Page 18 of He Knows When You're Awake

“My mother’s an attorney—I grew up hearing about the ‘devil in the details’ at the dinner table.”

I keep reading, fighting to maintain my professional expression as the figures climb higher.

But then I hit the living arrangements clause, and my blood turns to ice. I read it again, slower this time, making sure I haven’t misunderstood. The language here is suddenly crystal clear.

“Required residence in your penthouse?” I look up sharply. “That’s not happening.”

“You’ll have your own room in the east wing of the penthouse level. Private bath, study area—”

“Wait.” I set my glass down. “I don’t even know you, and you want me to live with you?”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Worried I snore?”

“Worried you’re a serial killer with excellent taste in jewelry.”

He laughs, a genuine sound that transforms his face. “If I were a serial killer, I’d have much better pickup lines than ‘Come live in my tower and make pretty things.’”

“That,” I said, pointing at him, “is exactly what a serial killer would say.” I narrow my eyes. “For all I know, you have a collection of artist pelts somewhere.”

“Artist pelts?” He looks both amused and appalled. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I think you’re a man who’s used to getting his way. Who’s offering a completely insane living arrangement to a stranger, and who’s yet to deny the serial killer accusation.”

“Fair points.” He leans back, still smiling. “I hereby formally deny any involvement in serial killing, artist-pelt-collecting, or other nefarious activities. I simply want the best designer under my roof where she can work without distraction. Though I do have an extensive collection of designer scarves that might look suspicious to the right detective.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet here you are, considering my ridiculous offer.”

“It says there will be camera surveillance at all times. With how many cameras?” I press back to the serious issue at hand.

“You’ll be working with pieces worth millions, Sloane. Rare gems, proprietary designs, materials that never leave the building.”

“And you protect your assets.” I meet his gaze. “Is that what I am? Another precious stone to keep under lock and key?”

Something flashes in his eyes—I can’t read him. “I protect what matters to me.”

“Who watches the feeds?” I press. “How many people get front row seats to the Sloane Whitmore show?”

“A highly vetted security team who couldn’t care less about your creative process. Their only concern is ensuring our work stays secure.” He leans closer, his knee brushing mine. “Your private quarters will remain camera-free. But I need you there, especially given our timeline.”

I scan the document again. “New Year’s Eve? You want an entire collection designed, prototyped, and ready for production in a month? A month!”

“Cartier’s pulling out of their New Year partnership with Bergdorf’s.” His voice drops lower, conspiratorial. “Their new creative director is taking them in a different direction. It leaves a gap—one we’re uniquely positioned to fill. If”—he taps the deadline clause—“we can deliver.”

My mind races with the implications. A first-of-the-year launch at Bergdorf’s would be... “That’s impossible.”

“For most people, yes.” That dangerous smile again. “But you’re not most people, are you?”

I take another sip of my Manhattan, buying time to think. The practical part of my brain is screaming about red flags—the control, the monitoring, the impossible deadline. My bankaccount whispers about rent past due and maxed-out credit cards. But there’s something else, something that has nothing to do with money or desperation.

“You still haven’t explained why me.”

“Because when I look at your work, I see something rare.” He pulls out my portfolio. His fingers trail across the pages in a way that makes my skin prickle. “On the surface, these pieces are exactly what the market wants. Safe enough for the society women who lunch, creative enough for the young executives climbing the corporate ladder. You understand people—what they want, what they think they want, what they’re afraid to want.”

He pauses, turning to a specific sketch. It’s one of my darker pieces, one I usually keep buried in the back. A necklace that’s more weapon than jewelry, gothic with shadowed spaces. His thumb traces the edge of the design, almost intimate. “The way it wraps around the throat... there’s nothing timid about this piece. A woman with dark secret desires would wear this piece.”

“Most women don’t want to wear their secrets so openly,” I counter, watching his reaction.