The flight was a silent, numbing journey through the clouds. They were in first class, a cocoon of luxury and privacy that Camila had booked with a flurry of desperate phone calls from the police station. But the plush seats and attentive service couldn't pierce the veil of trauma that hung over them. Lívia slept fitfully, her head on Camila's shoulder, her body twitching with nightmares. Camila stayed awake, watching the sky outside the window turn from the bruised purple of a Lisbon dawn to the brilliant, indifferent blue of mid-flight. She was a fortress, and her walls were up.
When they landed, São Paulo was a shock to the system. The oppressive heat, the constant, visceral hum of millions of lives colliding, the verticality of it all—it was the antithesis of Lisbon's sun-dappled, horizontal charm. For Lívia, it was like being dropped onto another planet. Camila's penthouse apartment, a minimalist sanctuary of glass and concrete high above the chaos, felt less like a home and more like a fortress, the last bastion against a world that had suddenly become terrifying.
The first few days were a blur of silence and stasis. Lívia moved through the apartment like a ghost. She would sit on the balcony for hours, not looking at the sprawling city below, but staring at her own hands, as if they belonged to a stranger. She'd jump at the sound of a dropped spoon, at the wail of a distant siren. The trauma wasn't just a memory; it was a physical presence in the room with them.
Camila gave her space, but not distance. She was a quiet, steady anchor. She made sure Lívia ate, leaving small plates of food beside her. She drew a bath for her each night, the scent of lavender oils a gentle attempt to coax her out of her shell. She didn't push her to talk, but her presence was a constant, unspoken promise: *I am here. You are safe.*
On the fourth day, Camila walked into the living room to find Lívia meticulously stacking and restacking a pile of coffee coasters, her movements precise but her eyes vacant. It was a small, meaningless task, but the obsessive quality of it sent a chill down Camila's spine. This wasn't just sadness; it was a fracture.
"Lívia," Camila said softly, sitting down on the floor beside her. "We need to talk."
Lívia flinched but didn't look at her. "About what?"
"About this. About what happened. About what's happening to you right now."
"I'm fine," Lívia said, her voice flat, robotic. "I'm just... tired."
"No," Camila said, her gentle but firm tone leaving no room for evasion. "You're not fine. And you don't have to be. But you can't live like this. I can't watch you live like this."
Lívia's hands stilled on the coasters. Her shoulders began to shake, and a single, gut-wrenching sob escaped her lips. It was the crack in the dam. The tears that followed were not quiet; they were violent, racking sobs that seemed to tear from the very depths of her soul. Camila wrapped her arms around her, holding her tight as Lívia's body convulsed with the force of her release. She didn't say a word, just let her cry, soaking the shoulder of her shirt until the storm subsided into ragged hiccups.
"I feel so stupid," Lívia finally whispered, her voice hoarse. "I feel so weak."
"You are the strongest person I know," Camila countered, her voice fierce with conviction. "You survived. You are surviving. But you don't have to do it alone."
Camila pulled back slightly, looking into her swollen, red-rimmed eyes. "I want you to talk to someone. A professional. A therapist who specializes in trauma."
Lívia recoiled slightly. "I don't want to talk to a stranger about this."
"It's not about wanting to. It's about needing to," Camila said, her tone softening. "Lívia, this event... It has a name. It's a violent crime. What Inês did to you, it's not just a 'bad breakup.' She stalked you, she manipulated you, she assaulted you, and she tried to kill us. That leaves a mark. A real, physical mark on your brain. You need help healing it."
She paused, choosing her next words with care. "Think of it this way. If you broke your leg, you'd go to an orthopedic surgeon, right? You wouldn't just try to 'walk it off' because you're strong. You'd let an expert fix it. This is the same thing. Your mind is what's broken right now. Let an expert help you put it back together."
The analogy resonated. It was practical, logical, and devoid of shame. It was an engineer's solution to an emotional problem, and it was exactly what Lívia needed to hear.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'll try."
"Good," Camila said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I found someone. A woman named Dr. Alves. She comes highly recommended. I can call her. We can do this together."
The next step was rebuilding. "You need to create again," Camila said a few days later, as they sat on the balcony, the city sprawling beneath them. "Your mind needs to work the way it's meant to work."
She had had her assistant clear out one of the spare bedrooms. It was now a blank canvas, flooded with natural light. On a large drafting table in the center of the room sat a brand-new set of professional-grade pencils, a fresh sketchbook, and a state-of-the-art laptop with architectural software already installed.
"I don't know what to draw," Lívia said, her voice hesitant as she stood in the doorway of the new studio.
"Then don't draw a building," Camila suggested gently. "Draw your escape. Draw a safe place. A room with no doors, or a house on a cliff surrounded by clouds. Draw whatever you want. There are no rules. No clients. No deadlines. Just you and the page. It's not about the product. It's about the process."
Lívia approached the table, her fingers tracing the smooth, cool surface of the drafting paper. For the first time since the shooting, a flicker of the old fire returned to her eyes. It wasn't a full-blown inferno, but it was a spark. And in the sterile safety of the São Paulo sky, that spark was everything.