Page 34 of He Knows When You're Awake

She stops, staring at the shimmering marks she’s left on the counter. Her eyes dart to the camera in the corner, then back to me.

“We need to talk about the production schedule,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Your timeline isn’t working. I can’t create pieces in the order you’ve specified. That’s not how my process works.”

“The schedule exists for a reason, Sloane,” I reach past her for the coffee beans, letting myself get closer than necessary. She smells like metal and coffee and something uniquely her. “If you follow it, there should be no issue meeting our deadline.”

“Right.” She takes a step back, bumps the counter, creates another smear of silver. She glances up at the cameras again.

“You hired me for my vision, not to be a production line worker. My process is... less linear.” She gestures at the surveillance equipment. “Your staff’s already got enough entertainment from my Mariah Carey performance. We don’t need to add to their morning feed with a creative dispute.” She pauses, then adds in a rush, “And about last night... That was... intense. But I think we need to keep things strictly professional from now on. The contract, the collection, everything else... I can’t afford distractions right now.”

I agree out loud because it’s what she needs to hear, what will keep her from running. But inside, I’m already planning our nextmoment alone. I’ve spent too long watching her, wanting her, to let professional boundaries stop me now.

“No distractions,” I say, watching her attempt to clean the counter only to spread more of the glitter across its surface. She turns, and her hand brushes my sweater, marking the cashmere with a shimmer of silver.

She stares at it for a moment. “That’s probably not coming out.”

“You’re single-handedly redecorating the entire building for Christmas,” I say, looking at the trail of silver she’s left everywhere. “Though the cleaning staff might not appreciate your artistic vision.”

“Speaking of Christmas... I need a Christmas tree,” she says suddenly, looking around the stark kitchen. “Not one of those designer monstrosities with the monochromatic ornaments. A real tree. With colored lights and mismatched ornaments.”

I set down my coffee mug. “Absolutely not.”

“Excuse me?”

“No real trees in the penthouse.” I keep my voice level, professional. “Pine needles get everywhere. They’re a fire hazard. The sap damages the floors. And the smell is overwhelming.”

“It’s Christmas.” She crosses her arms, her expression hardening. “This is my first Christmas away from my family, ever. I’ve never spent December without a tree, and I’m not starting now because you’re worried about your precious marble floors.”

Her voice wavers slightly on the wordfamily, and something in me softens despite myself. But I can’t afford to give in. Not when maintaining boundaries is already proving so difficult.

“You’re here to work, not decorate,” I remind her, my voice sharper than intended. “We have a deadline. Twenty-two days. A tree is a distraction we can’t afford.”

“A distraction?” Her eyes flash with indignation. “You thinkhaving some semblance of normalcy during the holidays is a distraction? Christmas has always been a big deal in my family, and I’m already missing enough traditions being stuck here. I need this one thing, Cole.”

The genuine emotion in her voice throws me. This isn’t just about decoration or holiday spirit. It’s about something deeper. Home. Family. The things I’ve spent years convincing myself I don’t need.

“Fine.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “The Rockefeller tree. Tonight. If you’re so desperate for Christmas spirit, I’ll take you to see the biggest damn tree in the city.”

She blinks, blindsided by my offer. “Are you serious?”

“Consider it research for your winter collection.” If I can’t stop her from bringing holiday chaos into my space, at least I can redirect it.

“Research,” she repeats skeptically. “For jewelry.”

“Light refraction on ice. Crystal formations. Winter aesthetics.” I maintain a cool, professional tone. “The collection is called Midnight Frost for a reason. You should see what you’re designing for.”

I reach out, brush a spot of silver from her cheek, withdrawing my hand quickly when I realize what I’ve done. She tenses, that professional mask slipping back into place.

“Besides, we could both use some air that isn’t full of metal powder. I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven.”

“Seven,” she repeats. “For research.”

“Seven,” I repeat, enjoying the way she’s fighting a smile now. “Try not to get lost on your way to your front door. And Sloane? We’ll revisit the production schedule tomorrow. I expect to see progress on the frost bracelet by then.”

Her smile fades slightly. “We’ll see.”

Back in my office, I pull up the security feeds one last time. Sloane’s back in her studio, still humming, still trailing glitterwherever she goes. She moves between projects with a focused grace that I’ve watched for hours through these cameras. Each piece she touches becomes something darker and more compelling than the last.

She picks up the design specifications for the frost bracelet, studies them for a moment, then deliberately sets them aside. I watch as she returns to the necklace components instead, her jaw set in quiet defiance. My fingers tighten around my pen.