The Real Heiress Rules the World (Sloane Rivers) novel Chapter 128

Chapter 128 Sloane’s Nightmare

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Sloane glanced at the book in Lucas’s hands–it was a medical text she’d casually left on the table the other day.

Lucas closed the book and stood up. “She’s gone?”

“No.” Sloane handed him a spare quilt from the cabinet. “Jill’s staying over tonight, so you’ll have to make do here.”

She pointed to the floor, making her intention clear.

Lucas didn’t complain. He simply took the quilt and began setting up a makeshift bed on the floor.

The room soon fell into darkness. Sloane lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her thoughts drifted far away, unable to settle.

Lucas, sharp as ever, could tell she was restless. He said nothing, only closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

Listening to the sound of steady breathing gradually filling the room, Sloane finally relaxed. She had resolved to stay up the entire night, so she silently began reciting medical theory in her mind.

But before she realized it, her eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

Suddenly, she jerked awake.

She found herself standing in a dim, endless corridor. Flickering candlelight danced along the walls, casting eerie shadows that stretched far beyond her.

The air was thick with the pungent smell of medicine, mixed with dampness and decay. Every breath was a struggle.

Then a sharp, chilling laugh rang out from the end of the hallway–like metal scraping against glass. It pierced straight into her cars.

Sloane’s eyes

widened in horror. She tried to run, but her feet were rooted to the ground.

Figures began to emerge from the darkness–people in white hospital gowns, their faces twisted and hollow, eyes blank and unfocused. They murmured incoherently as they crept forward.

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Chapter 128 Sloane’s Nightmare

She recognized them. These were patients from the asylum.

But their faces were far more grotesque than she remembered.

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“Sloane, come play with us…” a voice whispered, cold as ice, brushing against her ear like a ghost.

“No. No!” Sloane shook her head violently. Sweat beaded on her forehead as her body trembled uncontrollably.

She struggled to break free from the nightmare, but it was like sinking in quicksand–the more she fought, the deeper she fell.

The patients reached toward her, skeletal fingers stretching out, ready to drag her back.

Sloane screamed, her voice echoing through the corridor–desperate, helpless.

“Help me…”

In the real world, Lucas was startled awake by the scream. He shot up and looked toward the bed.

Sloane was thrashing in her sleep, her brow tightly furrowed, cold sweat dripping down her temples, arms flailing as she muttered to herself.

She was trapped in a nightmare.

Lucas quickly moved to her side and gently grasped her shoulders.

“Sloane, wake up,” he called softly.

But Sloane was beyond hearing. She struggled violently, her arms swinging blindly–nearly hitting him.

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