Okay, girl, I don't even know where to begin telling you about tonight. Let's just say I'm currently having breakfast with Killian. He's smiling, but I'm worried sick. Evangelina had to leave right when things were getting intense… Big George, that maniac who escaped from the maximum-security psychiatric hospital—well, he was spotted near the Bance mansion and vanished again without a trace. Evangelina was so furious with her own security team that she left immediately to restore order and hunt down the lunatic threatening her home.
There was no night of passion. There are still things I just don't understand. Them—meaning the billionaires—they never go to the police or the justice system. It's like all the rules we know or assume about the world weren't made for their kind. That's exactly why Killian is smiling. When I told him how I felt, he said:
"You're right, sweetheart. Our security is better, and our justice is faster. You need to get it through your head that there's another reality out there—one where the stakes are higher and the only goal is to win. There is no other objective than success, and there is no greater crime than losing money when it could have been avoided."
Don't get me wrong, girl. I believe in their goodness. I believe they created "The Vortex" to channel all the toxic things they've learned into a noble cause—one that actually makes a difference, one where success can change the life of someone held prisoner somewhere, a victim of those wicked people.
But I truly don't know if I was built to live with no rules other than being the strongest.
He pours me another cup of coffee and kisses me. I know I love him. I tell him:
"I'm going to my driving lessons. I think I need some time alone to think."
Killian wasn't surprised. He replied:
"I knew this day would come. I just didn't expect it to be so soon."
I explained:
"No, I don't want to distance myself from you, but I won't be home early. I think I'll head to the neighborhood bookstore after my lessons. I used to be so happy there whenever Carol took me to buy new novels. If you could see it, it's a magical place. I used to spend hours inside. I need to go and reconnect a bit with the girl I used to be—the one who knew the difference between right and wrong."
Killian said it wasn't a great idea, given the supposed thousands of men obsessed with me out there, but I explained where the bookstore was. It was far too hidden for anyone to just happen to see me there.
Driving to Irina's track was easier today. Outside my house, there was only a small crowd of reporters and photographers, and the police cleared them out without much trouble. For several hours, that woman tried to explain what she called "the vital escape maneuver," but I couldn't pull it off perfectly the way she wanted. It involved simulating being boxed in by oncoming vehicles. The exact second I saw them, I had to throw the car into reverse and spin it around like in the movies, using the brakes, the gears, and the engine's power all at once to escape the way I came at maximum speed.
I ended up a bit frustrated, but she told me:
"Trust yourself. If the day comes when you have to pull off that maneuver, it's because your life or the lives of your loved ones are in danger. And according to what they keep repeating on TV, you're the type who survives anything."
I liked hearing that, and by the time I left, I was feeling a bit better. But I absolutely needed to go to that bookstore. Irina lent me a hooded coat, and since her truck and the Corvette were too flashy, she offered me some kind of Mustang—a slightly more modern model.
Just as I suspected, the bookstore was empty, except for Lila and her sister Lucy—"the book twins," as Carol and I used to call them. When I pulled down my hood, they cheered. Both women, who are in their sixties and still dress identically, showered me with compliments, shared stories from the first time I ever walked in, and couldn't stop thanking me for not forgetting about them.
They showed me every single inch of the place, the changes they'd made, and the huge, ancient basement filled with well-cataloged books that nobody wanted anymore. I didn't want to be rude, but I really needed to sit down quietly and read, so I asked for a minute to go to my usual little corner. They recommended a romance novel, the kind I used to love so much, and I accepted.
To be honest, girl, my mind was so tangled up in my own thoughts that I didn't think a book titled The Battle for Maria's Heart would do the trick, but I was wrong. By page ten, I was completely drawn into the drama of this dysfunctional family, where a poor teenage girl only finds comfort talking to the new neighbor whose bedroom window is just a few feet from hers.
I stayed there for quite a while. The twins brought me coffee, and every now and then, I could see them holding hands, smiling and happy. Inside, I thought, This is the life I want. I'd be so happy running a bookstore just like this.
When it was time to leave, I went up to pay, but "the book twins" laughed and told me:
"No, Carmilla, you don't have to pay here anymore."
My face grew serious, and I insisted:
"Look, you have to charge me. What you do is wonderful, and I appreciate it, but I am definitely paying for these books."
Lucy said:
"It really wouldn't make any sense to charge you. I hope you found everything in order and that you never grow tired of us, because we love this place, and we were honestly so happy when your husband came by this morning. We knew the bookstore was important to you, but we cried tears of joy when he told us how much you missed coming here. By the way, he is so handsome! So well-built and blonde—good for you, Carmilla!"
My jaw dropped.
"Who came here?"
Her sister replied:
"Mr. Killian Longfield. What a gentleman! He kept talking about how much you loved this bookstore and how much he loves you."
Confused, I told them:
"Okay, yes, he's a good man, but right now I need you to charge me so I can go."
Lucy looked at me, puzzled.
"What would be the point of you paying for the book? They're all yours. After your husband left, his lawyer arrived. Mr. Killian bought this bookstore for you. You're the owner now. We didn't want to sell, of course—this is our life—but his offer was beyond generous, and he even included a clause in the contract allowing us to keep running it. We are so grateful to you, Carmilla!"
Clutching the book in my hand, I began to cry. In a fraction of a second, the truth hit me. The question raced through my mind: What on earth am I doing? Killian never stops making the most romantic, beautiful gestures for me. Not even in the best novels has there ever been a prince so dedicated to making his leading lady happy. And yet, I've been selfish. Evangelina, Lucius, Bruce… they feel a million miles away right now. Oh no! I've chosen Killian. I know it, and I am in deep trouble. I have to find Clara, the psychic. I have to ask her—I have to find a way to escape her prophecy: "When you choose one, the other dies." There has to be a way to keep Lucius from losing his life.
I said goodbye to the twins and ran out to the car. When I got back to Mary Garden, I looked everywhere for Killian to kiss him, to tell him that he's the one and always will be in my heart, but he wasn't there. He had left a note on the table that read:
"I'll be back tonight. I hope you aren't mad at me about the gift."
Mad? I thought. Of course not. I love you more than ever.
I went out to the back gardens. I needed to tell Carol everything that had happened and everything I was feeling. As I walked through the flowers, I cried with emotion. In front of the graves, there was now an antique oak bench. It looked like something straight out of an English film. It had a card attached that said: "I hope you like it. It used to belong to the writer Mary Shelley; it adorned her garden. I bought it at an auction a few years ago, and when I saw how much you loved visiting and talking to Carol and Mary, I thought you might need a beautiful bench to sit on. I love you, Killian."
So that's what I did. I pulled out my new book and read to them for a few hours, until a notification on my phone alerted me that someone was at my front gate. The sun was setting. I went to open it, bursting with excitement, ready to give the love of my life the most passionate kiss.
But standing there at my door was Clara, the psychic. Wearing gloves and a smile on her red-painted lips, the moment I opened the door, she said:
"I heard you wanted to speak with me. Well… here I am."
I let her in and went to hug her, but she politely stepped back, saying:
"No, don't touch me just yet. I'd like some tea. What beautiful flowers you have here! Come, we have a lot to talk about."
While I heated the water, she told me a story that I didn't quite understand at first:
"Look, Carmilla, when I was only seven… I had gone almost a year without being able to open my eyes. My mother kept them bandaged and would sing to me so I'd know she was there with me. Do you know why she did it?"
When I shook my head, she continued:
"So I wouldn't see all the things that terrified me… the dead know I can communicate with them. I don't know how, but they know. So they would appear at my bedroom window, or I'd see them in the living room. Once, a police officer was shot two blocks away, and the man woke me up by grabbing my feet in the middle of the night just to beg me: 'Tell my wife Olivia that I won't make it home, that her anniversary gift is hidden in the back, in the drawer where I keep my tools. Tell her I love her.'
My mother didn't want me to live in terror, but she didn't know that in the darkness of those bandages, my powers grew. She didn't know that I could now hear the spirits too, that sometimes I could even touch them… and that by then, I could see with total clarity that she—my good mother—would die of cancer in less than a year."
A shiver ran down my spine, and I asked her:
"Why are you telling me this?"
Without hesitation, she said:
"Because I know a part of my power left with you that time I grabbed your arm. I'm sorry—I shouldn't have held onto you for so long."
I told her everything about what I called "the certainty" and about Margot's ghost back at the castle in England.
She nodded.
"I know. We've been connected ever since."
Taking off her glove, she offered me her bare hand and added:
"What you've experienced is only one percent of my power. The question I have to ask you is… do you want more?"