Page 82 of He Knows When You're Awake

The look in Cole’s eyes is murderous, but his touch remains gentle as he guides me toward the exit. Knox flanks us, speaking quietly into his comm unit. I notice how the security team materializes around us, a choreographed dance I’m starting to recognize. I think of Chloe trying on gowns in my bedroom, teasing meabout whether I’d actually asked Cole if he was in the mafia. The memory almost makes me laugh. Almost.

“Cole?” I keep my voice low, steady despite the rapid beating of my heart.

“It’s fine.” His response is automatic, practiced. But I catch the way his eyes keep scanning our surroundings, the slight tension in his jaw. “Just a precaution.”

Right. Because everyone leaves their own gala with a small army of security. Just another casual Friday night at the Met. I want to make a joke about sleeping with the fishes, but the steel in Cole’s expression stops me.

“Car’s ready,” Knox murmurs. “Thompson caught them heading east on Eighty-Second.”

Cole’s jaw clenches. “And?”

“Two black SUVs. Diplomatic plates.” Knox’s voice drops lower. “Russian.”

I feel Cole’s entire body tense against mine. There’s an undercurrent to their exchange I don’t fully understand, but I recognize enough to know this wasn’t just a casual threat.

We emerge into the bitter night air, and I’m grateful for both Cole’s warmth and the armed men surrounding us. The exhaustion from earlier has transformed into something else—a humming awareness of danger that makes every shadow seem deeper.

“I’m sorry,” Cole says once we’re in the car. “We should have stayed longer. It was your night, and I had to cut it short—”

“What was that all about?” I turn to face him, sudden anger flaring. “Tell me the truth. All of the truth.”

Something shifts in Cole’s expression.

I fold my arms. “And what line are you talking about—his or mine? Because it sounds like there’s a race happening and I’m just now being told I’m in it.”

“Sloane.” Cole’s voice drops, his hands reaching for mine. “Let’snot do this now. You’ve had an amazing night. Your collection was incredible—”

“Don’t change the subject.” I pull my hands away. “What did he mean about another designer?”

Cole runs a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to Knox, who’s pretending not to listen from the front seat.

“It’s complicated,” he says finally.

“Uncomplicate it,” I snap.

“Not here.” He glances meaningfully at the partition between us and the driver. “Not like this. When we get home—”

“No.” My voice is steel. “Now.”

“I’m handling it—”

“You’re not handling anything! You’re sitting here refusing to tell me why I just got menaced by what I can only guess is the Russian mob at my own fashion debut!”

I narrow my eyes.

“Was I a pawn? My line—”

“Is going to be the best we’ve seen in a very long time,” Cole cut in. “You are not a pawn. Yes, I brought you in to beat Julian’s line, but it’s because of your skill. Your talent. Only your designs can beat what he’s trying to fake and pass off as Claire’s. The minute I saw your work, I knew how truly talented you are.”

“Why is he trying to do this? Why try to fake her designs?”

“Because Julian doesn’t want her remembered for what she actually was. He’s been rewriting the story—trying to frame his new line as the continuation of her legacy.”

“And mine gets in the way.”

“Yes.” Cole doesn’t sugarcoat it. “If your line comes first—if it’s better—then everything he’s built falls apart.”

I stare at him, pulse ticking in my throat. “You brought me in to stop him.”