The suburban highway of Ardent Bay stretched quietly under the dim orange glow of streetlights, almost sleepy, except for the occasional hum of a delivery van or a commuter's sedan. Officer Elena Price gripped the steering wheel tighter, her eyes narrowing at a streak of cherry-red cutting through the monotony.
A sports car—low, loud, and impossibly flashy—darted through lanes like it owned the asphalt. Its engine growled, vibrating through the night, demanding attention. In this quiet corner of the city, residents drove practical cars: sedans, SUVs, nothing meant to turn heads.
"Elena, you seeing this?" her colleague Mason Hale murmured from the passenger seat."I see him," she replied, voice tight. "And he's about to learn why we patrol these roads."
She flipped on the lights, siren wailing, and moved to pull him over. But the car didn't flinch. It was a predator in motion.
Then came the thump.
The right rear tire shredded in an instant, sparks flying. The car fishtailed violently, skidding before crashing into a mound of dirt at the roadside. Dust and gravel erupted like fireworks, and for a split second, everything froze: the scream of the engine, the hiss of displaced air, the flash of red paint spinning in chaos.
"Call it in! Highway 42, westbound! Accident!" Elena shouted into her radio.
Backup arrived quickly, including the team Elena supervised. The scene was chaotic: smoke curled from the crumpled hood, the scent of burning rubber filled the air, and inside, a man moved.
His hair was tousled, his designer jacket torn at the shoulder, yet even in the daze, he looked impossibly untouchable. Julian Cross. Even unconscious, he carried an aura of arrogance and danger that seemed natural to him, like a second skin.
Elena and Mason worked swiftly. With precise, practiced movements, they lifted him into the ambulance. Elena removed his jacket and placed it neatly on the passenger seat, gloved hands brushing over the smooth fabric. The faint scent of cologne lingered. He groaned softly, eyes fluttering under closed lids, half-aware of the world.
Hours later, he woke in the sterile whiteness of the hospital room. Light from the blinds slashed across the floor in bright stripes. Pain stabbed through his ribs, his head throbbed, but his first thought was missing: the jacket.
Frustration flared. The jacket—his favorite, carefully chosen—was gone. He tried to rise, ignoring the ache, every movement sending jolts of pain through his body.
He had to find the person responsible. Whoever had it, he would reclaim it.
Officer Elena Price and her team had long since cleared the scene. Reports filed, the ambulance gone, the highway reopened. But he remembered her hands—the calm precision, the silent authority. Something about her lingered in his mind, even as frustration made him impatient.
Tracking her down wasn't difficult. In a city this size, persistence paid off.
At the precinct, he found her at her desk, reviewing traffic reports, her blond hair tied back in a practical ponytail, uniform crisp and authoritative.
He strode in without preamble. "I need my jacket back."
Elena looked up, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"
"My jacket," he said sharply, voice impatient. "You have it."
She pressed her lips into a thin line. "I… don't know what you're talking about."
He leaned forward, confident, his blue eyes sharp. "The jacket. The one you placed on the passenger seat in the ambulance."
Elena's irritation flared. Hands crossed, stance firm. "It's evidence now, per protocol. You'll get it when proper clearance is given."
Frustration tightened his jaw. "Evidence or not, it's mine. And I intend to get it back."
There was tension in the air, thick and charged. He exuded arrogance, impatience, and yet… a hint of vulnerability beneath the sharp edges.
Elena's heart skipped—not from attraction, but from irritation. He was infuriatingly handsome, and worse, seemed to expect her compliance.
"Wait here," she said, her tone cool, professional. "And don't make me regret following procedure."
He only gritted his teeth. "I'll be back."
And as he turned, that single determined glance hinted at trouble—trouble neither of them fully understood.
In the quiet tension of that encounter, amid paperwork and the lingering antiseptic of the precinct, a spark ignited. A collision far more dangerous than any highway crash. One that would test duty, deception, and desire.