale, press a hand to my bruised side, and push open the door. Time to meet the man I’m supposed to protect. I don’t expect him to appreciate it. But appreciation isn’t part of the job description.

I’m ready.

That thought steels me as I head to find his manager or someone who can introduce us. Because once I set foot in that ring—metaphorically or literally—there’s no turning back. This is the assignment that can change my life. And I will not fail.

I exit the viewing area, duffel bag on my shoulder, footsteps silent. It’s time to meet the legend himself. I tell myself not to get attached, not to let his chaos seep into my world. With Zara’s future on the line, I can’t afford to lose control.

A deep breath echoes in my chest. My heart rate quickens as I envision walking up to Zion Vale and saying the words that will lock us in this arrangement. The door to the training hallway looms ahead. I step forward.

This job is mine, whether he likes it or not.