I swear, girl, when I woke up and saw Moetia lying next to me, I didn't feel weird at all. I just didn't want anything to do with her. But I have to admit, she keeps far more secrets than just being M. H. Lamar, the most famous novelist in the world. She can just do that, you know? Show herself and give herself completely to someone else. It's definitely a kind of art that money can't buy—either you have it or you don't. I kissed her without disturbing her sleep, got dressed, and headed back to my room, thinking only about taking a shower and going straight to bed to rest… Don't hate me, but tonight feels like a battle where the men have a single-minded goal: to take me, and the new Carmilla happens to like that.
When I got out of the shower, I threw on one of Lucius's light blue button-down shirts. Sure, sleeping in buttons isn't ideal, but I did it in a rush because someone was pounding on my door. Phillipe Patterson was standing there, with his lean physique, his mischievous angel face, and his hair a bit messy. With absolute nonchalance, he asked me:
"I knew you wouldn't be asleep. I just wanted to know if you'd join me at a magical place for a glass of wine. Don't you dare think I take just any woman I find irresistible there—not at all. That place is mine, and until I met you, I had never found… anyone who took my breath away. I don't know how you do it, but I can't stop thinking about your eyes. But wait, I need to be honest with you: my offer comes with three highly selfish motives. The first is my cousin, Lucius… I don't know, I just want to prove to myself that he isn't the best at this whole seduction game. Second, Charlotte, my sister. Ohhh, Carmilla, we have to stop by her apartment so you can rid her of the absurd idea that I had sex with Moetia. I don't know where she got that from; she claims she heard us through the door. She's so protective of me that it genuinely breaks her heart. And third, of course, you're all over the global news. There's a kind of fever around you that doesn't seem like it's going to break anytime soon, and let's face it—you're here, I'm here, and tomorrow I want to be able to tell my kids and my kids' kids that I kissed the most famous woman of my era, the great… Carmilla Morris. Like I said, I wasn't going to lie to you."
I couldn't help but laugh. He has this boyish charm packed into a gorgeous man's body. He knows he's attractive; he knows his magnetic personality is impossible to ignore. Who would even want to avoid Phillipe, girl? Nobody. So I accepted, saying:
"You made me laugh, and I like to laugh. Alright, you've officially piqued my curiosity about your secret spot. Give me a few seconds to change into something proper, and—"
But he cut me off joyfully, grabbing my hand and saying:
"You're perfect just like that. You've got that sexy shirt on that completely covers your ass, and you're barefoot, showing off those tiny ballerina feet. If I were you, I'd flaunt them bare way more often. Come on, follow me. I'm going to show you a piece of the billionaire world my cousins will never have. But first… Charlotte."
We took the private elevator and stepped into his sister's living room. Charlotte was still awake, but completely naked except for a sheer lace robe fit for a princess's wedding night. Yeah, the best way to describe her in a novel would be exactly that: "The princess, with her brilliant blonde hair, approached the door in a translucent white nightgown that left absolutely nothing to the imagination."
I was stunned. Not because her twin brother didn't seem to notice that her entire body was on display—they were born on the same day and have always been attached at the hip, so I find that a lot more normal than I probably should—but because she didn't blush in front of me, nor did she complain, saying, "Phillipe, you opened the door without knowing you had company!" No, nothing at all. I even turned around to give her time to cover up, but she stepped right in front of me and said:
"It's a good thing you came. My brother and I have been arguing for hours because Phillipe just doesn't get it. He can't keep doing this to me. I warned him that I never want to see him, hear him, or know anything about him being with another woman. I'm not stupid—I know he sleeps with the prettiest girls in Monaco—but I refuse to accept it. I am the only thing he has, and I have to look after him as if… and that Moetia… I know she's hiding something…!"
Trying not to look at her breasts and focusing on anything else, I told her:
"If you're talking about what you heard through the door, you've got it wrong. It wasn't Phillipe who was with Moetia; it was your cousin Lucius. And they weren't even sleeping together—it was more like a show she was putting on. The point is, your brother is innocent, at least regarding that."
To my surprise, she burst into tears and threw her arms around Phillipe, crying:
"I'm sorry. You know I don't like it when women… you don't need them. Swear you're going to stay with me for the rest of our lives."
She was kissing him as if Phillipe were a child, and given that she was naked, it was obviously pretty awkward to watch. But I think I understood her when she told him:
"I know it doesn't happen to you. I'm the one cursed with this, but I simply can't even stomach the thought of anyone else having you. You know I can't control it. Play around all you want—we're not kids anymore—but at least have the decency not to make me listen to it. I'm sorry, I overreacted… again."
Yes, girl, I understood her. Even though I was thinking to myself that all these billionaires are way too freakin' weird, Charlotte really touched my heart. When she came over to give me a hug to thank me for bringing her peace of mind, I could feel it—I'll admit, I used my powers a little. The truth is, I saw the two of them together, inseparable, co-conspirators in a thousand games and secrets. I saw them as siblings, as friends, and above all, bound by a love for one another that many a poet would envy. I know he rescued her from somewhere, but that memory is blocked, and I couldn't access it. I also saw that she dreams of Pablo, her sexy contractor, and wishes to be led down the aisle someday, but she would never leave her brother. That's how strong their bond is. It's just that she suffers because of it, while he, Phillipe, doesn't even know the meaning of the word. Every ounce of drama and anguish must have gone to Charlotte in their mother's womb, while he walked away with the genes for absolute carefree ease and effortless charm.
Phillipe told her:
"I'm walking Carmilla back to her apartment, and then I'm heading out. Don't worry about me—get some rest."
She agreed with a smile but asked him to hold her for just one more minute, and then we left. In the elevator, he told me:
"She's not always like this. This is just one of her personalities. I call her 'the jealous mistress.' She has others: 'sexy girl,' 'the avenger,' 'the sweet girl.' They all have something brilliant about them. When we were only fourteen, my father had the brilliant idea of institutionalizing her in a psychiatric clinic to cure her—or at least that's what they promised him. I swear to you, no matter how far away she was, I could feel it in my own body—that she was distraught, that she was sad and alone. I felt so miserable for not being able to convince my father that she's perfect just the way she is, and that trying to change her would be the only real madness. But he wouldn't listen. So I cracked his safe, took a million in cash, stole one of his Ferraris, and left Monaco to drive all the way to the clinic in Milan. I bribed the guards and the psychiatrists and broke her out. I've never felt greater joy than seeing her smile as we escaped—her in the passenger seat, stroking my hands. That was the moment I realized that, even if I never tell her, her happiness is mine."
I confessed to him:
"I know, I saw it. Not the details you're telling me, because she blocked them from her mind, but I did see that you two lived in hiding for a few months. You only came back when your father apologized for separating you and swore he'd never do it again."
The elevator rose to the penthouse, but his secret spot wasn't there. Taking my hand, we crossed over to the terrace of the neighboring building. He punched a code into the door, and we went inside. I told him:
"For a moment I thought this was going to be a normal night. Now I feel like a trespasser."
He smiled and replied:
"Not at all. A friend's mother used to live here. She was so famous that she faked her own death just to live in Monaco and sail without anyone bothering her. My friend never wanted to come and look at everything she left behind when she actually passed away a few years ago, so I bought it. And, well… the woman's apartment is exactly how she left it… and it's my favorite place in the world. You'll see."
I teased him that a dead lady's house wasn't exactly what I had in mind for a date. When he opened the door, it just looked like an ordinary apartment, but it had a secret door leading to the unit next door. When the lights flickered on, my jaw dropped… It was antique, furnished with exquisite taste, but it wasn't the furniture that struck me. It was what sat on display in that first room: four Oscars, neatly lined up, staring straight ahead… and an old photograph of that magnificent actress with short hair just like mine and sky-blue eyes, wearing a pearl dress and smoking on a hillside, brought tears to my eyes.
I won't say her real name. Her last wish, according to what Phillipe told me, was to be buried under the name she used when she fled the Hollywood world: Audrey.
In the largest room, there was a movie projector, display cases filled with liquor and glassware, and dresses so elegant they could only belong to a star from the Golden Age of cinema.
Phillipe turned on the projector, using the blank wall as a massive screen. A romance film starring her began to play with incredible clarity for something from the 1950s. Her voice sang an emotional song about her lover leaving for the war.
Without realizing it, I ended up leaning against Phillipe's chest on a magnificent sofa, breathing in his cologne and listening to his heart race as the movie progressed. His warm hand slowly, steadily crept up my thigh. When his intentions became too obvious for either of us to play dumb, my lips parted slightly, and he kissed me tenderly at first. It didn't take long for things to completely catch fire. I swear, girl, it wasn't my intention, but I really like Phillipe too. If you could just see him smile as he unbuttons my shirt… you'd understand.