Killian has left me; he argues something that isn't entirely foreign to me. I know, my friend, I've changed, and in my mind there's only one person responsible: myself. What the hell am I doing? My new self tells me, Better this way! Being in a relationship wasn't for you. But deep inside me, a fierce battle rages to find the real Carmilla again.
I'm lying on the rug; the room has a fireplace warming the space, as if that were even necessary with Bruce beside me, slowly kissing my neck, and Evangelina on the other side, caressing me with her warm hand, her exquisite strawberry-and-mint breath brushing against me. On one hand, I think, This is how I want to spend the rest of my life, feeling desired, surrounded by beauty. On the other, I know love is out there, and it's split in two: Killian on a plane somewhere, and Lucius just a few doors away. They both have something else in common besides being brothers—they both rejected me. One did it because he didn't want me to change; the other, to dedicate himself to politics and marry his fiancée out of obligation. Both used the perfect excuse: protecting me—from myself, and from an environment that devours women who aren't prepared.
As Bruce slowly searches for my lips, I realize I'm experiencing a complete emotional release. My body speaks for itself: my breathing grows heavier, I arch my back as Evangelina traces her fingers along my thighs and kisses my shoulders. Bruce's bare feet brush against mine, but there is no love here. I like this duality, this strange disconnection where I can't stop feeling; it becomes physical, as if I could actually see myself from outside my own body. And that's when I noticed it—it wasn't just a sensation or a mental flash. I was literally watching myself from above. Just like in a novel I once read, where the protagonist could travel anywhere by detaching her spirit. Clara. She is the only possible explanation. I would talk to her; I'd tell her I don't want any of this, that there has to be a way to block these borrowed powers I neither understand nor desire. But not tonight. What I see, like a movie unfolding beneath me, I like. I like it too much. I am gorgeous in the hands of these cousins who ache for me without showing it.
I feel every caress, every brush against my skin, yet I am also outside, free to walk around the room and watch the scene like a spectator. It feels so good, so natural.
Evangelina unbuttons her shirt, takes one of Bruce's hands, and guides it to her breasts. She moves up my thighs; I can see their coordinated glances, as if I were prey they are about to hunt with professional patience, and it turns me on. My other self, floating outside my body, steps up behind him and whispers, "Under the shirt. I want you to lift it slowly and feed on me, hard." To my surprise, he obeys me exactly. And that makes all of this much, much better.
The two of them undress; from the outside, I command them to make love to each other without taking their eyes off me. They obey as if I were a goddess of passion, one they cannot resist. I dissolve into the air and slip back into my body. Evangelina is on top of him, her perfect breasts hardened with desire; Bruce makes love to her slowly. Neither of them stops looking at me. I turn onto my side, brushing my legs against his; both of them place their hands on me, and I surrender, listening to their heavy breathing, to the rhythm they set. My hands never stop tracing the muscles of Bruce's back and his rugged face—his jaw clenching every time I touch him, every time he pulls me closer with his strength. They kiss and whisper, "I love you." They pick up the pace, the intensity rising, reaching their climax with their eyes locked on me. She exhales as if dying were the only option left, slipping her fingers into my mouth as she comes. I lie wrapped in their arms, feeling that, after all, these powers have their advantages. There is no guilt, no remorse. I don't have the men I love—I've lost them—but I am far from feeling sad. With that thought, I drift off to sleep.
When I wake up, everything is different, as if leaving my body has repaired me. Nothing brings me more joy than knowing I am strong, resolute. I finally understand that I can't leave my happiness in the hands of those men. If Lucius and Killian don't want me by their side, that's their loss. I want them in my life, and I'm going to make them come back to me.
With the most shameless smile on my face, I go to my room, take a shower, and head downstairs for breakfast. Lucius is already there. I greet him with feigned aloofness and say, "You know what? Last night I dreamed about Moetia, my favorite author. I feel like talking to her, having some fun. Do you know what she's been up to?"
He pauses before replying, "We spoke yesterday. She's coming to visit; she'll be here in a few hours. Her presence will do us good. On another note, I know you and Killian broke up. I'm not surprised. My brother understands that with me running for president, my father will give him more power in the empire and name him successor, and that clouds his judgment."
I tell him, with irony, "So it's a family trait—casting Carmilla aside to go on a corporate adventure. Congratulations! How thrilling your loveless lives are going to be."
He bursts out laughing, harder than I've ever seen, then tries to excuse himself, saying, "No, you know it's not like that! At least on my part, I did it to protect you."
I double down, mocking him. "Blah, blah, blah… defenseless little Carmilla can't take care of herself, blah, blah, blah. I don't need Clara's powers to know you're both wrong. Love can never do harm, and if the environment wants to ruin it, then you change the environment. Don't you think that's the wiser choice? I do. And sorry, but I'm not giving up on that."
Laughing but bewildered, he asks me, "And in practical terms, what does that mean?"
I shoot back, "It means I accept that I love you both, and that makes me happy, so I'm not letting you go without a fight. Look, I don't need you anymore; I'm no longer bound to the Longfields by any contract. My house is safe, I have more money than I could ever spend, and life is short, so I'm not going to live it without love."
I get up from the table and stand in front of him, fixing my hair with my hands, staring into his deep eyes as they try to avoid mine.
I tell him, "Look at me and tell me you don't want me, that you don't love me."
He smiles again and says in a playful tone, "You're awful, and I hate you."
Then his face turns serious, and he says, "Enough of whatever you're doing, girl. If you really think you can see the future, realize that we will suffer if we move forward with this."
With absolute confidence, I reply, "Or maybe we won't, Mr. Powerful. I've already seen it. And you know what?"
I hesitate for a split second before saying it, as if my new self and the classic Carmilla are fighting to merge into one. The bolder version wins, and without hesitation, I tell him the truth.
"Yes, I saw the future, and far from being at odds, a thousand miles from suffering, there we were, the two of us: me looking in the mirror, and you wrapping your arms around me from behind. I was pregnant, and happier than I've ever been."
I walk away with a smile on my lips, not turning back to see his reaction, determined to keep taking control of my life. I go straight to the flowers in the garden; now I don't just admire them, I understand them. They follow their own nature, and in their world, beauty rules—but it isn't passive like everyone thinks. No, my friend, they shamelessly call out to the insects that pollinate them, ensuring their survival. If you could feel the shift in their scent, it would be so obvious. I pull out my phone and text Killian; the message is short, it simply says:
"Hey, ex-boyfriend, want to be my lover? I do, I accept. Good luck with your dad. See you in China; when you get there, send me your location and I'll handle the rest. Is it true they have night shows with millions of lights there?"
He replies instantly:
"Hey. Okay, yes, it's true—I love China—but this text is weird. Is this you? Are you sure this is you?"
While he keeps typing, I take a selfie next to the flowers; my eyes stand out as if lit from within, reflecting the shifting shades of the purple thistles that, just like me, are calling out.
"Out here with some colleagues," I write under the photo.
He deletes whatever he was about to send and starts over. He simply writes: "Yes, I accept being your lover. Very soon: you, me, and China."
After a few minutes, during which I imagine he's been staring at my picture, he follows up with: "I love you, Carmilla."
I reply:
"I know, Killian. Never stop saying it."