Page 80 of He Knows When You're Awake

After an hour of introductions and carefully navigated conversations, I notice her fingers drifting to her collar more frequently—a habit she only falls into when she’s feeling overwhelmed. I lean close, my lips near her ear. “Come with me.”

I guide her through a hidden door behind a tapestry, into one of the Met’s private galleries. Here, the noise of the gala becomes distant, muffled. Ancient artifacts rest in glass cases, bathed in soft light. Sloane’s shoulders relax as she takes in our surroundings.

“How did you know I needed this?”

“You were starting to fidget with your collar.” I run my finger along its edge, feeling her pulse quicken. “You’ve been perfect out there. Every person in that room is either envying you or wanting to own a piece of what you create.”

She turns to face me, and in the dim light I see something fierce in her eyes. “I saw the models wearing my pieces. That was your doing?”

“You can’t wear everything you’ve created.” I trace the line of her jaw. “And I want them desperate to see the full collection. The convertible piece on Isabelle has three society wives plotting how to get first dibs. The spine necklace on Sofia had Diana Winters taking notes. And that moonstone collar?” I smile. “I’ve watched at least five women try to get James Morton’s attention, hoping he’ll buy it for them.”

“You’re teasing them.”

“I’m creating demand. By the time we reveal the full collection, they’ll be ready to kill each other for it.” My thumb brushes her bottom lip. “Besides, you chose which pieces to wear tonight. The ones that matter most. The ones that show exactly who you are.”

“Tactical marketing through strategic torture? How very you.”

“Having second thoughts about any of this?”

“No.” She reaches up, adjusting my tie with familiar precision. “But I keep waiting for someone to see through it all. To realize I’m just a girl from Montauk who—”

I cut her off with a kiss, harder than I should in such a public setting, but I need her to feel the truth of it. When I pull back, my hand tightens on her waist. “You’re exactly who you’re meant to be. The girl from Montauk who’s about to have half of Manhattan fighting over her jewelry.”

“Only half?” One eyebrow arches as she smooths my lapel. “I must be losing my touch.”

“I saw three society wives ready to steal that convertible piece right off the model.”

“Careful.” Her lips curve into a smile against my jaw. “A girl could get used to this kind of power.”

“Good.” I trace the edge of her collar. “Because watching you own that room is incredibly attractive.”

“Is that why you dragged me into a dark corner of the Met? To tell me how attractive I am?”

“Actually, I dragged you into a three-million-dollar gallery of ancient artifacts.” I glance at the cases around us. “Much more dignified.”

She turns to one of the displays, her fingers hovering over the glass. “The craftsmanship in these pieces...” Her eyes light up the way they do when she’s studying something that inspires her. “I could spend hours in here.”

“Now who’s avoiding the party?”

“Says the man who orchestrated this escape.” The smile she gives me over her shoulder is pure temptation.

“That, and you look absolutely sinful in that dress.”

She brushes her thumb across my bottom lip, removing a trace of her lipstick. “We should get back. I have a room full of potential clients to seduce.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“You started it with those models in white.” She steps toward the door, then glances back over her shoulder. “Coming?”

I lead her back toward the noise and light of the gala, but not before catching the way she touches her collar, a gesture of confidence now rather than anxiety. Let them see that too—how thoroughly she belongs to me, even as she conquers their world.

We’ve barely rejoined the crowd when I spot Jasmine Walsh approaching, looking expensive but trying too hard in a dress that screams new money. The owner of Moth to the Flame, where she’d spent two years trying to break Sloane’s spirit with manipulation and stolen designs. The woman’s smile is sharp as cut glass.

“Sloane, darling.” Her air-kiss misses Sloane’s cheek by design.“Who would have thought you’d end up here?” She gestures broadly at the opulent ballroom.

My jaw tightens, but Sloane’s hand finds my arm, a subtle request to let her handle this.

“Jasmine.” Sloane’s voice is warm honey over steel. “I was just telling Diana Winters about my time at Moth to the Flame. How it taught me exactly what I didn’t want my brand to be.”