Page 136 of Sweet Nightmare

Eventually, I reach a pair of enormous glass doors at the end of a dim, quiet hallway. They’re taller than I am, and somehow, I can’t see through them. How does something like this exist? I stop in front of them and lean closer, trying to understand the damn doors.

I glance down the empty hallway, half expecting someone to appear and tell me I’m not supposed to be here.

When no one does, I reach for the handle and push. The doors swing open without making a sound.

And for the third time since arriving here, I forget how to breathe.

“Oh.”

I’ve found heaven. Not a room with books. No.

A library. The kind of library that looks stolen from an old European manor and hidden inside Stephen’s modern mountain estate.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, stretching so high that I have to tilt my head back to see where they end. Thousands upon thousands of books fill them, their spines creating endless rows of color, texture, and silver and gold lettering beneath the warm glow of antique lamps. A sweeping glass staircase curves along one side, leading toward another level of shelves, while glass balconies overlook the space below.

There are books everywhere. On shelves, scattered across tables, stacked beside armchairs and even piled atop the fireplace, as if someone was reading several at once and forgotten to put them away.

Then there’s the glass ceiling. A. glass. Ceiling. I can see the moon and stars above me.

And in the center of the library, white plush armchairs surround low glass tables, creating the perfect reading nook.

Warmth creeps into my cheeks as I stand there, staring at everything in awe. I’m twenty-seven years old. An Olympic champion. A supermodel. A businesswoman. And yet, a room full of books has me looking like a child on Christmas morning.

It’s because I’ve always loved reading. Books never judge me or lie to me. Most importantly, they never ask intrusive questions when I want to be left alone. They make sense. Their worlds have rules, their endings have explanations, and even the villains usually have the decency to reveal their intentions. Unlike real life where people rarely offer the same courtesy.

I wander deeper into the library, trailing my fingers lightly along the shelves as I take in the collection. History. Art. Psychology. Science. Philosophy. Music. Poetry. Literature.

The more titles I notice, the more curious my expression becomes.

I pull out one novel, then another. Then a third.

A pattern begins to emerge. Most of these books are written by women. Not all, but enough that it’s impossible to miss. Novelists, poets, historians, scientists, journalists. Some are famous and others I’ve never heard of. Korean authors sit alongside American, French, Japanese, British, Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban and countless other writers.

I pull out a worn copy of a novel and open it, only to pause. The margins are covered in tiny handwriting. There are passages underlined in several places, notes squeezed between paragraphs, and corners folded down on pages that clearly mattered to whoever read them.

These books have been read. Maybe even loved.

I stare at the page, then at the shelves, then around the enormous library and a strange feeling settles in my chest.

This doesn’t fit.

Certainly not with the owner of this place. Not with the arrogant rapper who seems to communicate primarily through sarcasm, profanity, and unwanted opinions. And definitely not with the man who threw a snowball at my head.

I slowly close the book.

I hate that I’m genuinely curious about its owner. Which, frankly, is a red flag.

I reach for a pink, chubby book with a monster on the cover next. I’m so absorbed in the blurb that I don’t notice how far I’ve wandered until an unpleasantly familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re trespassing again.”

I nearly throw the book at him.

My heart leaps straight into my throat as I spin around, clutching the novel against my chest.

The human raincloud stands in the doorway looking just as annoyed by my existence as he did yesterday. Maybe even more so.

He’s wearing old gray sweatpants and an oversized white shirt, the kind of outfit that makes most men look like bums but somehow looks expensive on him. His black-and-white hair is slightly damp, a few strands falling messily across his forehead as if he just stepped out of the shower. The tattoos on his arms and knuckles are on full display. His expression, however, is just as bare. Thoroughly unimpressed.