Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
This Christmas, it’s all about getting what you really want in this dark billionaire stalker romance sequel to He Sees You When You’re Sleeping.
Stalking in a winter wonderland...
Jewelry designer Sloane dreams of launching her own custom line—but she needs a Christmas miracle to pull it off. With traditional banks turning her down left and right, she can’t resist when a mysterious stranger offers her a lifeline.
I see what she creates in those stolen moments when she thinks no one’s watching. I see everything. There's a darkness at her core and I will unravel her until I find it.
Reclusive billionaire Cole Asher offers to fly Sloane out to an ultra-luxurious Swiss resort for a meeting. Reluctantly, she agrees—only to realize she’s met him once before in a New York bar.
She is crucial to my plans, and I need her close. She insists that we keep things professional, and I comply. But soon she will realize that every line is blurred when it comes to her and me.
Cole offers to back her company—but there’s a cost. To secure his investment, Sloane must move into his Manhattan penthouse, where she’ll complete her first round of designs for him to review before Christmas.
Sloane throws herself into her work, yet soon the attraction between her and Cole becomes undeniable. As the city sparkles with Christmas splendor from her penthouse view, Sloane wonders if she has stepped into a fairy tale—until Cole's powerful enemies close in. They will stop at nothing to destroy him, including going after the woman he loves.
I will burn down the world to get her back...and it will be in time for Christmas
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One Cole
Three 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.”