The silence that followed the thud of the door closing behind Bea was more deafening than any scream. The apartment, once a nest of silent tensions, was now a battlefield where the echoes of war were still palpable. Juglian and Sofia remained standing in the kitchen, his hand still wrapped in hers. Their happiness, which only a moment ago had been so pure and unconditional, was now clouded by a shadow of sadness. Sofia, with her heart tuned to the emotional frequencies of the world, felt Bea's pain like a tidal wave crashing against their bubble of intimacy. "Juglian," she murmured, her voice a whisper. "Did you see her eyes? She was... she was destroyed."
Juglian pulled her close, his embrace acting as a suit of armor to shield her from the world. But his gaze, when it landed on Bea's closed bedroom door, was cold—glacial—a sudden return to the ruthless king she had met at the beginning. "She made her choice," he said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "She chose to play a game she didn't understand. And she lost. It's not my fault she lost, Sofia. It's not our fault."
Sofia pulled back from the embrace, her heart racing. "But it isn't a game, Juglian," she said, her voice steady—a thread of silk clashing against steel. "Those are Bea's feelings. And they are real."
Juglian shook his head. "No, Sofia. They aren't real. It's an obsession, an infatuation. She doesn't love me. She loves the idea of me. She loves the idea of being the partner of the 'God of Muscles.' But the 'God of Muscles' no longer exists. And she cannot accept loving an artist who is afraid to draw. She cannot accept loving the man I actually am."
His voice was harsh, his words as sharp as razor blades. The King had returned. And Sofia, despite loving him, felt a cold shiver run down her spine. It was a side of him she had never seen, a side that had been hidden by layers of vulnerability and pain. It was the side he had learned to hide, the mask he had worn his entire life.
Later, when Juglian had retreated into his studio, Sofia—moved by a force she couldn't control—approached Bea's closed door. She knocked gently; there was no answer. She knocked again, harder. "Bea," she murmured, her voice a silken thread. "Please. Let me in."
After an eternity of silence, the door opened. Bea looked at her, eyes red and face swollen from crying. Her green eyes, once so full of life and fire, were now extinguished—a void that was painful to look at. "What do you want?" she muttered, her voice broken, a whisper lost in the distant sound of the rain. "Are you here to lecture me? To tell me you were right? To tell me love isn't a game?"
Sofia shook her head, placing her hand gently on Bea's shoulder. "No," she said, her voice firm but full of empathy. "I'm not here for that. I'm here because you are my friend. Because I care about you. And because I'm sorry. I am sorry for your pain. But I am not sorry for my love for him. And you... you can't ask me not to love him, Bea. You can't ask me not to be happy."
Bea burst into tears, her body shaking with rage and grief. "But don't you see?" she wailed, her voice a lament. "Don't you understand that I'm not angry with you? I'm angry with him! I'm angry at his hypocrisy, at his games! At him being one thing in public and another in private! And I'm angry at myself, Sofia. Because I believed he wanted me, that he saw me. And instead... instead, he only saw you."
Sofia hugged her, and after a moment of hesitation, Bea gripped her tightly, her tears disappearing into Sofia's hair. They stayed there for an infinity, and in that moment, their love, their pain, and their friendship were one and the same.
But the next day, the war began anew. The King had returned. In a moment of anger and pain, Juglian had brought back his mask. And his mask was a weapon. He used it against Bea with a ferocity and malice that Sofia had never witnessed.
"Did you see how he came back?" Bea said to Sofia, her face pale, her eyes hollow. "The 'God of Muscles' is back. And he destroyed me, Sofia. He destroyed me with his words. He told me I'm a spoiled child, a superficial woman, that I'll never be enough for him. He told me I deserve to be alone. And you know what? Maybe he's right."
Sofia felt her heart break. She approached Juglian while he was drinking coffee in the kitchen, his expression a suit of icy armor. "Juglian," she murmured, her voice a thread of silk. "Did you say those things to Bea? Did you say those things to her?"
Juglian looked at her, his blue eyes cold and distant. "She got what she deserved," he said, his voice flat. "She chose to play a game she didn't know. And she lost. It's not my fault she lost, Sofia. It's not our fault."
Sofia felt a chill run down her spine. "But Juglian," she said, her voice a whisper. "You aren't like this. You are a beautiful soul, an artist. You aren't the 'God of Muscles.' You are the man hiding behind him. And the man hiding behind him isn't a king, Juglian. He is a man who loves. And a man who loves does not destroy. He builds."
Juglian looked at her, and for a fleeting second, his eyes filled with a shadow of pain. But then, the mask returned. The King was back on his throne. "The man I am," he said, his voice cold and remote, "is a man who has learned to survive, Sofia. And to survive, sometimes, you have to destroy."
In that moment, Sofia realized their story wasn't a fairy tale. It was a war. And she, the Healer, had the task of saving the man she loved—not just from the world, but from himself.