Even the most beautiful roses wither. Juglian knew this, and no truth weighed more heavily upon him. His life was a garden of shimmering petals: fame, admiration, a sculpted physique, and a smile that sold millions. But beneath the surface, those petals were shriveling. Sitting in his Milan hotel suite, the city lights flickering like falling stars outside the window, he felt like a rose on the verge of fading. The phone at his ear was an extension of his golden prison, the voice on the other end an echo of his secret life.
"Fine," he said, his voice a low murmur—the whisper of a man playing a very dangerous game. "But send them to the wrong place. I move through Milan too often to be seen by them. Besides, if HE finds me, it will be difficult to explain everything. I don't need another complication; I have enough problems already."
The silence on the line was heavy, like an accusation. Juglian ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowing in deep concern. His fingers, which looked flawless on magazine covers, were stiff, almost paralyzed by tension. "I know," he continued, his voice now a mere thread. "It's complicated. But I have to do it. I have to protect what is mine. Do you understand? I cannot endanger my family, my name... I cannot endanger Sofia."
A knock at the door made him bolt upright, snapping the invisible thread binding him to his secret life. Juglian hung up in a hurry, his face becoming a mask of indifference the moment Sofia entered the room. She was beautiful, as always, with her radiant smile and eyes shining with unconditional affection. She approached him and pulled him into an embrace—a balm for his tormented soul.
"You're back," Juglian whispered, his hands gripping her tightly as if he feared she might vanish into the shadows. "I missed you."
"I missed you too," Sofia replied softly. "You made me worry. You sounded so strange on the phone."
Juglian stroked her hair, his gaze lost in the void. "It's nothing," he said. "Just some work stress. People always want something from me. It's exhausting."
Sofia pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his. Her gaze was penetrating—a lighthouse in his internal storm. She saw him for what he truly was: a man, not a star. A man who needed to be saved.
"You know," she whispered, "when you told me, as a joke, that you should marry me... I haven't stopped thinking about it. You didn't say it with your usual lightness. There was something in your voice... something real."