Page 6 of He Knows When You're Awake

“Of course,” I assure her, though the thought of explaining my decision to my parents over the phone fills me with dread. They’ve never quite understood my passion for jewelry design, always pushing me toward more “practical” career paths.

“One more for the road?” Chloe asks, signaling the waitress.

I hesitate, glancing at my watch. It’s getting late, and I shouldprobably head home to start working on my resignation letter. But the warmth of the bar and Chloe’s company are comforting, a buffer against the uncertainty that awaits me.

“Sure,” I say, smiling. “One more.”

As the waitress brings our final round, I scan the bar one last time. No sign of Cole. I try to push away the disappointment, reminding myself that I have bigger things to focus on.

“To new beginnings,” Chloe says, raising her glass. “And to the soon-to-be-famous Sloane Whitmore, the Dark Rose of Manhattan.”

I laugh, clinking my glass against hers. “I think that nickname is growing on me.”

We finish our drinks, chatting about Chloe’s latest freelance gig and her plans with Jack for the holidays. As we gather our things to leave, I’m both relaxed from the booze and energized by the possibilities of what’s ahead.

Outside, the cold December air hits me like a slap, making me acutely aware of my still-damp sweater. I pull my coat tighter around me as Chloe hails a cab.

“Text me when you get home,” she says, hugging me tight. “And let me know if you need anything, okay? I mean it. Anything at all.”

I nod, grateful for her unwavering support. “I will. Thanks, Chlo. For everything.”

As her cab pulls away, I decide to walk for a bit, needing to clear my head before heading home. The streets of Manhattan are alive with holiday spirit—twinkling lights, the scent of roasted chestnuts, the faint sound of carols drifting from storefronts. The city is bustling with early holiday shoppers and tourists, and I weave my way through the crowds, my mind still preoccupied with thoughts of my resignation.

It all feels surreal, like I’m watching someone else’s life unfold.

But as I walk, something shifts inside me. Maybe it’s thefestive atmosphere or the sight of families bundled up and laughing together. Or maybe it’s just a moment of clarity brought on by Chloe’s words at the bar.

Either way, I find myself questioning my decision to leave my job without a backup plan.

Am I insane...?

Yes, my boss is difficult to work for and the company culture stifling, but it’s a steady paycheck and steady clients. My heart sinks as I realize that this may all be coming to an end. My dream of becoming a successful independent jeweler may not be as realistic as I had hoped.

I find myself stopping in front of a jewelry store window, drawn in by the glittering display. The pieces are beautiful but safe. Predictable. Nothing like the edgy, boundary-pushing designs I dream of creating.

“Is this really what you want?” I whisper to my reflection in the glass. The woman staring back at me looks uncertain, her ridiculous sweater a stark contrast to the polished luxury behind the glass.

But then I see something else in my reflection. A spark of determination in my eyes. I straighten my shoulders, lifting my chin. Yes, this is what I want. More than anything.

Chapter ThreeSloane

The morning after my drink with Chloe, I wake to find my reindeer sweater draped over my desk chair, still faintly smelling of expensive scotch. The events of last night flood back. The handsome stranger, the ruined suit, the way his eyes seemed to see right through me. I push the thoughts away. I have more important things to focus on today.

Like quitting my job.

My resignation email sits open on my laptop screen, cursor blinking accusingly at the end of a sentence I’ve rewritten twelve times. How do you politely tell your boss that their creative vision is suffocating yours?

My phone buzzes with a text from Chloe:Still going through with Operation Freedom? Need moral support?

I smile, typing back:No turning back now. Letter’s almost done.

Almostbeing a relative term. I’ve been staring at this same paragraph for an hour, trying to find the right words. Professional but firm. Grateful but determined. The kind of letter that won’t burn bridges but also won’t leave any doubt about why I’m leaving.

My tiny studio apartment feels even smaller this morning, cramped with the weight of this decision. Sketches and material samples cover every surface, the physical manifestation of dreams that have outgrown this space. A half-finished piece sits on myworkbench—another design that pushes the boundaries of what Moth to the Flame considers “marketable.”

The sun streaming through my window catches on a crystal I use to study light refraction, sending rainbow patterns dancing across my walls. It reminds me of that moment in Tonic, when Cole’s scotch caught the light just before disaster struck. I wonder what he—

No. Focus, Sloane.