Chapter Thirty-Four Cole
S loane’s been living in her studio lately, consumed by this collection. The security feeds show her working until dawn most nights, though she thinks I don’t know. I’ve been working long days as well, but all I want to do now is be tangled in her arms with our puppy at our sides.
Knox meets me in the parking garage. “She’s been pacing for the last hour,” he says as we step into the private elevator. “Whatever she’s finished, it must be good.”
The elevator opens directly into our penthouse, and I hear music drifting from the direction of her studio.
Following the sound, I find her in her workspace, surrounded by scattered sketches and tools.
Her hair is pulled back messily, and there are dark smudges under her eyes from too many late nights.
Havoc dozes in his bed in the corner, having learned that the studio means “quiet time.”
“Look.” She lifts a piece from her workbench.
The crown seems to capture moonlight, black diamonds set in darkened platinum. No excess ornamentation, just pure, clean lines that draw the eye.
“This is the centerpiece?” I ask, though I already know. I’ve watched her work on it through the security feeds, seen her obsession grow with each passing night.
“Try to tell me this isn’t exactly what the collection needed.” Her eyes sparkle with pride and exhaustion.
She sets the crown down carefully, her hands trembling slightly. For a moment, she just stares at it. Then I see the tears forming in her eyes.
“It’s done,” she whispers, like she can hardly believe it.
Her voice gets stronger. “Cole, it’s done.
The collection is truly and finally done!
” She lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob.
“Hailey just left after finishing the final bracelet, and now with the crown...” She spins in a circle, gesturing at the pieces arranged around her studio.
“I’ve been working toward this for so long, I almost can’t believe it’s real. ”
She stops spinning, bracing herself against her workbench. “When you gave me that deadline, I thought you were actually insane. One month for an entire collection? But I did it.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I actually did it.”
“I never doubted you would.” I move closer, brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’ve exceeded every expectation I had, and trust me, they were high.”
“Holy shit.” She looks around her studio again, like she’s seeing it with new eyes. “Now what?”
“Now,” I say, pulling out my phone, “you need to eat actual food. And leave the penthouse for the first time in what, three days?”
I send a message to Gloria Ashworth. She’d turned down three billionaires this week alone, but she still keeps a table for me at her restaurant.
Twenty years of running the most exclusive supper club in the city has made her particularly skilled at knowing which of her wealthy patrons actually matter.
“Has it been three days?” She glances down at herself, at the work apron covered in metal dust. “Oh god.”
“Go get changed,” I tell her, nodding toward her bedroom. “Dinner reservations at eight.”
She looks up, finally seeming to notice how long she’s been in the studio. “I probably look like a disaster.”
“You look like an artist.” But I can see the fatigue around her eyes, the way she’s been running on nothing but creative energy for days. “Take a break. Celebrate.”
Two hours later, Knox drives us to an unmarked door in the Financial District.
Gloria’s is the type of place that doesn’t officially exist unless you know the right people.
Sloane’s black dress makes the diamond studs in her ears stand out like ice as we step into the private entrance.
The exhaustion from earlier is gone—she looks energized, ready to celebrate.
The ma?tre d’ recognizes me immediately, guiding us through a dark wood-paneled corridor into the main dining room.
The space feels more like a private manor than a restaurant—all coffered ceilings and vintage crystal chandeliers casting warm light over intimate alcoves.
Each table is separated by strategic distance and clever architectural details, ensuring absolute privacy.
The room holds perhaps twelve tables total, though you’d never see them all at once.
Gloria has preserved the building’s prewar details—the original herringbone floors, hand-carved moldings, brass fixtures that have aged to a perfect patina.
But she’s modernized in subtle ways: temperature-controlled wine walls behind antique glass, state-of-the-art kitchen equipment glimpsed through discrete pass-throughs, lighting that makes everyone look ten years younger.
My preferred alcove is ready, with its leather banquette and views of both the room and the city lights beyond the centuries-old windows. A bottle of champagne is already breathing in an antique silver bucket.
“I didn’t even know places like this existed,” Sloane whispers as we’re seated, her fingers trailing over the leather upholstery. “How did you find it?”
“You don’t find Gloria’s,” I tell her, watching her take in every detail with wide eyes. “Gloria finds you.”
She studies the room, then leans closer. “That’s the CEO of Richmond Tech at the corner table, isn’t it? And I swear I just saw Senator Matthews walk by.”
“The interesting ones are the people you don’t recognize,” I say, nodding toward a quiet man in the far alcove whose hedge fund could buy Richmond Tech ten times over. “The ones who prefer to stay out of the spotlight.”
The sommelier pours our wine, and Sloane immediately relaxes into the evening, the tension of the past month melting away. Between bites of her scallop appetizer, she can’t stop talking about the crown.
“You should have seen Hailey’s face when we tried the new setting technique.
” Her eyes light up. “Everyone said black diamonds were too risky at that size, that they’d shatter, but—” She leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a trade secret.
“We found a way to distribute the pressure points so perfectly that—”
She breaks off as our entrées arrive, the waiter setting down her duck with a flourish. I’ve never seen her this animated, this proud of solving what everyone said was impossible.
She breaks off as voices from the next alcove grow louder, cutting through the usual quiet murmur of the room.
“—completely unexpected. The whole company.”
“Moth to the Flame? I thought they were stable.”
“Complete collapse. Bankruptcy filing this afternoon. My broker called to warn me to dump the stock, but it was already too late.”
Sloane’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth as the conversation from the next alcove registers. She sets it down slowly. “Did they just say Moth to the Flame filed for bankruptcy?”
I meet her eyes. “I heard about it this afternoon.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Tonight was about celebrating you. Your collection. Your achievement.” I lean back, studying her reaction. “I was going to tell you tomorrow.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing. Then she grabs her phone and starts typing rapidly.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, though her intense focus tells me she’s already forming plans.
“Marcus.” Her fingers keep moving across the screen. “And Sarah. The whole platinum workshop team, really. They’re artists, Cole. The best I’ve ever worked with, and now they’ll be scattered to whatever corporate jewelry chain will take them.”
I watch her add another name to her list. “You want to hire them.”
“I want—” She looks up suddenly, eyes bright with possibility. “I want to build something real. Not just my private studio but a proper workshop. A place that values craft over quarterly profits. Where talented people can actually create, not just churn out whatever tests well in focus groups.”
Watching her plan her next venture over a plate of duck confit at Gloria’s feels exactly right. She’s always ten steps ahead, seeing possibilities where others only see rubble.
“I have real estate holdings that might interest you,” I say casually. “A few historic buildings with good natural light.”
She pauses mid-bite, eyes narrowing. “How long have you been waiting to mention these buildings?”
“About thirty seconds.” I take a sip of wine. “Though there might be some equipment from a recent acquisition that could be useful too.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Are you trying to be my angel investor, Mr. Asher?”
“I know a good investment when I see one.” I meet her gaze. “And you’ve more than proven your return potential.”
She traces the rim of her wineglass, and I catch a flicker of something in her expression. “If the collection is a hit.” Her voice is quieter now. “The reveal is in nine days and—”
“Stop.” I lean forward. “I’ve watched women’s faces when they try on your pieces. That crown alone...” I shake my head. “Every woman who sees this collection is going to want to wear it. Not just own it—wear it. Make it part of who they are.”
The confidence returns to her eyes, along with something fiercer. She picks up her wineglass again, a slight smile playing at her lips.
“You know,” she says, setting the glass down again, “for all their faults, Moth to the Flame had some incredibly talented people. I can’t save everyone’s job, but.
..” She starts counting on her fingers.
“Marcus’s metalwork, Sarah’s stone setting, Jenna in procurement who somehow found the impossible.
..” She stops suddenly. “Oh god, Chloe. I need to text her. Moth to the Flame was her biggest contract. All those sponsored posts, the events—”
“Chloe,” I say, “is about to be very busy as the face of your collection. And as for the others...” I gesture to her phone. “Make your list. Anyone you vouch for, I’ll make sure they land somewhere. If not with your new venture, then with one of my subsidiaries.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. Talent is talent, and I trust your judgment.”
The waiter clears our dinner plates and presents the dessert menu. Sloane’s been quieter for the last few minutes, turning her wineglass by the stem.
“So,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”
I look up from the menu. In the whirlwind of the past month—her moving into the penthouse, getting Havoc, decorating that ridiculous tree—we somehow never discussed our first Christmas.
“Your mother’s still upset you’re not going to Montauk?” I ask, though I already know the answer from the heated phone calls I’ve overheard.
“She’ll survive.” Sloane takes a sip of wine. “I told her I’m not spending Christmas watching her drink too much wine and make passive-aggressive comments about my life choices.”
“And what are those life choices?” I set down the menu.
“Getting your CEO to buy a crooked Christmas tree? Letting a puppy chew up my Italian leather shoes? Or is it the part where you’re building an empire while your mother thinks you should be in Montauk drinking white wine and discussing tennis lessons? ”
“The shoes were Havoc’s choice, not mine,” she says primly, but I can see her fighting a smile.
“All of the above.” She grins, but then it falters slightly. “We are spending tomorrow together, right? I mean, I just assumed, with the tree and everything...”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “I should warn you—I haven’t done a real Christmas since I was a kid. I might be terrible at it.”
“Good thing you have me then.” Her fingers lace through mine. “One month to master a jewelry collection, remember? I’m excellent at impossible tasks.”
Looking at her across the table in the warm light of Gloria’s, I see the woman who changed every plan I thought I had. Who made me want something more than just success.
First Christmas Eve. Then her empire. But tonight, we’re having dessert. And for the first time in my life, I’m not thinking about what comes next. I’m exactly where I want to be.