Chapter 4: Dream Confessions and Nightmares

I figured some misunderstandings need to be cleared up right away.

Especially now—if Grant got upset, he might just slit his own throat for dramatic effect. That’d be a huge black mark on my performance record.

That night, I rushed into his dream in a panic.

This time, I stepped into thin air.

Almost fell.

I steadied myself against the wall, and found the scenery had changed.

Grant’s dreams were always set in his office.

But this time… it was a giant bed!

And on the bed—Grant!

The night was deep, I couldn’t see clearly.

I vaguely saw a woman on the bed.

Under the moonlight, her skin glowed like snow, tangled in the sheets.

Grant was still in a suit, but the sweat on his brow couldn’t hide his burning desire.

“Tell me, what did you do wrong?”

His low, husky voice was full of dominance.

His large hand gently gripped the woman’s nape, pressing down—eliciting a soft moan.

“I… I didn’t do anything wrong…”

My heart skipped a beat.

Wait, that voice—

I was just about to find out.

Suddenly, a big hand covered my eyes from behind and yanked me back.

Grant’s voice, laced with anger, sounded in my ear: “Who let you barge into my dream without permission!”

I got it instantly—this was the real Grant. The scene ahead was just his fantasy.

I gloated and teased him: “Wow, Grant, you’re even having X-rated dreams!”

I pried at his fingers, peeking through the cracks.

On the big bed, Grant and the woman had already changed positions.

During a break, he looked down at the woman: “How does it feel to be touched by a nobody? Didn’t you hate me?”

“Troublemaker, I oughta…!”

He said that, but his hand never left the woman’s wrist.

His gaze was glued to her back, obsessed and angry.

Clearly, he was madly in love.

The Grant behind me was both furious and embarrassed: “Natalie Taylor, get out of my dream!”

After so many years of sparring with Grant, I’d never backed down—and this time was no exception.

I finally broke free from his grip.

Grinning, I said, “Didn’t expect you to be such a hypocrite.”

“Mr. Miller, which girl do you like? Let me see—I’m a ghost, I can help you propose.”

Grant’s face went white. He shouted, flustered: “Don’t go over there!”

I slipped away like a greased eel, dodging his hand in a few moves.

I darted over to the bed and lifted the covers.

And froze.

Under the soft quilt, Natalie Taylor—me—was lying there, face streaked with tears, cheeks flushed like peach blossoms.

She glared through tears, snapping: “Grant Miller, who told you to stop? So young and already can’t keep up?”

I blinked. Did not see that coming. Of all the things I expected in the afterlife, walking in on myself in someone else’s dream was not on the list. For a second, I almost felt sorry for Grant’s embarrassment.

I never expected the real nightmare would be seeing myself in his bed, tears and all.