Page 15 of He Knows When You're Awake

“How did you...” I stop, my hand tightening on my portfolio. Another realization slams into me. “The collar piece. In the email. I never showed that to anyone except...” My voice trails off as implications start stacking up like building blocks, each one more unsettling than the last.

Chloe was the only person who’d seen those designs, but somehow he knew about them in detail.

“That night at the bar...” I finally manage, though I’m not even sure what I’m asking. “That wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“No.” He moves toward me, and I instinctively take a step back, my spine hitting the doorframe. “Very little in my world happens by accident.”

My heart pounds so hard I can hear it. This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.

“You’ve been watching me.” My voice shakes with a mixture of fear and anger. “Following me. For how long?”

He doesn’t answer, which somehow makes it worse. I clutch my portfolio to my chest like a shield, mind racing. I should run. I should absolutely run right now. Call Chloe, call the police, call anyone.

“Would you like some wine?” He gestures to the table as if this is all perfectly normal. As if he hasn’t just revealed himself to be exactly the kind of stalker I’d joked about with Chloe.

Oh my god. I have a billionaire stalker.

“I’d like an explanation.” I’m surprised by the steel in my voice. “Because right now I’m trying to decide whether to run screaming or just start throwing things.”

“You won’t do either.” His certainty makes my blood boil.

“Oh, really? And why’s that?”

“Because you want to know why.” He takes another step closer. I hold my ground this time, anger overtaking fear. “Why I chose you. Why I’ve gone to such lengths. Why I know about designs you’ve never shown anyone.”

“How do you know about those?” The question bursts out before I can stop it. “The collar piece—I never showed that to anyone except my friend. If you’ve done something to her—”

“Your friend is fine.” His voice stays maddeningly calm. “Please, sit. Let me explain what I’m offering.”

“Offering?” I laugh, and it sounds slightly hysterical even to my own ears. “You manipulated me. Stalked me. Lured me to another country. And now you want me to sit down for a friendly chat?”

“Yes.” Still so calm, so controlled. It makes me want to scream. “Because despite your very justified anger, you’re curious. You want to know how I knew about your midnight sketching sessions. About the designs you hide from Jasmine Walsh. About the darkness you keep trying to contain.”

My hands shake. He’s right. I do want to know. And I hate that he knows that about me too.

“Sit,” he says again. “Stay. Let me show you what I’m offering. If you still want to run afterward, I won’t stop you.”

I should leave. Every true crime podcast I’ve ever listened to is screaming at me to get out now. But as I slowly sink into the chair he holds, I realize I’ve already made my choice. God help me, I have to know what this is all about.

A server appears silently to pour wine—something red that probably has its own Swiss bank account. I don’t touch it. Rich psychopaths are still psychopaths, and I’ve seen enough movies to know better.

“Your work,” he says without preamble, “is unique.”

“My work that you’ve been spying on?” The words come out sharp enough to cut. “How exactly did you get access to my private designs?”

He takes a sip of wine, apparently unruffled by my hostility. “The same way I knew your loan application would be rejected by Chase. The same way I knew Jasmine Walsh would make your departure effective immediately.” His eyes lock onto mine. “I pay attention to things that interest me.”

“That’s not an answer.” My fingers clench around my portfolio. “That’s just admitting to more stalking.”

“Would you prefer I lie?” The question catches me off guard. “Tell you I happened to notice your talent through normal channels? That this meeting is just a fortunate coincidence?”

“I’d prefer you stop playing games and tell me what you want.”

Something darkens in his expression. “I want to give you everything you’ve been denied. A fully equipped workshop. Complete creative freedom. Financial backing that will let you create without compromise.”

The first course arrives—something that looks like winter elegance itself plated in silver. I ignore it.

“And in exchange?”