I woke up feeling anxious. Killian was still asleep, and as much as I wanted to kiss him, it didn't outweigh my desperate need to know exactly what was going to happen at dinner tonight. The prophetic vision of Lucius holding me by the waist, drawing his lips close to mine, left me just as confused as the image of him being shot in the chest and plummeting from a great height, while Evangelina's voice echoed that I had to let him go, that he was already dead.
At some point, when this love triangle with me at the center of the Longfield brothers first began, I handled it as best as I could. I'm not going to make excuses for myself—I was completely shattered by Carol's death, and I had never experienced love before. I also knew nothing about the strange pull I seem to have on people in this bizarre world, a world that not even the most epic novels of heroes and damsels in distress could come close to matching.
Irina is expecting me in a few hours to keep practicing, but that escape maneuver I can never quite get right will have to wait for another day. I can't help it; there's something wrong inside me. I just know that if I open the door and step outside, an overwhelming sadness will flood my soul, something that will leave a permanent mark on my memory. Irina hasn't seen my message. If only I had her courage for extreme speed—the kind that doesn't let you think about anything except the roar of the engine.
When I told her I had a phobia of old, wrecked cars and that I couldn't stand being in an accident—that I felt like I was suffocating to death—she didn't look at me with pity like everyone else. Instead, she just laughed and said:
"Then don't crash."
Irina… she really was a good woman, I thought. The moment I realized I had used the past tense, I suddenly became certain that she was dead, and panic started clawing at my chest. Damn it, Clara, how can you live like this?
A few minutes later, Irina replied: "Let's leave it for next week!" By then, I was already debating whether to call Evangelina and tell her that her friend was lying dead somewhere. I'm a complete idiot. I never ask the right questions. For example, I should have asked Clara: how do I tell the difference between a normal feeling that something bad is about to happen and an actual vision of the future?
When Killian stepped out of the shower, he kissed me goodbye, got dressed in a hurry, and left. He promised he would pick me up at eight for the dinner at the Longfield estate, where we were going to announce our relationship, but I asked him not to. I told him I'd drive myself.
He said, "Okay, but please, just be the usual Carmilla at dinner. You're not bound by the contract anymore, but if you're yourself, nothing can go wrong."
"Don't worry," I replied. "Driving myself there is just a message to myself. The first time I entered that mansion, I was taken there because I had no other choice. Now I'm walking in of my own free will, knowing that whatever happens at that dinner won't change how I feel. I love you."
I didn't want to tell him that I was now giving less importance to the vision of his brother holding me in his arms or falling from the sky. I'm afraid that if I admit I failed miserably with the prophecy about Irina's supposed death, then someday, when I have a real vision, no one will believe me.
With a cup of coffee, I continued reading the book I had started. One chapter talked about what people would do if they found a treasure. That made me realize I didn't even know how much money I had. I opened my accounts on my phone and nearly burned myself with the cup. There were deposits from things I didn't even understand, all related to the perfumes. I had 3.5 million dollars. I counted the zeros—it was correct. What the hell was I supposed to do with that much money? I felt like I didn't deserve it.
Little by little, my mind began to clear. In the past, Evangelina was paid for her gift of beauty: they would give her an outfit, and she would walk the runway so that everyone would want whatever she was wearing. My gift was a refined sense of smell that could distinguish and blend the perfect fragrance for love. In fact, a question formed in my mind: did my decision to become Killian's girlfriend have anything to do with the fact that he was wearing my Green and Blue perfume? I don't know now. I had sworn not to choose between the two of them, yet that very night, I made my decision.
Úrsula had recommended a financial expert. I looked up her contact information and promised myself I would call her, but first, I was going out to spend some of that money. I took the black Mustang. Its windows are heavily tinted, and the paparazzi desperately press their cameras against the glass to see who's inside, but security and the police usually push them away.
I thought about buying something for Killian, but it's hard to imagine what a billionaire could possibly need. I realized that everything I could think of didn't require my presence to choose it—except for a new bed at Mary Garden. He didn't fit comfortably in mine. It was just a gesture, so he would know I was thinking about him and that I wanted him to spend more time with me.
There's a business on the outskirts that sells them. I parked out front, and as soon as I walked in, I realized I had made a mistake. The three employees shouted the moment they recognized me, barely two steps through the door. They asked to take pictures with me, but the owner, an elderly man, ordered them to step back.
"Back to work… oh, my God… you're Carmilla Morris. Thank the heavens. God sent you!"
I didn't understand, but within a minute, the man told me I could take whatever I wanted if I allowed him to take a photo of me shopping there. I told him I would pay and that I preferred to keep a low profile. I asked him to show me large bed frames and mattresses—really large ones. The owner lowered his head, clearly saddened, but composed himself. With a smile that couldn't hide the tears in his eyes, he told his best salesman to show me what they had.
I thanked him, but I was left with a strange feeling. I could tell that the man was deeply distressed.
The salesman treated me like royalty. He was also an older man, and I tried several mattresses until I found one that was soft as a cloud yet firm—a rare combination that I knew Killian would love.
When I finished paying and arranging the delivery, I noticed the owner still smiling at me from a respectful distance, though there was sadness in his eyes. I went over to shake his hand to thank him, trying to be polite, but the moment I touched him, I knew. An image flashed in my mind: my Carol, sick, the medical bills, the debt.
The salesman walked me to the door, and I asked him, "What's wrong with the owner? He seems so…"
The man replied, "He needs surgery—something expensive. The truth is, everyone shops online now, and we were late to adapt. Our social media doesn't work, we don't sell enough. He's a good man."
I turned back. The owner came out to meet me and asked if I needed anything else. I saw it in his eyes: he didn't want to die. Carol… she didn't want to either, and it was because of me. She was afraid for me, fighting not to leave me alone.
I asked him, "Do you have children, Mr…?"
"Albert. Albert Camill," he replied. "Yes, Miss Morris, I have four. They're young. Everyone thinks they're my granddaughters, but no—they're my daughters. Adopted, of course."
I gently asked him about what the salesman had told me. He confessed that he had a heart condition and that he didn't want to die because he needed to take care of his daughters. He wasn't lying. His wife, an elderly but elegant woman, walked in just then with the girls. As soon as they saw Albert, they ran into his arms, shouting with joy that quickly turned into hysteria when they recognized me. The youngest was around six, the oldest eleven. They were neatly dressed and well-groomed. Despite their father's attempts to stop them, they ran over to hug me. The tallest girl looked up at me and said:
"Did you come to help Daddy? He told us he had been praying and that God always sends help. I don't want him to die."
Trying not to cry, I replied, "Of course I came for that. Don't worry. I promise you he's going to be okay…"
The little girl trembled for a few seconds before bursting into a cry of pent-up anguish, the kind I hadn't heard since I used to cry like that as a child. She hugged me tighter and thanked me.
When people say money can't buy happiness, they're lying. The wife and I called the clinic where the man was supposed to have surgery as soon as they had the money: 160,000 dollars. One second—that's all it took for me to pay it with my card, and I was happy, happier than ever before.
A few reporters spotted the Mustang and turned on their cameras. I had to leave. As I walked out, I gave my first statement since the incident at the airport.
One of them asked, "Carmilla, please, we're live—can you tell us what you're doing here?"
Looking at the camera, I replied, "Here, at Albert Camill's shop? He's my friend, and he sells the best beds in the world. Where else would I go to buy one?"
Back at Mary Garden, I took a shower and ate a burger I had been craving on my way home. Yes, it was delicious.
A short, pearl-colored, beautiful dress—that was my choice for the dinner, and I set off toward the mansion. I had two messages on my phone. The first was from Mr. Longfield; it read: "I'd like to speak with you alone before dinner." The second was from Lucius; he wrote: "We need to talk. Just you and me."