Page 2 of He Knows When You're Awake

On-screen, Sloane runs her hands through her hair in frustration, destroying her usually neat bun. She does this when her boss shoots down her ideas. I’ve cataloged all her tells by now. The way she talks to herself while working, how she sketches on cocktail napkins at bars when she thinks no one’s watching, her secret stash of peppermint tea hidden in her desk drawer.

“The arrangements at Tonic tonight?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Everything’s set. Though I still think staging a collision is overthinking it. You could just approach her like a normal person.” Knox’s tone suggests he knows exactly how likely that is. “But since you’re determined to be extra about this, the bartender will direct her to the right spot, your scotch will be perfectly positioned, and your ridiculously expensive suit is ready to be sacrificed to the cause.”

I check my watch. Through the cameras, I see Sloane pack up for the day. She also reaches for a sweater she had delivered to her office a couple of days ago.

“So she’s still wearing that sweater tonight? Christ, it’s got actual antlers,” Knox says.

“Battery-powered lights too.” I don’t mention how I know this. That I watched her open the package, saw her face light up like the ridiculous sweater itself. “Cost her nearly a day’s pay.”

“How would you even know—” Knox stops himself.

“Annual tradition with her friend Chloe.” I tap the screen where Sloane’s grinning at the sweater. “They hit Tonic every December. Ugly sweaters, expensive drinks they can barely afford. Been doing it since college.”

“You could’ve just followed her Instagram and saved all this stalking time.” Knox scrolls through his phone. “Look, there they are last year. Same bar, same ridiculous sweaters.”

“That’s the cleaned-up version.” I turn back to the feed where Sloane’s now shoving prototypes into her bottom drawer. The ones her boss would hate. “People show what they think others want to see. She’s guilty of that.”

“And you prefer the unfiltered version.” It’s not a question. Knox has watched me build and break enough empires to know how I operate.

Knox sighs, the sound of a man who’s seen me go down obsessive rabbit holes before, but never on one person. Never like this.

“There’s something about her that’s already getting under your skin.”

He’s right, though I’m not ready to examine why. I’ve built my empire on finding undervalued assets, on seeing potential others miss.

But Sloane...

“Time to go,” I say instead of answering, standing to adjust my cuffs in the window’s reflection. The Manhattan skyline spreads out behind me, a glittering empire of steel and glass. “The scotch needs to hit my suit at precisely the right moment.”

“You know normal people just ask women out for coffee, right?” Knox follows me through my office, past walls of awards and acquisitions that suddenly seem meaningless compared to the portfolio Sloane carries everywhere. “They don’t orchestrate elaborate meet-cutes involving property damage.”

“Since when have I ever been normal?”

The elevator doors slide open silently to my private garage, where a sleek black Bentley waits. The car’s interior smells of leather and power, everything as I like it. Everything controlled.

I check my watch one last time as Knox slides behind the wheel. In exactly thirty-seven minutes, Sloane Whitmore will walk into Tonic wearing that ridiculous sweater, looking out of place among the suits and cocktail dresses. My guess is she’ll try to make herself smaller, less noticeable.

But I’ll notice.

Through the tinted windows, I watch my tower recede into the Manhattan skyline. I can imagine on the screens we’re leaving behind, Sloane stepping into a taxi. She’ll be trying to figure out her next move after another rejection, another setback. What she doesn’t realize is every closed door has been leading her exactly where I want her.

To me.

Chapter TwoSloane

I’m already regretting this sweater.

The reindeer’s nose blinks accusingly as I squeeze through Tonic’s crowded entryway, feeling like a walking Christmas tree in a sea of sleek cocktail attire. A guy in an impeccable suit gives me a look of barely concealed disdain as I accidentally jostle his martini. I mumble an apology, not that he hears or would care.

The bartender catches my eye and nods toward an open spot at the far end of the bar. I silently thank whatever Christmas spirit guided me here as I make my way over, the blinking reindeer nose on my sweater creating a small red beacon in the dim light.

I’m early, and I know Chloe won’t be here for another ten minutes at least. I scan the room, searching for a familiar face, but find only strangers. The contrast between their polished appearances and my garish sweater makes me want to sink into the floor.

Which frankly is unlike me. I’m normally confident in who I am and what I do, but ever since I started this process of starting my own jewelry line, I’ve felt like a fish out of water. Every rejection letter, every condescending meeting with potential investors. It’s all chipped away at the certainty I once had in my self-worth.

I flag down the bartender, desperately in need of liquid courage. “Peppermint martini, please.”