Page 19 of He Knows When You're Awake

“Don’t they?” His smile suggests otherwise. He flips to another design, a ring that seems to writhe around the finger like smoke made solid. “These pieces? They’re savage. Untamed.” His voice drops lower. “Like you’re trying to crack open the world and reshape it.” He leans closer, and I catch the subtle scent of his cologne. “These are the ones you don’t show clients. The ones that live in the back of your sketchbook, that keep you up at night.” He pauses and then adds, “They represent dominance and submission, even if you don’t know it yet yourself.”

I feel exposed, seen in a way that makes me want to squirm in my seat. “Those are experimental pieces.”

“They’re honest pieces.” His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s something dark and knowing in his gaze. “Everyone sees in youthe polished New York designer—ambitious, talented, ready to take on the world. But there’s something else under that carefully curated surface, isn’t there? Something that doesn’t care about market trends or buyer demographics. Something that wants to create beauty so sharp it draws blood.”

“You seem very interested in what’s beneath surfaces,” I say, aiming for professional but landing somewhere closer to breathless.

“Only certain ones.” The way he says it makes heat crawl up my spine.

I hate how well he sees me. Hate that he’s right about both sides—the professional who knows how to work a room, and the artist who sometimes scares herself with what emerges on the page at midnight. Hate even more how his assessment causes my pulse to quicken.

“And which designer are you hoping to hire?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “The one who knows what sells, or the one who makes beauty that bites?”

His smile is slow, predatory. He leans back, but his eyes never leave mine. “I want both.” There’s a delicious emphasis onwantthat makes my throat go dry. “The question is: Are you ready to let me see all of you?”

This isn’t just about jewelry anymore... or at least I don’t think it is. I take a too-large sip of my Manhattan to break the moment and nearly choke.Real smooth, Sloane.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to reclaim some semblance of professionalism. Having your potential boss look at you like that should not be this unsettling. Or appealing. Focus. “About these living arrangements. Ground rules.”

Cole’s expression shifts seamlessly from smoldering to amused, which somehow makes it worse. I straighten my spine and put on what my brother calls my “business bitch” voice.

“No cameras in my room,” I say firmly, proud that I sound like someone who hasn’t just been mentally undressing their future employer. “I don’t care about your security concerns. My private space stays private. And I’m not just saying that because of what you probably think I’m saying that for.”Oh god, stop talking.“I mean, because of privacy. Normal privacy. Professional privacy.”

His lips twitch. “Professional privacy.”

“Yes.” I lift my chin. “Exactly.”

“Of course.” He’s definitely trying not to laugh now. “Completely professional.”

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious about the cameras.”

“Done.”

“And I want full access to the workshop, day or night. If you want this done by New Year’s, I’ll be pulling a lot of late hours.”

“Already planned for.”

“Also, you don’t enter my workshop or my bedroom without my express permission. I need to know my space is mine. Consider it a creative sanctuary. I can’t work if I’m constantly wondering when you’ll appear.”

He raises an eyebrow but nods. “Understood.”

“One more thing.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Creative control means exactly that. You can have opinions, but final decisions are mine.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “As long as you’re willing to defend your choices.”

“Oh, I always am.”

“Let me add these conditions to make them official.” He takes the contract and, with a sleek Mont Blanc pen, begins writing in the margins. His handwriting is precise and architectural as he notes each point: “No cameras in private quarters. No entry to workspace or bedroom without express permission. Creative control rests with designer for all pieces.”

He initials each addition, then slides the contract and pen back to me.

“These amendments are now legally binding,” he says, his expression serious despite the slight curve of his lips. “I always honor my contracts to the letter.”

I stare at the pen, acutely aware that I’m standing at a crossroads. The smart choice would be to walk away. But there’s a part of me—the part that’s always pushed boundaries, always reached for more—that wants to see just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

I pick up the pen.

“I’ll need help moving.”