Page 43 of He Knows When You're Awake

I feel my hackles rise. “That’s not how creative work happens. I can’t just force it because of some arbitrary deadline you’ve set. The piece speaks to me when it speaks to me.”

“Arbitrary?” His jaw tightens. “The New Year’s launch isn’t arbitrary, and neither is the timeline leading up to it. Every piece needs to be completed, photographed, and cataloged. There’s PR, marketing, distribution—”

“I know how a product launch works,” I cut in. “I’ve been doing this for years. And I’ve never missed a deadline that actually mattered.”

Cole’s eyes narrow. “This one matters, Sloane. More than you know.”

For the first time, I notice the tension in his shoulders, the slight crease between his brows. This isn’t just business-as-usual Cole. He’s genuinely stressed about the timeline.

“Why?” I press, leaning forward. “Why is this date so important? What aren’t you telling me?”

He takes a slow sip of his wine. “The date is nonnegotiable. That’s all you need to know.”

“No, it’s not.” I push my plate aside. “If I’m going to be a part of this, I need to understand the business side too. I’m not just some... some monkey with a soldering iron, churning out pretty baubles on command.”

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “A monkey? Is that what you think I see you as?”

“I don’t know what you see me as,” I counter. “But it’s clearly not as a full partner in this venture. You keep me in the dark, dictate deadlines without explanation, and expect me to just fall in line.”

“I brought you in for your creative vision,” he says, his voice tight with controlled anger. “Your talent. Your unique perspective. I’m not looking for a business partner. I’ve been down that road before. I’m looking for an artist who can deliver on time.”

“Deliver onyourschedule, you mean.” I stand up, my appetite completely gone. “Well, guess what? Art doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way.”

“Everyone works according to deadlines, Sloane. That’s how the world functions.”

I hate how he says my name when he’s pissed.

“Not my world.”

“It is now.” His tone is final. “You signed a contract.”

The mention of the contract stings more than I want to admit. Because he’s right. I did sign it. I needed this opportunity. I needed his backing, his resources, his connections. Without them, my designs would still be sketches in a portfolio that no one would ever see.

“Fine.” I toss my napkin onto the table. “I’ll go work on your damn bracelet. Right now. Will that make you happy?”

“Ecstatic.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

I turn to leave, then pause. “You know, I may need your money to make this happen, but you need my creativity just as much. Your capital is worthless without my vision to turn it into something real.”

“Artistic genius that never makes it to market is just wasted potential.”

His words hit harder than I want to admit. Without another word, I head for the stairs, already mentally sketching the modifications I’ll need to make to that fucking bracelet tonight.

Behind me, I hear another glass shatter against the floor.

Back in my studio, I channel my frustration into creating something new. Four hours of work and the bracelet transforms into something else entirely—twin cuffs connected by a platinum chain.

I make them cold and sharp, with jagged crystals that catch light like actual frost. The silver metal has a matte finish that looks like ice against skin. The clasp I’ve been fighting with becomes a locking mechanism that can tighten the chain between the cuffs.

It’s not just jewelry anymore. It’s power. Control. The kind that makes your pulse quicken.

I’m admiring my work when the knock comes at my door. I know it’s him.

“What?” I call out, not looking up.

The door opens. Cole stands in the doorway, tie gone, sleeves rolled up, tension visible in his shoulders. The argument from earlier still hangs between us, but there’s something else now too.

“You shouldn’t be working this late,” he says, his voice low, not moving past the threshold until I explicitly invite him in.