Camila Reinhart

I never imagined that a simple call of "come early, love" would be the prelude to the end of my perfect life… or the one I thought was perfect.

I opened the door to our room and the world became a muffled sound, as if everything was sinking underwater. There, on my bed—my bed—was my fiance, Sebastian Arismendi, writhing like a desperate animal with two women.

My cousin, Marina Osorio, and Sebastian's secretary, Lina Corales.

The two were smiling, sweating, moaning, as if they were in a damn motel. The audacity was so great that it was almost comical.

For a second, my body asked to scream. Or cry. Or destroy everything.

But I'm not that kind of woman. I never was.

I took a deep breath.

Cold. Logical. Strategic.

As always.

I went downstairs without making a sound, entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. My hands weren't trembling; that was the curious thing. I took out all the ice, entire bags, trays of cubes and the frozen meat that I had saved for the week. I filled a large bucket with ice water, more ice and everything that would fit.

They were still so entertained that they hadn't even noticed my presence. A pretty interesting threesome, I thought sarcastically. Three mediocre souls celebrating their own misery.

I went back upstairs. I opened the door forcefully.

And without giving them a chance to react, I threw the entire bucket at them.

The ice water, cubes and frozen pieces hit heads and bodies. Marina screamed first. Lina fell off the edge of the bed. Sebastian sat up soaked, with his mouth open, as if he didn't understand what the hell had just happened.

"Camila?!" he stammered.

His expression went from confusion to fear, and then to that typical "I can get away with it" face of his.

"Love... I can explain it," he said with a crooked smile that turned my stomach.

I didn't let him finish.

The slap echoed in the room, so loud that my hand hurt. He grabbed his red and water-covered cheek.

"Get out," was all I said.

My voice sounded so cold that even I was surprised.

I threw the engagement ring at his chest. It fell to the ground with a dry sound that marked the end.

Marina and Lina dressed hastily, clumsy, trying to cover their bodies with what little dignity they had left. I watched them expressionlessly. They didn't deserve more.

When I pointed to the door, Sebastian finally exploded.

"The house is mine, in case you forgot," he spat, trying to regain some power.

I smiled. My calm unsettled him more than my screams.

"Perfect. Keep your house, you unhappy dog. I don't need anything from you."

I took my suitcase without haste. I started packing my things while they whispered and laughed, believing they were hurting me.

How little they knew me.

While they celebrated their cheap victory, I was already thinking about my revenge.

I left with my head held high, leaving behind my previous life like someone closing a door without looking back. The only thing that hurt a little was the family betrayal. Marina had always envied everything I had, but seeing her in my bed… that was a blow I won't forget.

I requested early vacation at the company where I worked. I gave no explanations. I didn't have to. I simply bought the first available flight. Destination: Germany.

Sometimes you need to cross oceans so you don’t break inside.

On the plane, as the lights dimmed and the passengers settled in, I rested my head against the window. My chest still burned, but not because of Sebastian: because of wounded pride, because of contained rage.

Mine was not to cry.

Mine was to think, plan and act.

During the flight, I took a deep breath and mentally reviewed everything. Marina, Lina, Sebastian, the company, the social circle we shared. I knew that upon my return, nothing would be the same. I needed distance to sharpen my mind, heal, and prepare the blow they deserved.

I had said at home that I would travel alone. I didn't explain anything else.

My parents tried to ask, but I was firm.

If I told what happened, the wound would become more real.

No. I would show my family the final version: the Camila who is reborn.

Germany was the right decision.

A country where no one knew me, where I could get lost, dance, breathe… or even make mistakes without consequences.

I looked out the window. The clouds, the immense sky, the feeling of freedom.

Perhaps this was the way the universe was telling me that my previous life did not deserve to continue existing.

I took my notebook and wrote only one sentence:

"They didn't destroy me. They propelled me."

That would be my new rule.

Camila Reinhart

Arriving in Berlin was... liberating.

The cold breeze that hit my face as I left the airport felt like a bucket of ice water —one more, after the one I had thrown on myself hours before—, but this one didn't hurt: it woke me up. The city shone between modernity and chaos, a strange balance that made me feel like I had arrived at the right place. Glass buildings that reflected the light of dawn, trains that seemed not to stop, streets full of life even on any given day. Berlin had character, and I needed that too.

I took a taxi to the hotel. A discreet, elegant place with huge windows and a subtle aroma of wood and coffee. It wasn't my usual style, but this trip wasn't usual either. I was going to reinvent myself, even if it meant sleepless nights and impulsive decisions.

I wasn't planning on leaving Germany; my plan was to stay a few days in Berlin and then visit other cities, but I was also allowing myself something new: to improvise. If an opportunity arose, I would take it. I no longer wanted to live with fear, or with doubts, or with men who promised love while rolling around with half the world in my bed.

After dropping off my suitcase and taking a hot shower, I went for a walk without a fixed destination.

The city was full of contrasts: artistic graffiti on almost every corner, cafes with terraces full even with the biting cold, tourists, laughter, bicycles, lights. Berlin vibrated, and little by little, so did I.

I walked a few more meters and a huge sign caught my attention: Rave tonight – Paul Kalkbrenner – Sold Out.

I stood still for a second. Paul Kalkbrenner? That man could revive a dead person with his mixes. Part of me wanted to keep walking... the other part, the one that was tired of crying, of being prudent, of being "the one who does everything right", shouted inside me to go.

I tried to get tickets on resale, asked in shops, checked websites, made absurd calls in another language. I was rejected a thousand times. But in the end, a young woman with piercings and blue hair told me that she had an extra ticket due to a last-minute cancellation.

I bought it without thinking.

If I was going to start my new life, it would be by dancing until my bones ached.

At ten o'clock at night, I arrived at the event venue: an old abandoned factory on the outskirts, now converted into an electronic temple. The walls were covered in neon lights; columns of smoke came from the inside, and the floor vibrated to the rhythm of the bass. There were people from all over the world, colors, textures, pure energy.

I had prepared for the occasion: a tight, metallic black top that left my back bare; a short leather jacket; tight vinyl-effect pants and high boots. I painted my lips dark red because tonight I was going to devour it whole. And although I wasn't looking for it, I knew I was attracting attention.

Once inside, the strobe lights played with my senses, and the sound took over me. The music was increasing, layer after layer, as if it wanted to tear all the painful memories from my roots.

And it worked.

I danced without thinking, without holding back, without measuring my movements. It was as if the Camila who had run out of my own house hours before was shedding from my skin.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting myself go... until I felt firm hands surrounding my waist.

I opened my eyes, ready to push away whoever it was, but something in the way he touched me —with security, without urgency, without invading— stopped me. I turned around.

And there he was.

A tall man, with marked features, dark brown hair combed back, a precisely trimmed beard, and blue eyes that looked like two cuts of ice under the violet lights. Very German. Very handsome. Very dangerous... of the type that can disarm you just by looking at you.

We didn't speak.

It wasn't necessary.

He barely smiled, a slight grimace, almost arrogant... and at the same time curious. I responded with another smile. Two strangers who did not intend to know each other's name.

Two broken or tired or simply alive souls, meeting at the exact moment.

His hand moved up my back with a calculated slowness, as if he were evaluating each of my reactions. I didn't move away. He leaned in a little, enough for his breath to brush my ear.

And then it happened.

We kissed.

An electric, brutal, deep kiss. One that ran through my body like lightning. Nothing sweet. Nothing shy. A kiss that clearly said: tonight the real world does not exist.

I should have walked away.

I, Camila Reinhart, the one who always thinks, the one who never loses control...

But I didn't.

I pulled him closer, sinking my hands into his jacket, letting the bass rumble between us, letting my fears die a little more with each movement.

It didn't matter who he was.

It didn't matter who I had been.

That night, in that rave, under those lights, there was only one truth left:

For the first time in a long time, I was feeling alive again.

Camila Reinhart, 29 years old

Maximilian Brandt

The contract was signed.

I slid the pen across the paper with the same precision with which I made every important decision in my life. The purchase of the financial analysis company was not just another acquisition; it was the gateway to the American market. New York. The center of everything. Capital, power, infinite opportunities... and potential enemies.

My company specialized in high-level financial strategies for various economic sectors: technology, energy, infrastructure, strategic resources. Buying that firm allowed me to position myself advantageously in America, and I didn't intend to miss it.

"I'll have to move as soon as possible," I said, closing the folder and staring at him.

My partner nodded calmly.

"Germany is in my hands. You focus on conquering the United States."

That's how we worked. No sentimentality. No drama. Clear business.

That night we decided to celebrate. I don't usually do it, but even I recognize when a victory deserves more than a glass of whisky in silence.

Paul Kalkbrenner was playing in Berlin.

A rave of his was not a simple party. It was a complete experience: between six and eight hours of continuous music, layers of sound that slowly absorbed you until you forgot who you were before entering. Perfect for releasing tension. Perfect for not thinking.

The old factory was full. Too much noise, too many people, too many foreign emotions... exactly what I usually avoided. We were at the top, an elevated area from where you could observe everything without being part of anything. Control. Distance.

A German woman was trying to get my attention. Pretty, blonde, predictable. She spoke in my ear, smiled, stuck to my body. I answered just enough. I wasn't looking for anything that night... or so I thought.

Then I saw her.

She danced below, in the crowd.

Not like the others.

She didn't scream, didn't exaggerate, didn't seek looks. She moved freely, with a confidence that didn't need approval. She was foreign, I knew it immediately. Her energy didn't belong to Berlin. There was something about her... something broken and at the same time dangerously whole.

I stopped listening to the German woman.

"I'll be right back," I said without looking at her.

I went down the stairs without thinking too much. It wasn't like me to act on impulse, but that night I wasn't willing to analyze everything. The music enveloped the atmosphere; Paul had been playing for more than two hours and the energy was still rising, like a wave that didn't intend to break soon.

I approached her.

I watched her for another second.

And I took her by the waist.

It wasn't abrupt. It was firm. Secure.

She turned around.

Beautiful.

Dark hair, intense eyes, lips that seemed to hold too many unspoken words. She didn't smile immediately. She evaluated me. I liked that.

I didn't ask her name.

She didn't ask mine.

We looked at each other for only a few seconds before kissing, as if we both knew there was no time for courtesies. The kiss was direct, deep, charged with an electricity that ran through my entire body.

She was not a desperate woman.

She was not a naive woman.

She was a woman who had decided to lose control that night... just like me.

"Do you want to get out of here?" I asked near her ear, raising my voice a little to overcome the music.

She looked at me with a slow, dangerous smile.

"Do you always make such direct proposals?"

"Only when I'm sure."

She didn't respond with words. She took my hand.

We left the place when the set was almost five hours old. The night was still alive, but I no longer had any interest in staying. Berlin was cold outside, the perfect contrast to the heat that still ran through our skin.

On the way to my house we didn't talk too much. We didn't need to. But I watched her carefully. She wasn't nervous. She wasn't pretending. She had that dangerous calm of someone who isn't afraid of making mistakes.

"I don't usually take strangers home," I said, more as a warning than as a confession.

"I don't usually follow strangers," she replied, looking at me sideways. "I guess we're breaking rules today."

I smiled.

She was definitely not like the others.

Upon arriving, I closed the door behind us. The silence was as intense as the music we had left behind. I observed her. Her eyes shone with desire, yes, but also with something deeper: determination.

That was what finished trapping me.

It wasn't just any night.

She wasn't just any woman.

And although I didn't know her name, or her history, or the disaster she was probably carrying on top... I made her mine that night.

Maximilian Brandt, 36 years old