Read an Excerpt of Colleen Hoover’s Twisty New Novel ‘Woman Down’ Before It Hits Shelves! (Exclusive)
Filled with steamy tension and suspense, Hoover's latest book will grip you from the start!
Known for her deeply emotional, riveting—and often heart-wrenching—novels, bestselling author Colleen Hoover has sold more than 35 million books, including It Ends With Us and Regretting You, both of which were adapted into major motion pictures. Since 2011, Hoover has been a fixture on various bestseller lists and her devoted fanbase shows no signs of slowing down—BookTok, in particular, has fueled a large part of her meteoric rise. The hashtag #ColleenHoover has racked up more than 200 million posts on TikTok, and her hashtag on Instagram has been used over 798,000 times. Over the years, she’s written across an array of genres, from romance to young adult and psychological thrillers, and her anticipated upcoming release leans more into the romantic thriller side of her storytelling.
Her forthcoming book, Woman Down (out January 13), follows frustrated writer Petra Rose. With a looming deadline, Petra flees to a remote hideaway where she meets the handsome Detective Nathaniel Saint—but what she soon finds defies all expectations and reality. Here, we have an exclusive sneak preview of the forthcoming thriller just for Woman’s World readers!
Keep scrolling to read the riveting excerpt.
Read an exclusive excerpt of ‘Woman Down’ by Colleen Hoover
No.
Something isn’t right.
I sit up straight in bed, my heart hammering loud and wild in my chest as I slip the facemask off my eyes. The air in the room feels thick, the kind of suffocating quiet that follows an unexpected jolt from sleep. My mind races, trying to figure out what woke me. Was it a noise? A dream?
Whatever it was, it was loud enough to yank me out of a deep, blissful sleep, and now I’m wide awake, my senses heightened, my body tense with a rush of adrenaline.
It’s probably Mari, here for more wine after two days of silence since her visit.
I’m still trying to regain my bearings when I notice the lights. Red and blue flashes are cutting through the darkness of the room, splashing across the walls like some kind of warning.
They’re disorienting, casting long shadows that dance with each pulse of light, and for a moment, I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or if this is real. My bedroom is on the west side of the cabin, so I can’t see much from where I’m sitting, but the lights keep coming—urgent, rhythmic, and impossible to ignore.
There’s a window directly behind my headboard, so I twist around, pulling the curtain aside to get a look at what’s happening outside. But all I can see are those flashing lights, radiating from the front yard. I can’t see any vehicles from my vantage point, just the constant pulse of red and blue illuminating the trees.
My mind immediately races to worst-case scenarios—was there an accident? A break-in? Why would the police be here, in the middle of nowhere? Is it Louie?
A loud knock at the front door snaps me out of my thoughts, making me flinch. My heart jumps in my chest, the sudden noise propelling me out of bed. The pounding is relentless, echoing through the cabin like thunder. I slip on my robe with shaky hands and grab my phone, my pulse quickening with each step toward the front door.
I check the time on my phone. It’s almost five in the morning. The sun should be coming up soon.
I flip on the front porch light, the brightness flooding the small space in front of the cabin, and peer through the peephole.
The sight that greets me is unexpected. It’s a police officer, standing a couple of feet from my door. His stance is casual, but there’s an air of urgency in the way he cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder toward his patrol car.
The flashing lights from the car are so bright that they cast him in silhouette, making it difficult to make out his features. His profile is outlined by the harsh glow of red and blue, and for a second, I feel a strange disconnect, like this scene is happening to someone else and I’m just watching it unfold. My mind races with questions.
I hesitate for a moment, gripping my phone tightly, my fingers hovering over the screen. Should I call someone?
No, it’s too late. Or too early. Either way, I can handle this.
It’s probably just a misunderstanding—a wrong address, maybe. But that doesn’t stop the unease from settling deep in my stomach as I take a breath and reach for the door handle.
With one last glance through the peephole, I unlock the bottom lock first, wondering what on earth could have brought a police officer to my quiet, secluded cabin in the dead of night.
My mind races as I stand here, hand on the deadbolt, hesitating for a moment longer before I finally release it. Even though I unlock the door, I leave the chain latched, opening it only a few inches. A small sliver of space, just enough to see out, but not enough to let anything—or anyone—inside.
Being a writer comes with a constant sense of distrust, no matter what uniform someone might be wearing. I’ve created too many plot twists, written too many villains disguised as heroes, for me not to assume the worst in every situation.
My brain automatically goes to the darkest places—What if he’s in a fake police car?
For all I know, this guy could be posing as an officer, flashing fake credentials just so I’ll open the door and make myself vulnerable. Too many crime stories, too much stolen valor, too many psychological thrillers. I’ve been conditioned to be suspicious of every scenario.
But still, curiosity and concern push me to at least hear him out.
When the officer hears the door creak open, he shifts his gaze toward me, locking eyes with mine. The flashing lights from his patrol car are still making it difficult to make out his features clearly, distorting his face in alternating washes of red and blue and shadows. My eyes are still heavy with sleep, making the whole situation feel surreal, like I’m caught between a dream and reality.
But even with the disorienting lights, there’s one thing I can tell for sure—this is not your stereotypical donut-and-coffee-for-breakfast kind of cop.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, the kind of guy who looks like he spends more time in a gym than a precinct. The sight of him standing here, so authoritative and composed, makes me suddenly hyper-aware of my own appearance. I’m still in my robe, undressed and vulnerable, a detail that makes me pull the robe tighter around my body.
I have no idea why he’s here, but part of me, maybe the writer in me, can’t help but appreciate the timing. If I had to imagine what Hot Cop Cam from my book would look like, this guy would be it.
My brain catalogues the moment, storing away the image of him for later use. This is the face you need to put on Cam, I think, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips despite the odd circumstances.
The officer holds up his badge, the metal catching the porch light for a moment. I squint, my eyes landing on his name and then on the glint of a wedding ring on his left hand. Of course, he’s married. Not that it matters, but it’s another detail my overactive mind clings to as I add another similarity to the list between this guy and my character.
I feel like I just found my muse.
Want to read the whole story? Order your copy of Woman Down here!
Copyright © 2026 by Colleen Hoover. From Woman Down by Colleen Hoover. Reprinted by permission of Montlake, a division of Amazon Publishing.
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