Page 236 of Sweet Nightmare

In fashion, very little surprises me anymore.

Growing up with a mother who transforms every collection into a world of its own has ruined ordinary for me. Her campaigns have always blurred the line between fashion and art, often incorporating my father’s sculptures and sketches until the two became a lethal combination.

I’ve worked with some of the biggest names in the industry. I’ve seen vintage castles transformed into runways, private islands turned into studios, and ancient cathedrals buried beneath silk and exotic flowers.

But nothing prepared me for what Mom’s team has done to Stephen’s garden.

It looks even more beautiful than it did before. If that’s even possible.

Every tree is wrapped in thousands of tiny white lights. Crystal lanterns hang from the same trees and glow against the snow, and the frozen fountain shimmers as though someone has trapped moonlight beneath its icy surface. Even the pathways sparkle beneath the fresh dusting of snow.

And the lake…

God.

The lake looks like a piece of heaven that fell to earth and froze just for us.

Silver and white lights shimmer beneath the ice while snowflakes drift lazily through the air, turning the entire garden into something straight out of a fairytale.

For a moment, I forget the photographers, the assistants, and the dozen people rushing around me.

I’m back to that night. I’m back on the ice. Back beneath the moon, gliding across the frozen lake while Stephen watches from the shadows. Back at the moment everything between us changed.

And I’ve never felt more at home.

I still don’t understand why this place feels so familiar. I’ve never been here before, yet something deep inside me recognizes it, as though some forgotten part of me has been waiting all my life to be standing here.

“Artemis?”

I turn to find Stevie standing behind me in a strawberry-red faux-fur coat and a matching strawberry hat.

She moves closer and studies my face.

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

I scoff. “I don’t cry.”

“Your eyes disagree.”

“They’re reacting to the cold.”

“Of course they are.”

I ignore her.

Mostly because my attention has already wandered to the man standing a few feet away.

Stephen.

Just like the garden and the set up for the shoot, he steals my breath.

His hands are tucked into the pockets of his perfectly tailored black trousers, which disappear into heavy snow boots. A fitted black turtleneck sits beneath a structured wool blazer, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean frame.

Everything about him is black today.

Except the silver.

Rings adorn his tattooed fingers, some thick and masculine, others delicate enough to catch the light with the slightest movement. Several silver chains rest against his chest, disappearing beneath his collar, while a small pendant peeks out from the dark fabric.