Page 14 of He Knows When You're Awake

I turn away from the window, deliberately casual. Julian Voss had been more than a mentor when I was building my empire—he’d been the first person to see potential in the hungry kid from Brooklyn. The first to show me how power really worked. First person to see my value and work with me. And now he’s just another part of my past I prefer not to discuss.

“He won’t get to the case,” I say with a certainty I don’t entirely feel. “The penthouse security is impenetrable.”

“No security is impenetrable, Cole.” Knox’s voice drops lower. “And you’re getting personally involved. I can see how you watchher. This isn’t just about protecting Claire’s designs anymore.”

The implications hang in the air, but I’m already distracted by movement on the security feeds. Sloane has arrived at her suite. Through the cameras, I watch her explore the space, taking in her unguarded reactions. There’s something compelling about seeing her like this, away from the careful persona she presents to the world.

I remember finding her file buried in Chase’s rejection pile—another dreamer deemed too risky. But where their analysts saw uncertainty, I saw hunger. The same drive that had pushed me from a Brooklyn walk-up to a Manhattan penthouse. The need to prove everyone wrong.

A discrete knock announces the hotel manager with security reports. I scan them quickly—every angle covered, every possibilityaccounted for. The east wing secured, no guests or staff except those cleared by Knox.

“Sir?” The manager hovers, awaiting further instructions. “The dining room is prepared according to your specifications. The vintage you requested is breathing.”

I nod, satisfied. Through the screens, I watch Sloane prepare for dinner. The white dress suits her, but it’s her composure that catches my attention—the way she squares her shoulders like she’s preparing for battle.

“It’s time,” I tell Knox, adjusting my cuffs. A habit from my younger days, when secondhand suits needed constant attention. Now my closet costs more than my father’s house did, but some habits die hard. “What’s Julian’s current position?”

“Still in Moscow, according to our sources. But Cole...” He hesitates.

“Drop it.” I cut him off. “Our security is the best in the business. Focus on what matters—tonight.”

Because tonight isn’t about Julian or the past or anything else. Tonight is about Sloane, and the way she makes me want things I’d forgotten existed.

“Sir?” The manager again. “Will you be requiring anything else?”

I check my watch one final time. In minutes, Sloane Whitmore will walk into this room, and this Christmas story of ours will begin.

“No,” I say. “Everything is perfect.”

Chapter SevenSloane

The maître d’ leads me through the Alpina’s empty restaurant, my heels clicking against ancient wood floors that give an elegant character. Crystal chandeliers cast intimate pools of light, each table its own private island in a sea of luxury. But we pass them all, heading toward a separate dining room.

I clutch my portfolio closer, wondering if I’m walking toward my big break or my elaborate doom. The white dress moves like water around me, making me feel both powerful and exposed. Kind of like being naked, but fancy.

“Mr. Asher is waiting,” the maître d’ says, pausing before massive wooden doors that look old enough to have witnessed the signing of peace treaties. Or murder conspiracies. My imagination really needs to pick a lane here.

The doors open to reveal a private dining room that makes me forget how to breathe. One entire wall is glass, showcasing the snow-covered Alps now lit by a nearly full moon. The other walls are aged wood panels that glow warmly in the light from iron chandeliers. A single table sits in the center, set with what has to be antique silver and crystal that catches the light like diamonds.

But it’s the man standing at the window that stops my heart.

He turns, and the world shifts beneath my feet. I know that profile, those shoulders, that way of owning every molecule of spacearound him. I’ve seen them before, stained with expensive scotch in a Manhattan bar.

Cole.

“Hello, Sloane.” His voice is exactly as I remember—that low rumble that seems to bypass my ears and go straight to my spine. “I believe we’ve met.”

I open my mouth, close it, try again. “You’re Colsen Asher?”

“Yes.” No apology, no explanation. Just that intensity I remember, now cranked up to about a thousand.

I blink, my brain struggling to reconcile the stranger from the bar with the billionaire who’s apparently been orchestrating my life. The room suddenly feels too warm, too small. “I don’t... I mean, you’re...” Words fail me completely.

Cole stays perfectly still, watching me process with those unnervingly intense eyes. The same eyes that had studied me so carefully at Tonic, that had shown such interest when I described my work. Oh. OH.

“The scotch,” I say suddenly, the memory hitting me like a physical blow. “At the bar. You were so interested in my designs. You kept asking questions about Midnight Frost...”

His lips curve slightly, and there’s something almost proud in his expression, like he’s pleased I’m putting it together. But that means...