Page 8 of He Knows When You're Awake

Maya’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. You’re actually doing it? The independent line thing?”

I nod, pulling out the envelope. “As soon as Jasmine finishes her morning meditation.”

“About time,” Maya says, grinning. “This place has been holding you back. Your stuff is way too edgy for their ‘delicate feminine aesthetic.’” She makes air quotes around the phrase we’ve both heard in countless meetings.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, trying to ignore the flutter of panic in my stomach. “But maybe hold off on celebrating until after I survive this conversation.”

“You’ve got this,” Maya assures me. “And hey, when you’re a famous designer, remember who supported you before it was cool.”

I laugh, some of my tension easing. “You’ll get an employee discount for life.”

The morning crawls by in a haze of anxiety. I try to focus on my current projects—a spring collection that’s all soft pastels and butterfly motifs—but my mind keeps drifting to the envelope in my drawer. To Cole’s intense gaze when I told him about my designs. To my mother’s worried voice.

Finally, around eleven, Jasmine’s door opens. She emerges in a cloud of essential oils, her silk caftan floating behind her as she moves through the office. I wait until she’s settled at her desk before gathering my courage.

“Jasmine?” I knock lightly on her open door. “Do you have a moment?”

She looks up, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Sloane, yes, come in. I was actually hoping to discuss the spring collection with you. I’m not feeling enough lightness in the butterfly wings. They need to almost float off the metal, you know?”

She clearly hasn’t seen my email yet. She’s been in her “creative visualization” session all morning. I step inside, closing the door behind me. My heart is pounding so hard I wonder if she can hear it. “Actually, I needed to discuss something else with you.”

She gestures to the chair across from her desk, and I sit, staring at the desk between as if it’s a bridge I’m about to burn.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. “And while I’m incredibly grateful for everything I’ve learned here, I believe it’s time for me to move on.” I take a deep breath and add, “I emailed you my letter of resignation.”

Jasmine’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise. She hits a few keys on her keyboard, my assumption that she’s unlocking her screen. “Move on? To where?”

“I’m starting my own line,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I have a vision for pieces that are different from what we do here. More experimental, more...”

“Edgy?” she supplies, a hint of disapproval in her tone. “Yes, I’ve seen your personal work. Very... interesting. But surely you understand that’s not what the market wants? Women come to us for beauty, for delicacy.”

“With all due respect,” I say, gripping the arms of my chair to keep my hands from shaking, “I think there’s room in the market for different interpretations of beauty. My designs speak to women who want something sharper, something that reflects the duality of their own nature.”

Jasmine sighs, finally pulling up my email. She scans the letter quickly, her expression unreadable. “I see you’re giving me plenty of notice,” she says finally. “But given the sensitive nature of our designs, I think it’s best if we make this effective immediately.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. “Immediately? But my projects—”

“Maya can take over the spring collection.” She cuts me off smoothly. “HR will process your final paycheck, including any unused vacation days.” She stands, signaling that the conversation is over. “I wish you luck, Sloane. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I rise on unsteady legs, feeling like I’ve just been hit by a bus. This isn’t how I expected this to go. “Thank you for the opportunity,” I manage to say, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

The walk back to my desk feels as if I’m walking underwater and there is a slight ringing in my ear. Maya takes one look at my face and knows. “That bad?”

“She’s making it effective immediately,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The reality of what just happened is starting to sink in. “I’m supposed to clean out my desk and go.”

Maya says something... I think. Others come into my office to say goodbye and wish me well... I think. I sit, I stand, I pack. I’m not really sure if I know what is mine and what belongs to the company. Everything is a blur.

An hour later, I’m back in my tiny apartment, surrounded by the box of belongings from my desk and a stack of bank rejection letters I’ve been collecting over the past few months. Even a cup of peppermint tea can’t shake the surreal feeling that my life has completely imploded in the span of a morning.

The rejection letters mock me from their pile on my coffee table. Chase’s latest “regret to inform you” is still crisp, the corporate letterhead seeming to glare under my apartment’s harsh lighting. Five different banks, five variations of “your lack of collateral and untested market make you too high a risk.”

I pull out my sketchbook, needing to lose myself in design work. The foggy brain from the chaos of quitting my job and then essentially being fired lingers just enough to fuel my creativity. Either that or lose my mind. My fingers move across the paper almost of their own accord, sketching elements of my Midnight Frost collection—pieces that are too dark, too impossible for Moth to the Flame’s uptight sensibilities.

The laptop sitting next to me pings with a new email. Probably another rejection, or maybe Jasmine with some passive-aggressivefeedback about project handover. But the subject line makes me pause:

Your Vision for Midnight Frost—Investment Opportunity

I open it, curiosity overriding my usual skepticism about unsolicited business emails.