Chapter Thirteen Cole
I ’ve watched the studio footage so many times the time stamp is burned into my retinas.
Not just replaying last night in my head—I’m not that far gone.
Just the moments before. The way she looked at me when she realized what kind of piece she’d created.
How her fingers traced those chains. The slight tremor in her hands when I asked her to put it on.
Instead, I’m remembering the shift that happened the moment we stepped into the penthouse. In Switzerland, there had been moments—the sleigh ride under the stars where I’d glimpsed the real Sloane. But the second we returned to New York, those walls came up. Professional. Distant. Polite.
I’ve seen her body language change whenever I enter the room—spine straightening, expression cooling, voice shifting to that carefully neutral tone.
Even last night when we were working together, each time I moved too close, she’d find a reason to step away.
Always maintaining that careful distance.
Until she didn’t.
Something had cracked in that moment with the necklace. I saw it in her eyes when our fingers brushed, felt it in the sudden catch of her breath. For a heartbeat, those walls came down.
The intercom buzzes. Knox.
“Your girl’s been in the studio since five a.m.”
“She’s not my—” I stop myself. I check the time—7:30. “Why didn’t you alert me earlier?”
“Because watching her dance to Mariah Carey while measuring silver powder is the most entertainment I’ve had on night shift in months.” A pause. “She’s on her third coffee. Probably needs intervention before she hits four.”
I pull up the studio feed. Sloane’s in silk pajamas, hair piled messily on top of her head, and she’s covered in metallic powder.
Every surface she touches sparkles with metallic traces.
The dancing has stopped, but she’s still humming—“All I Want for Christmas Is You” on endless repeat—while she measures something with intense concentration.
I’ve memorized every detail of her workspace by now, but seeing it transformed by her chaos still gives me pause.
I check my watch, frowning. She should be working on the frost series bracelet by now, according to the schedule I’d laid out. Instead, she’s jumped ahead to the necklace components, completely disregarding the production timeline I’d carefully crafted.
“I’ll handle it,” I tell Knox, already standing.
Ten minutes later, I’m dressed in a charcoal cashmere sweater that fits exactly how I want it to—just tight enough to draw her attention without being obvious about it. My plan is to casually get coffee at exactly the same time—
“Oh shit!”
Sloane spins around, nearly dropping her empty mug. She’s even more of a mess up close—the metallic powder has gotten everywhere, in her hair, on her face, coating her hands. She looks like she rolled in stardust.
“I was just...” She waves the mug vaguely, leaving a sparkly print on its handle. “Coffee. Need coffee. Words better after coffee.”
I want to reach out and touch her, to see if the silver dust feels as soft as it looks on her skin. But she’s tense now; her eyes keep darting to the cameras.
“If you’re wondering about...” She gestures to herself, shimmering particles cascading from her sleeve.
“I’m trying this new technique with atomized metal.
Don’t worry, it’s not toxic. It’s a specialized formulation with polymer coating that makes it safe to handle.
The piece needed this specific texture, but it’s so fine it gets everywhere.
And I mean everywhere. Pretty sure I’m going to be finding it in my hair until New Year’s. ”
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 next moment 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 word family , 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 think having 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 glitter wherever 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.
I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want her.
I’ve built my life on control, on keeping everyone at a safe distance.
But watching her dance around her workspace, scattering metallic particles like snow, humming Christmas carols off-key.
.. She’s already made herself at home in my head.
Now she’s making herself at home in my space, leaving her marks everywhere she goes.
And for the first time in my life, someone is challenging my carefully constructed order.
It’s infuriating. Fascinating. Mesmerizing.
I’ve always known exactly how to control every variable, how to bend people and situations to my will. But Sloane Whitmore refuses to be controlled. And god help me, that might be exactly why I want her.