He Sees You When You’re Sleeping: A Dark and Steamy Holiday Romance of Obsession and Secrets – Where Desire Meets Danger in the Heart of NYC

Taking the ferry from St. George to Manhattan, I lean against the railing as the salty breeze whips through my hair. I should go inside as it’s butt cold, but there’s something about the view of the wall of glass and steel ahead of me that mentally prepares me for my meetings at Moth to the Flame Designs. I have to go through the steps of my hype game one more time. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

I am a creative powerhouse.

My ideas are fresh and innovative.

I wouldn’t have been asked to be their brand ambassador if I didn’t have the something something.

I’ve got this.

I only come into the office a couple times a week to pick up the jewelry they want me to showcase and attend a few meetings. You’d think I’d get used to it, but I always feel so out of my league when I walk into the building and face the sleek, polished interior and the impeccably dressed employees. But this is where I’ll be expected to dazzle them with my social media prowess and convince them I’m worth every penny of my admittedly generous contract.

I straighten my secondhand blazer—although vintage and, in my opinion, trendy—and try to channel the confidence I mustered on the ferry. The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor feels endless, my stomach doing somersaults as I ascend.

As the doors open, I’m greeted by the familiar scent of leather and expensive perfume. I paste on my best influencer smile and strut toward the reception desk, my knock-off heels clacking on the marble floor.

“Good morning, Chloe,” the receptionist chirps, her perfect teeth gleaming. “Sloane is waiting for you in the showroom.”

“Thanks, Marissa,” I reply, trying to match her enthusiasm.

The showroom door looms before me, and I take one last deep breath before pushing it open. The room is bathed in soft, flattering light that makes every piece of jewelry sparkle like stars.

Sloane, one of the designers, and someone I truly consider a friend, stands in the center of the room, her red hair swept into an elegant updo. She turns to me with a smile. “We have such great new pieces for the holidays. Wait until you see these.”

As I approach Sloane, my eyes are immediately drawn to the dazzling array of jewelry spread out on the velvet-lined trays before her. Delicate gold chains adorned with shimmering crystals, bold statement pieces in vibrant gemstones, and intricately designed rings that catch the light from every angle. Though Moth to the Flame is known for affordable “costume jewelry” the pieces are always elegant and have a level of class that blows me away. It’s a treasure trove of beauty, and for a moment, I forget my insecurities.

“Oh my god, Sloane,” I breathe, my eyes widening as I take in the stunning collection. “These are absolutely gorgeous.”

Sloane beams, her pride evident in her sparkling eyes. “I knew you’d love them. This season, we’re really focusing on versatility and timeless elegance with a modern twist.”

She picks up a delicate necklace, a teardrop-shaped moonstone pendant suspended from a fine gold chain. “This piece, for example, can be worn as a simple pendant or,” she deftly manipulates the chain, “converted into a lariat style for a more dramatic look.”

I nod, already envisioning the perfect way to showcase this adaptable piece. “That’s brilliant. My followers will go crazy for the two-in-one aspect.”

As Sloane continues to show me the collection, my initial nervousness fades away, replaced by genuine excitement. This is why I love what I do—the buzz of discovering new, beautiful things and sharing them with the world. My mind is already racing with ideas for photoshoots and video concepts to showcase these pieces.

“And here’s the pièce de résistance,” Sloane says, a mischievous glint in her eye. She reaches behind her and produces a velvet box, opening it with a flourish.

Inside lies a pair of earrings that take my breath away. They’re chandelier-style, cascading with tiny, iridescent opals that catch the light and throw rainbows across the room. The design is intricate yet modern, a perfect balance of elegance and edge.

Opals were my mother’s birthstone and her favorite.

“My mom would have adored these,” I say, more to myself than to Sloane.

“I remember your mom always loved opals,” Sloane says, her voice gentle. “That’s part of why I chose this stone when I designed this piece. In memory of her great taste.”

“Sloane . . .” I swallow back my emotion. “These are definitely going to be the star of the holiday collection,” I say, my voice stronger now, infused with newfound confidence. “I have so many ideas for how to showcase them.”

Sloane grins, clearly pleased with my reaction. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Your creativity never ceases to amaze me.”

As we continue to discuss the collection and brainstorm ideas for the upcoming social media campaign, my earlier doubts melt away. Yes, I may not fit the mold of the typical high-fashion influencer, but that’s precisely what makes me valuable. My unique perspective and ability to connect with a diverse audience are why Moth to the Flame chose me.

By the time we wrap up our meeting, my mind is buzzing with excitement and inspiration. I carefully pack up the samples I’ll be using for my content creation.

“We need to get drinks soon,” she says. “I’ve been so busy, but I’ve missed seeing you outside of work.”

“Absolutely,” I agree, feeling a warmth spread through me at the invitation. “Maybe next week? I’ll text you.”

As I make my way back to the elevator, there’s a newfound spring in my step. The insecurity that plagued me earlier has been replaced by a sense of purpose and belonging.

“Chloe!” I hear call from behind me.

Sigh . . . Tyler . . .This material belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

I turn reluctantly, plastering on a polite smile as Tyler, the Marketing VP, hurries toward me. His perfectly coiffed hair doesn’t move an inch as he jogs up, flashing me a toothy grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Glad I caught you,” he says, slightly out of breath. “I wanted to chat about your last Instagram post. The engagement was good, but I think we could push it even further.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Tyler, with his business degree and penchant for corporate jargon, always seems to think he knows better than me when it comes to social media strategy.

“Oh?” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “What did you have in mind?”

He launches into a convoluted explanation about hashtag strategies and optimal posting times, peppering his speech with phrases like “synergistic approach” and “vertical integration.” I nod along, mentally counting down the seconds until I can escape.

“. . . and if we leverage your personal brand more aggressively, we could see a significant uptick in conversions,” he finishes, looking at me expectantly.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Tyler, despite his annoying demeanor, is technically my superior. “Those are some interesting ideas, Tyler. I’ll definitely take them into consideration for my next post.”

He beams, clearly pleased with himself. “Great! I knew you’d see it my way. Oh, and one more thing, on a personal note—”

But before he can continue, the elevator doors open with a soft ding. I’ve never been so grateful for an interruption in my life.

“Sorry, Tyler, I’ve got to run. I have a shoot scheduled this afternoon,” I say, backing into the elevator. “I’ll email you my content plan for next week, okay?”

He opens his mouth to protest, but I’m already jabbing the Close Door button. As the doors slide shut, cutting off his disappointed expression, I let out a sigh of relief.

The elevator descends, and I lean against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment. The contrast between my interactions with Sloane and Tyler couldn’t be starker.

I hail a cab to head to my next appointment—a photoshoot in for a small, up-and-coming jewelry designer. As we crawl through the midday traffic, I find myself comparing the two brands in my mind.

Moth to the Flame, with its sleek offices and corporate structure, offers stability and prestige. But there’s something exciting about working with smaller, independent designers for my other . . . side project. I have another account that is very much . . . well . . . me. It’s a delicate balance, maintaining relationships for both accounts while staying true to my own style and values.

The cab drops me off in front of a converted warehouse in Bushwick. The brick exterior is covered in vibrant murals, a complete opposite to the polished marble of Moth to the Flame’s headquarters. I take a deep breath, centering myself before I step inside.

The interior is a creative chaos of workbenches, tools, and half-finished pieces. The air is thick with the scent of metal and resin. I spot Hailey, the sole designer, hunched over a workbench, her dark curls wild and untamed.

“Chloe!” she exclaims when she sees me, her face lighting up. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve finished the final pieces for the collection.”

As I approach, I marvel at the intricate designs spread out before her. Where Moth to the Flame’s jewelry is rich and decadent, Hailey’s work is darker and edgier. Each piece tells a story, from the rough-hewn silver cuffs embedded with uncut gemstones to the delicate wire sculptures that look like they might take flight at any moment.

“These are incredible, Hail,” I breathe, running my fingers over a necklace that looks like it was woven from moonbeams and stardust. “Your work keeps getting better and better.”

I hate to admit it, because I truly do love Sloane and her designs, but Hailey’s jewelry is much more my style. It’s gothic in nature. Collars, chokers, metal and raw. It’s a blend of BDSM club and Victorian elegance that speaks to my soul in a way Moth to the Flame’s more mainstream pieces never quite manage. Her jewelry feeds the alter ego inside of me. It fuels the “Chlo” as I like to call her.

“Thanks. I really poured my heart into this collection. It’s inspired by ancient myths and legends—you know, the dark, twisted ones that nobody talks about anymore.”

I nod, understanding completely. Hailey has always been drawn to the shadows, finding beauty in the things most people overlook or shy away from. It’s one of the reasons we clicked when we first met at an underground art show two years ago.

“So, are you ready to channel your inner dark goddess for the shoot?” Hailey asks, wiggling her eyebrows mischievously. “Dark, gothic Christmas?”

I grin, feeling a surge of excitement. “You know I am. Let’s bring out Chlo.”

Hailey claps her hands together. “Yes! I’ve got the perfect backdrop set up in the back room. It’s all black velvet and twinkling lights—like a starry night sky.”

As we move to the makeshift studio, I start to shed my professional persona. I change into my favorite little black dress, fishnets, and sexy black pumps. Gone is the polished influencer in her secondhand blazer and knock-off heels. In her place emerges Chlo—edgy, daring, and unapologetically herself.

Hailey helps me into the first piece—an intricate silver collar adorned with black opals and razor-thin chains that drape across my collarbone. It’s heavy and cold against my skin, but it feels right. Like armor.

“You look fierce,” Hailey says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Like some kind of warrior queen from another dimension.”

I turn to the full-length mirror and barely recognize myself. My eyes seem darker, my cheekbones sharper. The collar transforms me, bringing out a side of myself I usually keep hidden.

“All right, Chlo,” I whisper to my reflection. “Time to shine.”

The photoshoot flies by in a blur of flashing lights and costume changes. Each piece Hailey puts on me feels like it’s unlocking a different facet of my personality. The moonbeam necklace makes me feel ethereal and mysterious. The rough-hewn cuffs make me feel powerful and untamed.

As we wrap up the final shots, I feel a twinge of regret. I don’t want to take off these pieces and go back to being regular Chloe.

“You know,” Hailey says, as if reading my thoughts, “you could keep that look if you wanted. The world could use a little more Chlo.”

I laugh, but there’s a part of me that’s tempted. “Maybe someday. For now, I think Chloe needs to stay in charge.”

As I change back into my work clothes, I wonder what Tyler or Sloane would think if they saw me dressed like a dark vixen rather than the sweet girl next door. Would they even recognize me? Would they understand this part of me?

I say goodbye to Hailey with a promise to have the edited photos to her by the end of the week. As I step out into the fading afternoon light, it’s like I’m straddling two worlds—the sleek, corporate world of Moth to the Flame Designs, and the raw, creative chaos of independent designers like Hailey.

For now, I need to find a way to balance both. But someday, I think, Chlo might be ready to step into the spotlight.

As I walk toward the subway station, my mind is still reeling from the contrast of my day. The weight of Moth to the Flame’s elegant pieces in my bag seems to pull me in one direction, while the lingering sensation of Hailey’s edgy creations tugs me in another. I’m split, torn between two versions of myself.

The subway car is crowded, and I find myself wedged between a suited businessman and a tattooed artist type. It feels oddly fitting, given my current state of mind. As the train lurches forward, I close my eyes and let the rhythmic rumbling settle my thoughts.

When I finally reach my stop in Manhattan and emerge onto the street, I fish out my phone with one more task for the day while I wait for the next ferry home. I call my landlord to complain about him shoveling my walkway but failing to shovel Mr. Haven’s.

I dial the familiar number, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. My landlord, Mr. Grayson, picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?” His gruff voice comes through the speaker.

“Hi, Mr. Grayson. It’s Chloe Hallman from 1004 Brennan,” I say, trying to keep my tone light and friendly. I also am not sure if he’ll remember who I am. It was my parents who were long time tenants of him, and I merely took over the lease—the very expensive lease—when they passed.

“Ah, Chloe. What can I do for you?”

I take a deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you about the snow-shoveling situation. I noticed that you cleared my walkway, which I appreciate, but Mr. Haven’s wasn’t done. I’m a bit concerned about him.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Shoveling?”

“Yes, that’s right. He’s in his eighties, and I worry about him trying to navigate an unshoveled path. He fell and—”

“Look, Chloe, I can’t be responsible for every tenant’s walkway. Nowhere does it say in your lease that I provide snow removal.”

I feel a flicker of annoyance. The Chloe from this morning might have backed down, but I can feel a bit of Chlo’s fire in my veins.

“I understand that, but Mr. Haven is elderly. It’s a safety issue. And since you did mine—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t provide snow removal. At all.”

I pause, confused. “But . . . my walkway was cleared. In fact, it’s rarely not cleared. I assumed you had done it.”

Mr. Grayson sighs heavily on the other end of the line. “Listen, kid. I don’t know who cleared your walkway, but it wasn’t me or any of my people. Maybe you’ve got a secret admirer or something.”

Mr. Haven had already said as much, and yet my mind races, trying to make sense of this new information.

“I . . . I see,” I stammer. “Well, I apologize for the misunderstanding. But is there any chance you could arrange for Mr. Haven’s walkway to be cleared? I’m really worried about him.”

“Not my problem,” Mr. Grayson grunts. “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you do it yourself?”

Before I can respond, he hangs up. I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling a mix of frustration and bewilderment.

As I lower my phone, a chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. Who has been shoveling my walkway all this time? And why?