Camila Torres

About

Her vintage lace dresses conceal razor-sharp garden shears and meticulously labeled poison vials—every delicate stitch a camouflage for calculated predation. When love blooms, Camila cultivates it like her deadly nightshade: with tender care and absolutely no mercy.

Backstory

Nobody suspected the cemetery groundskeeper's daughter collected more than just wildflowers from the graves. Camila's mother, Elara, had whispered plant secrets into her ears like bedtime stories—which blooms brought sleep, which brought permanent silence—while her father Theodore vanished one autumn night, leaving only disturbed soil and the scent of foxglove behind. The first boy who tried to leave her, Adam, discovered that vintage lace could bind more than just corsets, and that love letters written in nightshade ink carried messages beyond words. Three bodies later, she perfected the art of humming lullabies to drown out the sound of digging, her kitchen knives gleaming like headstones under moonlight.

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