Page 79 of He Knows When You're Awake

“I think you’re giving Julian too much credit. He’s not rational,” Knox presses. “Never has been.”

“I know Julian. I know how to control this situation.”

Knox nods but doesn’t look convinced.

I head home early to get ready, though my mind’s still running through contingency plans. The press will have a field day with this—Cole Asher, finally claiming someone publicly. They’ve documented all my carefully curated appearances over the years: models, socialites, daughters of business partners. Beautiful women who understood their role was temporary, who played their part in maintaining the image I needed. Three hours maximum at any event, a few practiced photographs, then separate cars home. Clean. Controlled. Forgettable.

This is different. There will be pictures of us all over social media. The way I keep her close, how my hand lingers on her back, the possessive edge to my smile when someone stares too long. The collar at her throat—to most, just another piece of exquisite jewelry. A lover’s gift. But certain members of New York’s elite will know better. The ones who frequent more exclusive circles, who understand the weight of such symbols. They’ll recognize it for what it is—a mark of ownership, elegant and absolute. No one will speak of it, of course. Not in polite society. But in their private clubs, their whispered conversations, they’ll know exactly what it means that Sloane wears my collar to her own debut.

She’s not just another pretty distraction. She’s an artist about to take over their world, and she’s unmistakably mine.

When Sloane emerges from the bedroom, everything else falls away. The black dress fits her like it was sculpted onto her body. Her jewelry catches the light—frost-etched pieces that seem alive against her skin. The earrings cascade like icicles, and her wrists shimmer with interwoven silver that mimics winter’s first frost across glass. But it’s my collar at her throat that makes my pulse quicken—platinum and diamonds forming an elegant chain of possession, marking her as mine even as she stands ready to claimher own power. She’s transformed herself into something ethereal, untouchable.

I was right. She doesn’t belong in the shadows.

“You look...” I step closer, touching one of her earrings. They’re new—she must have just finished them. The metal work is intricate, precise. Like her.

“Acceptable for my debut as the mysterious woman who’s caught Cole Asher’s attention?” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice.

“Perfect for your debut as the artist who’s about to take New York by storm.”

Her smile tells me she’s ready for this, even if she won’t say it out loud. We head down to where Knox is waiting with the car, the winter air sharp against our faces. Sloane slides into the back seat, her dress whispering against the leather.

The city lights flash across Sloane’s face as our car moves through Manhattan traffic. Before we reach the Met, there are things she needs to know. I pull out my phone, showing her a photo from last month’s charity auction.

“Diana Winters. Art critic for theTimes. She can be ruthless, but she respects technical skill above all else. Show her the inner mechanisms of your frost series—she’ll appreciate the engineering behind the aesthetics.”

Sloane studies the image of a sharp-featured woman in her fifties. “I’ve read her reviews. She destroyed the Wilson exhibit last spring.”

“Because his work was derivative.” I swipe to the next photo. “James Morton. Old money, major collector. He funded three of the biggest jewelry exhibitions at the Met in the last decade. He’ll try to lowball you through intermediaries, but he always pays full price for pieces he really wants.”

“The one who outbid everyone for the Cartier archives?”

“You’ve done your research.” I pause at a photo of a younger manwith cold eyes. “Richard Kane. My biggest competitor in Asian markets. He’s been trying to expand into luxury goods. Don’t accept any private meetings if he offers.”

She nods, then reaches up to adjust one of her bracelets, making minute adjustments that probably only she can see.

“Nervous?” I ask.

She meets my eyes. “No. I’m ready.”

The moment we step into the Metropolitan’s grand ballroom, the buzz of conversation falters. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors and velvet gowns, highlighting the cream and gilt molding that frames the soaring ceiling. Heads turn in waves—first those near the entrance, then rippling outward like stones dropped in still water.

I note with satisfaction the models I’d arranged for—three willowy figures in white silk sheaths that serve as perfect backdrops for Sloane’s pieces. They move through the crowd with practiced grace. One wears a suite of white gold and diamonds that traces the elegant line of her spine. Another displays an intricate collar of silver filigree and moonstones that draws every eye in the room. The third wears a convertible piece that transforms from bracelet to necklace, demonstrating its mechanics to a captivated audience. Every movement is choreographed to ensure the jewelry catches the light just so.

I keep my hand on Sloane’s lower back as we descend the curved staircase. Her black dress moves like liquid shadow, making the diamonds at her throat and ears seem brighter, more alive. Against the sea of bright colors—emerald silks, ruby satins, sapphire chiffons—she stands out like a perfect black diamond.

The crowd parts and re-forms around us. Women in designer gowns pause mid-conversation, champagne flutes forgotten in their hands. Men in tailored tuxedos track our movement across the floor, their usual carefully maintained expressions slipping. Withinminutes, we’re surrounded by New York’s elite, all vying for introductions. Diamond-draped socialites lean in close, openly staring at the delicate silver pieces adorning Sloane’s neck and wrists. A well-known fashion editor actually reaches out to touch one of her earrings before catching herself.

Sloane handles it perfectly. She’s gracious but not eager, elegant but approachable. When asked about her collection, she speaks with quiet confidence about her inspiration, her techniques. She doesn’t oversell—she doesn’t need to. The pieces speak for themselves.

“Cole.” A familiar voice cuts through the crowd. Alexander Pierce, one of New York’s biggest collectors. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”

I make the introduction, watching as Sloane charms yet another influential figure in the art world. But I’m also scanning the room, noting who’s watching, who’s making calls, who’s trying to get closer.

Let them watch. Let them see exactly who she is. What she’s capable of.

Let them all see that she’s not just mine. She’s a force of her own.