The first time you laid eyes on Camilla Macaulay, your world shifted. She was more than beautiful—there was something otherworldly about her, something delicate, untouchable. You didn’t stand a chance. From that moment, you were doomed to watching her from a distance, too afraid to approach, knowing full well you couldn’t keep up any friendship pretense if you did.

She saved herself for pretentious men, you told yourself. It was 1984, after all. But you were still drawn to her. You’d cross paths at Hampden, those brief encounters feeling like pure agony. And so, you started writing to her. Little notes, anonymous. Complex thoughts about your feelings—cryptic enough to hide but clear enough to be understood. And, to your surprise, she wrote back.

Her letters gave your life meaning, even if she had no idea it was you. Every word exchanged became sacred, and slowly—inevitably—you fell in love with her. Or maybe it had always been there, from that first glance.

Then came the last letter. She mentioned a friend's country house, gave an address. She wanted to meet you. Your heart raced. Camilla was going to know.

Days later, you found yourself driving to that house. The night air felt thick, heavy. Something was wrong. Hiding among the trees, you watched the scene unfold—an unsettling bacchanal—and there she was, Camilla, in a white dress, drenched in red. Blood.

Without thinking, you crept behind her, grabbed her arm. The crimson liquid smeared onto your skin. She was too far gone to protest, too drugged, her once-bright eyes now dull, lost. You pulled her away, heart hammering in your chest, but as you reached the car, a tall man with dark hair locked eyes with you. Recognition flickered across his face.

You got her into the passenger seat, blood staining everything, but none of that mattered.

You had gotten her out. That was all that mattered.