Page 89 of He Knows When You're Awake

“Yeah?” She leans in to kiss me again, but the puppy chooses that moment to let out an indignant yip, clearly feeling ignored. “Does he have a name?”

“I thought we could figure that out together.” I watch heruntangle her hair from tiny puppy teeth, her fingers nimble against the golden fur. “Though given his clear disregard for proper order and expensive accessories, might I suggest Havoc?”

Sloane’s smile widens as she lifts the puppy higher, holding him at eye level. “Havoc,” she says as she tests the name. “I like it.”

“Welcome to our beautiful mess,” she tells him, and my laugh joins hers as Havoc suddenly wriggles free and makes a beeline for the Christmas tree, immediately batting at a low-hanging ornament.

I pull Sloane against me, arms wrapping around her waist as we watch our new puppy circle the tree with boundless enthusiasm. Her body fits perfectly against mine, and when she tilts her head back to look at me, I see everything I’ve ever wanted reflected in her eyes.

“I love you,” I say again, because now that I’ve said it, I never want to stop.

Her answer is a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens, her fingers threading through my hair. Havoc is completely forgotten as I lift her into my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist. I carry her toward our bedroom, leaving a trail of decorations and puppy toys in our wake.

For the first time in my life, I don’t care about the mess.

Chapter Thirty-FourCole

Sloane’s been living in her studio lately, consumed by this collection. The security feeds show her working until dawn most nights, though she thinks I don’t know. I’ve been working long days as well, but all I want to do now is be tangled in her arms with our puppy at our sides.

Knox meets me in the parking garage. “She’s been pacing for the last hour,” he says as we step into the private elevator. “Whatever she’s finished, it must be good.”

The elevator opens directly into our penthouse, and I hear music drifting from the direction of her studio. Following the sound, I find her in her workspace, surrounded by scattered sketches and tools. Her hair is pulled back messily, and there are dark smudges under her eyes from too many late nights. Havoc dozes in his bed in the corner, having learned that the studio means “quiet time.”

“Look.” She lifts a piece from her workbench.

The crown seems to capture moonlight, black diamonds set in darkened platinum. No excess ornamentation, just pure, clean lines that draw the eye.

“This is the centerpiece?” I ask, though I already know. I’ve watched her work on it through the security feeds, seen her obsession grow with each passing night.

“Try to tell me this isn’t exactly what the collection needed.” Her eyes sparkle with pride and exhaustion.

She sets the crown down carefully, her hands trembling slightly. For a moment, she just stares at it. Then I see the tears forming in her eyes.

“It’s done,” she whispers, like she can hardly believe it. Her voice gets stronger. “Cole, it’s done. The collection is truly and finally done!” She lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “Hailey just left after finishing the final bracelet, and now with the crown...” She spins in a circle, gesturing at the pieces arranged around her studio. “I’ve been working toward this for so long, I almost can’t believe it’s real.”

She stops spinning, bracing herself against her workbench. “When you gave me that deadline, I thought you were actually insane. One month for an entire collection? But I did it.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I actually did it.”

“I never doubted you would.” I move closer, brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’ve exceeded every expectation I had, and trust me, they were high.”

“Holy shit.” She looks around her studio again, like she’s seeing it with new eyes. “Now what?”

“Now,” I say, pulling out my phone, “you need to eat actual food. And leave the penthouse for the first time in what, three days?”

I send a message to Gloria Ashworth. She’d turned down three billionaires this week alone, but she still keeps a table for me at her restaurant. Twenty years of running the most exclusive supper club in the city has made her particularly skilled at knowing which of her wealthy patrons actually matter.

“Has it been three days?” She glances down at herself, at the work apron covered in metal dust. “Oh god.”

“Go get changed,” I tell her, nodding toward her bedroom. “Dinner reservations at eight.”

She looks up, finally seeming to notice how long she’s been in the studio. “I probably look like a disaster.”

“You look like an artist.” But I can see the fatigue around her eyes, the way she’s been running on nothing but creative energy for days. “Take a break. Celebrate.”

Two hours later, Knox drives us to an unmarked door in the Financial District. Gloria’s is the type of place that doesn’t officially exist unless you know the right people. Sloane’s black dress makes the diamond studs in her ears stand out like ice as we step into the private entrance. The exhaustion from earlier is gone—she looks energized, ready to celebrate.

The maître d’ recognizes me immediately, guiding us through a dark wood-paneled corridor into the main dining room. The space feels more like a private manor than a restaurant—all coffered ceilings and vintage crystal chandeliers casting warm light over intimate alcoves. Each table is separated by strategic distance and clever architectural details, ensuring absolute privacy. The room holds perhaps twelve tables total, though you’d never see them all at once.

Gloria has preserved the building’s prewar details—the original herringbone floors, hand-carved moldings, brass fixtures that have aged to a perfect patina. But she’s modernized in subtle ways: temperature-controlled wine walls behind antique glass, state-of-the-art kitchen equipment glimpsed through discrete pass-throughs, lighting that makes everyone look ten years younger.