He Knows When You’re Awake (Naughty or Nice #2)

Chapter One Cole

T hree months of watching her every move, and she still manages to surprise me.

I leave my scotch untouched on top of quarterly reports, watching the security feed from Moth to the Flame instead. The image quality is shit, but it’s enough.

From my penthouse office, it’s possible to see half of Manhattan.

But I’m focused on the wall of screens, their glow reflecting off the mahogany panels and marble floor.

I built this room to keep tabs on my investments.

Not just the jewelry lines that made the Asher name synonymous with luxury, but the entire portfolio.

The chain of five-star hotels stretching from New York to Dubai, the private airline that caters to the ultra-wealthy, and the three exclusive members-only clubs in the most influential cities in the world.

I’ve transformed my modest jewelry business into a luxury lifestyle empire.

Now I spend most of my time watching one jewelry designer work.

“Another female entrepreneur gets screwed by the banking system.” Knox drops an iPad on my desk, helping himself to my scotch.

The Chase Bank rejection letter glows on the screen—standard corporate bullshit about risk factors and lack of collateral.

“That’s the third one this week. Though I gotta say, this one’s different from our usual finds. ”

He’s right. I started monitoring loan rejections from major banks after noticing a pattern—brilliant women with innovative ideas getting shut down by old, outdated men too stupid to see past their own biases. It became almost a hobby, finding these diamonds in the rough, proving the banks wrong.

But Sloane... Sloane Whitmore was something else entirely.

Her long crimson hair is always the first thing I notice, falling past her shoulders when she lets it down.

Today it’s pulled back in that neat bun she wears at work, revealing the delicate curve of her neck, the subtle arch of her brows over those piercing green eyes.

Even in her carefully curated wardrobe—tailored black blazers, high-waisted trousers, and those impossibly high heels she navigates Manhattan in—there’s an elegance to her movements, a quiet confidence that commands attention.

Pure New York sophistication with an edge that matches her designs.

“Tell me about Julian’s plans again,” I say, not taking my eyes off the feed. “His supposed ‘luxury line’ launch date.”

Knox flips through documents on his iPad.

“Still set for February. Using those mysterious ‘newly discovered designs’ of Claire’s he’s been teasing.

Industry insiders are already calling it the event of the season.

” He pauses, scrolling further. “He’s been meeting with Bergdorf and Neiman Marcus.

Word is he’s promising them exclusive rights to certain pieces.

And I heard he’s secured rare colored diamonds from South Africa. ”

I feel my jaw tighten. Claire. Even now, five years later, the thought of how Julian exploited her talent, how he plans to continue exploiting her name after her “accident”—it makes my blood boil.

“And our timeline?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on strategy rather than rage.

“If Whitmore says yes, and if she works at the pace her portfolio suggests she can... We beat him to market by two weeks. Just enough time to steal all his thunder and expose his ‘Claire collection’ for the fraud it is.”

“Run her numbers again.”

Knox snorts. “You’ve got them memorized.”

“Humor me.”

He flicks through the file on his iPad. The security feed shows Sloane at her desk, lost in her work. Even with Moth to the Flame’s garbage cameras, I can see the moment inspiration hits.

“All right,” Knox says. “Graduated top of her class at Parsons. Sells more than anyone else at her level but keeps getting passed over. Went to Moth to the Flame thinking she could push their look.” He looks up from the iPad.

“But they’ve got her making the same cookie-cutter crap as everyone else.

” A pause. “You know, this is usually where you tell me how you’re going to prove the bank wrong. But that’s not what this is, is it?”

I pull up her latest design. “Take a look.”

“Jesus.” Knox leans in. The necklace on-screen is all sharp angles and fractured metal. “It’s not your average necklace. I’ll give you that.”

“This is what they’re too stupid to understand.” I zoom in on the detail work. “Everything else this company makes belongs on a grandmother.”

“And Chase won’t touch it.” Knox hands me a drink and tops off his own. He’s been with me through enough deals to know where this is going. “Bet that just makes you want it more.”

I just raise an eyebrow. Knox knows me too well for lies.

“There’s more than just profit riding on this investment,” I say, studying the lines of her newest sketch. “If Sloane’s designs are as revolutionary as I think they are, they’ll completely overshadow anything Julian launches.”

“And that’s why we’re keeping this so quiet?” Knox asks. “The confidentiality agreements, the security protocols?”

“Julian has sources everywhere. If he gets wind that I’m backing a competing line—”

“He’d do what he always does,” Knox finishes. “Find a way to destroy it before it begins.”

“Their loss.” I turn back to the screens. “Banks keep making the same mistakes. Makes my job easier.”

“Sure.” Knox’s voice is dry. “That’s why you hacked every camera in the building. The camera in her apartment building, and her computer. Because it makes your job easier.”

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.