Page 29 of He Knows When You're Awake

“It’s a business arrangement,” I say finally, the words sounding hollow even to me. “I have my own wing of the penthouse. Complete creative freedom. Access to materials I could never afford on my own.” I focus on the practical aspects, the things that make this sound rational rather than reckless.

Chloe’s eyes narrow. She knows me too well to buy the carefully edited version I’m offering. “And?”

“And nothing.” I fidget with my coffee cup, avoiding her gaze. “Actually, there is something. It’s just... Cole seems almost obsessed with this jewelry line. Not just the quality, which I’d expect, but the timing. The secrecy. It all feels more intense than a normal business venture.”

Chloe leans forward, suddenly interested. “What do you mean?”

“The security measures are extreme,” I explain, lowering myvoice. “I’m not allowed to discuss designs with anyone. Everything is under lock and key. And he keeps emphasizing this New Year’s Eve deadline like the world might end if we miss it.”

“Well, yeah,” Chloe says with a shrug. “He’s investing millions in you, a relatively unknown designer. Of course he’s being cautious and deadline-focused. That’s how these finance guys operate—by quarters and fiscal years.”

I nod slowly. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Plus, luxury launches are all about timing,” she continues, stirring her drink. “If he wants to capitalize on the New Year buzz, missing that window could cost him.”

“You’re probably right,” I admit. I try to shrug off my misgivings as Chloe takes another sip of her drink. “Now, tell me about how your collection is going instead. You don’t have to keep it secret fromme, do you?” She flutters her eyelashes.

I laugh and seize on the change of subject with relief, launching into details about my designs. It’s easier to talk about work than my confusing feeling for a man who’s been watching me for months.

Around us, the scene is pure holiday chaos. The a cappella group has switched to “Jingle Bell Rock,” complete with the classicMean Girlsdance. A family nearby strings popcorn garlands at their table, the youngest child more interested in eating the supplies than creating decorations.

“So, I got an interesting email,” I say, remembering the message I’d received earlier. “You remember Maya, right?”

“Your old assistant?”

“She quit Moth to the Flame. Got some mysterious new opportunity.” I show Chloe the message.

“No way!” Chloe’s eyes widen as she reads. “Good for her. First you, now Maya... Jasmine must be losing her mind.”

“Right? I feel kind of bad, but also proud of her for taking the leap.”

“Any idea where she’s going?” Chloe asks, handing my phone back.

“No clue. She’s being super secretive about it.”

Chloe leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know what I heard from Darren at that Christmas party last weekend? Apparently, Moth to the Flame is in serious financial trouble. Like, might-not-make-it-to-next-quarter trouble.”

“What? No way. They just opened that new showroom in Soho.”

“Yeah, and according to Darren, they way overextended. Plus, Jasmine’s been making some questionable investments. The place is hemorrhaging talent. First you, now Maya.”

“Wow,” I say, processing this news. “I had no idea it was that bad. Maya got out just in time too.” I pause and shake my head. “Are you sure it’s not just a rumor? I can’t see Jasmine having any money issues.”

“What’s that saying that if there is smoke, then there’s a fire,” Chloe muses, stirring the remains of her drink. “Or something like that. You might have jumped ship at exactly the right time.”

I glance at my phone and wince at the time. “Speaking of my own escape, I should get back. This collection isn’t going to design itself, and I’m sure Cole’s expecting progress by tonight.”

“Of course.” Chloe stands to hug me goodbye. “And Sloane? Be careful, okay? Not just with Cole, but”—she waves her hand vaguely—“all of it.”

I squeeze her tight, grateful for her concern even though I can’t explain exactly what she should be concerned about. “I will. Promise.”

As I head for the door, she calls after me: “And text me if he turns out to be a serial killer!”

I wave without turning, my thoughts already drifting back to the penthouse, to the designs waiting to take shape under my hands.

Chapter TwelveSloane

I’ve been at the workbench for hours, completely lost in the process. I set another tiny pavé diamond in place, fingers working from muscle memory as I complete the curved edge of what will become a statement cuff. The torch flame hisses softly as I solder another connection, the metal glowing red before cooling to silver again. I barely notice my stiff shoulders or the hunger pangs until a knock at the door finally breaks my concentration.