Page 134 of Sweet Nightmare

storms that sink ships.” — A

Another day, and I’m slowly losing my mind.

My phone still has no signal. No texts, no emails, not even a useless notification. Apparently, we have artificial intelligence and people in space, but nobody thought to invent a phone that could survive a historic snowstorm.

Unbelievable.

I’m Artemis Volpe. I have three private planes and enough money to make most problems disappear, yet I’m trapped in a mountain estate because South Korean weather has apparently decided I need character development.

I have enough character.

And I’m not interested in developing more against my will.

Thankfully, the estate still has power. So, that’s something.

Winter Storm Estate apparently has enough backup generators to keep a small city running through the arrival of the Four Horsemen.

Heat? Working. Hot water? Working. Lights? Working. Food? Abundant.

Everything except the things I actually want.

Wi-Fi and a functional phone signal.

Tragic.

I finish smoothing moisturizer over my face and stare at my reflection in the round vanity mirror surrounded by glowing bulbs.

I look like myself, though irritation still lingers in my expression no matter how hard I try to hide it.

My white-blonde hair is pulled into a sleek, high ponytail, every strand smoothed back from my face. I’m wearing no makeup beyond my lash extensions. My skin is otherwise bare.

Unfortunately, moisturizer does nothing for my mood.

With a heavy sigh, I glance toward the windows. Outside, the world still looks frozen in time, transformed into a winter kingdom straight out of a fairy tale.

Personally, I distrust fairy tales.

Nothing good ever happens to women in them. They’re cursed, kidnapped, poisoned, locked in filthy towers, put into enchanted sleep, or forced to marry idiots simply because they own a horse and have excellent hair.

No, thank you.

I’d rather die alone with my money. At least my money doesn’t sing or recite corny poems.

Having exhausted every possible way to test my upcoming skin care line, I rise and cross the room, pressing my palm against the cold glass.

I’ve been doing this a lot since arriving here. There’s something oddly satisfying about watching snowflakes drift toward the window and vanish beneath my hand, as if I can catch them without stepping outside.

Another sigh escapes me.

I’ve officially run out of things to do.

I’ve already finished the book I brought with me—seven hundred pages gone in one sitting. A catastrophic strategic error, considering I still have several more days of this captivity ahead of me.

I turn slowly, scanning the room for something, anything, to occupy my time.

Nothing comes to mind.

If I spend several more days trapped inside with nothing to do, my anxiety will only get worse. I need something to occupy my mind before I start reorganizing furniture just to convince my brain that I still have some control over my life.