The indistinct hum of conversations and the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air of the bar—a small oasis of tranquility in the frantic chaos of Milan. Bea and Sofia sat at a marble table; their ceramic cups were steaming, but only Bea seemed to notice. Her face, usually a map of shock and concern, was now a canvas of pure, irrepressible happiness.
"I can't believe it," Bea whispered, her voice thick with excitement. "Juglian asked you to marry him! Even if it was a joke! It's a sign! A sign that he loves you!"
Sofia felt as if her heart had suddenly stuttered. The coffee cup in her hand felt impossibly heavy. "It's not a sign, Bea," she said, her voice a fragile murmur of pain. "It was a joke. He... he says things like that without thinking."
"But why say it at all?" Bea countered, leaning in like a strategist who had just cracked an impossible code. "He said it because he thought it! He said it because he loves you! Why can't you just accept it?"
Sofia felt as if she'd been struck. "Because I can't, Bea," she whispered. "Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of not being enough. I'm not a model. I'm not a 'perfect' woman. I'm not the woman he deserves. He deserves someone radiant, someone elegant, someone powerful. A princess. And I... I am no princess."
Bea stood up, moved around the table, and took Sofia's hands in hers. "You are much more than a princess, Sofia," Bea said, her voice steady with the conviction of someone who knew the absolute truth. "You are a queen. A queen with a heart of gold. You are stronger, more beautiful, and more courageous than any model. And he knows it. He knows it because he loves you for who you are. He loves your heart. He loves your soul. He loves everything that makes you, you."
Sofia felt her breath hitch. Bea's words, delivered with such raw sincerity, pierced through her defenses. Tears spilled from her eyes—a cascade of emotions she could no longer suppress. "Thank you," Sofia managed to choke out. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Bea said firmly. "Thank Juglian. Thank the man who loves you. Thank the man who makes you happy. Thank the man who has already made you his princess."
Sofia felt a strange stillness settle over her heart. Perhaps Bea was right. Perhaps, in his own chaotic way, Juglian did love her. And she certainly loved him. In that moment, in that nondescript bar amidst the roar of Milan, Sofia felt like a princess—one who had finally been found by her knight.