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)
“So, I got an interesting email,” I say, remembering the message I’d received earlier. “You remember Maya, right?”
“Your old assistant?”
“She quit Moth to the Flame. Got some mysterious new opportunity.” I show Chloe the message.
“No way!” Chloe’s eyes widen as she reads. “Good for her. First you, now Maya . . . Jasmine must be losing her mind.”
“Right? I feel kind of bad, but also proud of her for taking the leap.”
“Any idea where she’s going?” Chloe asks, handing my phone back.
“No clue. She’s being super secretive about it.”
Chloe leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know what I heard from Darren at that Christmas party last weekend? Apparently, Moth to the Flame is in serious financial trouble. Like, might-not-make-it-to-next-quarter trouble.”
“What? No way. They just opened that new showroom in Soho.”
“Yeah, and according to Darren, they way overextended. Plus, Jasmine’s been making some questionable investments. The place is hemorrhaging talent. First you, now Maya.”
“Wow,” I say, processing this news. “I had no idea it was that bad. Maya got out just in time too.” I pause and shake my head. “Are you sure it’s not just a rumor? I can’t see Jasmine having any money issues.”
“What’s that saying that if there is smoke, then there’s a fire,” Chloe muses, stirring the remains of her drink. “Or something like that. You might have jumped ship at exactly the right time.”
I glance at my phone and wince at the time. “Speaking of my own escape, I should get back. This collection isn’t going to design itself, and I’m sure Cole’s expecting progress by tonight.”
“Of course.” Chloe stands to hug me goodbye. “And Sloane? Be careful, okay? Not just with Cole, but”—she waves her hand vaguely—“all of it.”
I squeeze her tight, grateful for her concern even though I can’t explain exactly what she should be concerned about. “I will. Promise.”
As I head for the door, she calls after me: “And text me if he turns out to be a serial killer!”
I wave without turning, my thoughts already drifting back to the penthouse, to the designs waiting to take shape under my hands.
Chapter Twelve Sloane
I’ve been at the workbench for hours, completely lost in the process. I set another tiny pavé diamond in place, fingers working from muscle memory as I complete the curved edge of what will become a statement cuff. The torch flame hisses softly as I solder another connection, the metal glowing red before cooling to silver again. I barely notice my stiff shoulders or the hunger pangs until a knock at the door finally breaks my concentration.
I set down my tools and stretch, checking the time. Wow—almost six hours without a break. No wonder my back feels like concrete.
I open the front door expecting one of the security guards or staff, but am surprised to see a small package waiting for me.
When I open the velvet-lined cases, my hands start to shake. Inside are pieces I’ve only seen in museum catalogs—actual historic jewels I’ve studied for years.
A Panthère de Cartier bracelet from the 1940s. The iconic Van Cleef & Arpels Mystery Set ruby necklace. A vintage Harry Winston diamond suite that I’m almost afraid to touch.
Cole’s note is simple: For inspiration. Handle them as much as you like. They’re insured.
My fingers trace the Panthère’s articulated spine, marveling at the engineering. Each piece represents a milestone in jewelry design—innovations that changed what we thought possible with metal and stone. The Mystery Set alone revolutionized how we work with precious gems. The fact that Cole knew exactly which pieces would speak to me, would inspire me . . . I don’t know whether to be impressed or unnerved. How deeply has he studied my work, my influences, my aspirations?
The enormity of my deadline crashes over me. New Year’s Eve is only three weeks away. Thank god I’ve spent the last two years secretly designing most of this collection in my spare time, sketches hidden in portfolios and notebooks scattered around my apartment and stuffed in office drawers. I have the designs—the concepts, the sketches, the measurements—but translating them into actual pieces, perfecting each mechanism and setting? That’s the real challenge now.
No pressure or anything. Just create something worthy of sitting next to actual museum pieces while my three camera friends document every time I chew my pencil or have an existential crisis. My hand flies across the paper anyway, because apparently being watched like a reality show contestant is great for productivity. Who knew? The ideas are coming so fast I can barely get them down, each one a little bolder than the last. Cole wants a show? Fine. I’ll give him one worth watching.
Hours blur together. The light outside fades to darkness. I’m deep in concentration, working out the intricate mechanism of the heart-shaped lock, when a soft knock interrupts my focus.