Every single inch of Killian was made for love. It was as if God, the universe, or the muses of the arts had challenged one another to create the most beautiful being of all time, only to finally say, "Why don't we all work together and give it everything we've got?" And from that union of infinite power and inspiration, this man before me was born—naked, the tension in his muscles mirroring his ragged breaths of pleasure.
His hands, which could crush me at will, caressed my hair and the back of my neck. If the Colossus of Rhodes had possessed Killian's legs, it would still be standing today. His height, his crystal-green eyes contrasting with skin bronzed by Apollo's touch, overwhelmed me completely. His manhood alone could have shattered the gates of Troy, ramming against them—just as he was doing inside me at that very moment: once, twice, three times. Why pray for the wit of Odysseus when Killian was a relentless, indestructible battering ram?
And yet, he had that cunning too. He knew exactly what worked and what didn't when it came to making love to me. He did everything right: his fingers in my mouth, his touch, the pressure against my breasts as if he needed to feed on me, gripping my waist, entering slowly—so slowly—waiting for me, then showing me just how deep he would go, so deep… until he pushed past the limit and sank even further into me. Then the storm ignited… and he began to move faster, faster still, driven by a primal urgency that drove me wild.
He knew he couldn't stop—not until my own instincts clung to that certainty, to the feeling that he would always do this to me, that he would never stop thrusting into me, again and again and again. And there, just before I lost myself in that final release, just one second before, I looked into his eyes again, letting my gaze travel down to where his body met mine—and in that moment, I knew… Killian wasn't going to stop. He was made for this, made to understand exactly how to give me an orgasm that would make me love life—and love him—until nothing else mattered.
He came with me, kissed me a hundred times, and whispered, "You're beautiful, baby girl."
We got dressed without ever stopping our caresses. The flowers around us seemed to be watching. I whispered to them, "None of this would have been possible without you. You are beautiful… wonderful."
But I did it behind Killian's back so he wouldn't think I was insane. You have to talk to plants—but only if you have something important to say. Imagine if the survival of your species depended on how attractive you were; telling them they look beautiful isn't a bad way to start a conversation. I quickly moved a few pots of begonias that shouldn't have been in that harsh sunlight, and we left the greenhouse.
"Hey, baby girl—no, wait. Stay with me today. Just with me, as if this weren't a goodbye," Killian said as our hands parted at the grand staircase.
Flirtatious, dramatic, and playful, I asked, "Are you asking me out on a date?"
He replied, "I'm almost sure there are at least three or four cars in the garage downstairs with windows so dark no one would recognize us. Want to see the streets of London?"
"All right, let's go," I said.
But he gestured for me to wait. "Actually, I've got a better idea. Give me a second—I'm going to call a friend."
Killian spoke into the phone. "Yeah, I need to speak with Number Two. Nothing urgent… Just… Sure, I'll hold. William! Isn't it crazy? Absolute madness. I'm here for a few days—almost as famous as you now. Listen, you understand this better than anyone. I need a favor. Could you arrange a full closure of the Tower to the public tonight, with Royal Guards posted discreetly? Just my lady and me walking the illuminated walls, while a guard opens the vault so I can show her the Crown Jewels in complete privacy. Yeah—a private tour of the Tower of London. It has to be tonight. I wouldn't ask if she weren't special. Thanks, my friend. I should have something formal to wear here, but we can't go out shopping for her. Could you…? Yes? Perfect—that would be incredible. Her name is Carmilla Morris. Yes, that one. Now go—say hello to your wife and the kids. You're the best."
When he hung up, he said, "In half an hour, someone from Alexander McQueen will be here under royal confidentiality. Pick a beautiful dress. After the Tower, they'll close The Ritz London so we can have dinner there."
I was still overwhelmed with excitement when, exactly thirty minutes later, Killian opened the internal door to the garage. Three men and three women—straight out of a fashion magazine—walked in. The women who came with me to the bedroom carried large boxes and five hangers draped in thick black fabric, while the men accompanying Killian carried two.
They looked at me as if I were a movie star. One of them said, "It's a pleasure to meet a true heroine. Too bad I won't be able to tell my friends about this. I think it'll be option number four. Did you know someone mentioned your measurements on television? Yes—an American designer with terrible taste but an excellent eye saw a picture of you and got them exactly right."
The others agreed. "Yes, option number four. Definitely."
I asked, "Are they really still talking about me on television?"
One of them replied, "Darling, you're a world-famous princess. Everyone loves you. Now come—let us work our magic."
I had never felt like a dress could look back at me… until they handed it to me. They said Alexander McQueen was exactly what I needed for tonight, as if that explained the slight tremble in the assistant's hands as she held it. Black, of course—but not just any black: it was deep, almost alive, as if it absorbed the light only to give it back to whoever dared to wear it.
As it slid over my skin, I understood why they had chosen it for that night at The Ritz London. The corset, structured with almost cruel precision, forced me to breathe more slowly, more deliberately… as if every breath had to earn its place. The lace, delicate yet firm, clung to me, revealing the thousands of hours of craftsmanship behind its softness and elegance, suggesting far more than it revealed. My shoulders were left bare, held by a neckline that seemed on the verge of slipping… yet never did—a brilliant trick that Emilia Touré in Longfield also understood perfectly.
The skirt fell in layers of silk and chiffon, moving as if in slow motion, in contrast with the authority of the bodice. Every step felt guided by the dress itself, as if it knew exactly how I was meant to be seen.
In front of the mirror, I still recognized myself. I was a version of me wrapped in the perfect dream of a farewell night. Every stitch in that fabric seemed to know that this was the day—that a thousand years of waiting would follow—and that whenever I thought back to my goodbye with Killian, I would always see myself like this. Just as I had done with the flowers, I whispered to it, "Listen, option number four—I don't know your name, but it would be an honor to wear you."
I felt as though it had chosen me first—as though it had been made for me. Yes, there was no doubt: I wasn't the one choosing it. The dress had chosen to wear me.
My friend, if only you could be by my side right now—now that they've gone and I'm about to go downstairs and take his hand.
Killian was wearing a tuxedo that made him look like the very definition of a man—the kind you lose yourself in forever. When he saw me, he said one simple thing, and I loved him even more for it: "The dress is lucky to have you."
We went down to the garage, and he chose a vintage two-seater sports car. Smiling, he said, "It's a 1956 Aston Martin."
As if I had any idea what that meant—but just hearing the engine told me that this machine knew how to run.
While he drove, I thought about how much I was going to miss him. I wondered if I could give my life for him—step in front of a villain and say, "Let him go and kill me instead!" And the answer was no. Killian was a protector; he would always step in front of me. I would never even have the chance. Dying for him would be a beautiful way to go. Living without him, just to remain true to myself, felt just as noble—but far more painful.
He rested his hand on my skirt. I had to close my eyes every time a car approached—I kept thinking we were in the wrong lane. He laughed. I took his hand. We held each other.
There were flashing lights ahead. Getting closer… fast.
The car's solid frame held as they hit us with full force… A taxi slammed into another, and both spun out of control, careening toward us. The sickening sound of metal crushing around us triggered memories of my childhood accident, and I began to shake, seeing myself covered in blood even though I knew it wasn't real. My door was jammed. Killian got out and reached for me—but another car crashed into ours, pushing it forward and sending him rolling across the asphalt.
And there I was, trapped inside, screaming in terror, watching him lying motionless in the middle of the street. My parents' bodies flashed through my mind. I tried to breathe, to calm down… The doors wouldn't open. I was suffocating—I knew I wouldn't last much longer. People began to gather. No one seemed to call an ambulance… They were just filming… taking pictures…
He stood up—his hair disheveled, slightly dazed.
"It's Killian! It's Killian!" people shouted, flashes exploding as they followed him back toward the car.
Ambulances arrived. I was on the verge of fainting, my heart racing from the memories. I let out one last terrified scream.
The door bent slightly—then more—and when Killian growled like a beast, I saw it give way under his strength as if he had torn it off. He pulled me into his arms and carried me out. I buried my face in his neck… and his scent calmed me.
"You're safe now, baby girl. Breathe. Don't worry. Are you hurt?"
I shook my head. The flashes and noise made me look around. Dozens of people were now shouting my name. Two paramedics pushed through.
"Stay where you are—we're taking you to the hospital!"
"No way," he snapped.
Then, looking at everyone, he shouted, "Move aside—I have a date with this beautiful lady!"
And I saw it—women fainting, others trembling—and I… held in his arms, floating as he moved through the crowd… I knew.
I can't explain how—but I knew.
I would leave the Longfields. I would return to Mary Garden.
And one day… one day he would come for me.
And I… I would marry him.