That stuffy afternoon, the sun was already sinking on the horizon, tingeing the cracked sidewalks with dirty gold.

The bittersweet smell of expired food mixed with the persistent odor of old grease, coming from the metal trash can in the back of a fancy restaurant. There, with her knees on the filthy ground and her delicate fingers stained with residue, was Cleia.

She was a figure who clashed with that miserable setting. Her face, despite the soot and fatigue, displayed a beauty that the world insisted on ignoring. She had blue eyes so intense they seemed like violets, always attentive, always suspicious. Her fair skin bore marks of sun and cold, but still retained a surprising freshness.

Her hair, clumsily tied up, like autumnal leaves touched by gold.

Cleia wasn't born there.

Before, there was a house.

There was a family.

Her parents left too soon. The house debt swallowed everything, her past destroyed her, and she ended up there - learning to defend herself, to harden her soul, alone, hungry, and without hope.

She learned to defend herself, not to cry, not to trust.

The trash became her pantry.

At that moment, she found something rare: leftovers from an almost untouched meal. A piece of grilled chicken, some still crispy potatoes, and even a soft bread with melted cheese. A real feast.

She sat down on the sidewalk and began to carefully clean the food with the hem of her dirty sweatshirt, arranging each item as if it were sacred.

She raised her eyes for a moment, contemplating the almost deserted street in front of the restaurant.

And then she saw.

A gleaming black Bentley parked on the opposite sidewalk.

A uniformed driver opened the rear door, and out stepped an elderly gentleman, elegant in a finely tailored gray suit, a dark wooden cane in his hand. He was looking at his cell phone, distracted, and began to cross the street slowly, with shuffling steps.

It was at that moment that Cleia heard the muffled screech of tires.

A black car was coming at speed, perhaps not expecting to see someone crossing there.

Without thinking, she dropped the food on the ground, her stomach growling in revolt. She leaped like an arrow, crossing the street in seconds, her heart racing. When she reached the old man, she pushed him hard enough to throw him to the ground, but in time to get him out of the path of the car that passed inches from them, honking too late, with the driver shouting something that no one heard.

She fell beside him, her hands scraped on the asphalt, her knees skinned, her breathing labored. For a second, everything went silent.

The old man coughed and tried to get up, confused. She looked at him and blurted out, between a nervous laugh and a groan of pain:

"You're so rich… but very inattentive, you know?"

Two security guards came running in panic, calling for the elderly man, who was still lying on the ground with his cane beside him.

When they saw Cleia there, almost lying on the ground next to him, they prepared to remove her, judging her to be a threat or an inconvenient beggar.

But the man raised his hand, asking for calm.

His eyes; experienced eyes, accustomed to judging men and businesses, were fixed on her.

Not with fear, but with interest and even admiration.

"She saved me*." He said\, rising with the help of his cane. Then he turned to Cleia: "*What's your name, girl?"

She hesitated for a second, then said firmly:

"Cleia, sir."

The man smiled, as if he had just found something he had been looking for for a long time.

And the security guards, confused, retreated.

The elderly man adjusted his cane, still panting from the shock, and faced Cleia with a firm but gentle expression.

"I owe you a debt of gratitude, girl." He said, his voice deep, but full of respect.

Cleia shrank slightly, uncomfortable with the sudden attention. Her eyes wandered away from his for a moment.

"It was nothing*..." She replied\, shrugging her shoulders and taking a step back: "*I need to go."

But she barely had time to turn around. Immediately, four security guards moved like shadows, appearing in front of her and on the sides, surrounding her firmly, but without hostility.

Still, her muscles tensed. She knew the encirclement. She knew what it was like to be cornered, even if out of 'courtesy'.

One of them even raised his hand in a polite but firm gesture, asking her to wait.

Cleia, with her sharp instincts and accustomed to dealing with threats, stiffened her body, ready to run if necessary. But her eyes fixed again on the old man. She saw no danger in him. Only authority.

And a curiosity difficult to define.

"In the Castelier family*..." Said the elderly man with a voice that now echoed like a sacred order: "*no one is ungrateful."

The word "Castelier" sounded strange in Cleia's ears. Something old, important. She didn't know who they were, but it sounded like a surname that would open doors or lock entire vaults.

He took two steps forward.

"Come with me over there*." He pointed with his head towards the elegant entrance of the restaurant\, whose mirrored glass doors reflected the expensive cars on the street: "*You must be hungry."

Cleia hesitated. Her pride screamed for her to refuse. She shook her head, trying to maintain her pose.

"I'm not..." She began to say, but at that moment, her own body betrayed her.

A loud rumble, coming from her stomach, interrupted the sentence and filled the silence. She widened her eyes, surprised and red with shame.

The old man smiled.

She knew what an invitation could hide. She observed the tailored suits, the attentive eyes of the security guards with restrained, trained gestures.

The elderly man followed her gaze and noticed her worn clothes: The baggy, filthy sweatshirt, with small tears, the faded jeans, the holey sneakers.

He did not mock, he did not disguise.

Cleia laughed at herself and raised her chin, trying to recover her lost dignity.

"Alright*..." She said with a false\, mocking arrogance: "*But I'm warning you, I won't eat little."

He let out a short, genuine laugh.

"Better that way. Courageous people deserve plenty."

The security guards cleared the way as he guided her with calm gestures.

She walked beside him, still feeling like a fish out of water, but curiously safe.

The restaurant doors opened automatically with a light buzz, revealing a luxurious environment: crystal chandeliers hung over tables covered with white linen tablecloths, waiters dressed in black and white moved with precision, and the aroma coming from the kitchen was as intense as it was sophisticated.

The customers' eyes immediately turned to the scene: the patriarch of the Casteliers, a name known and respected in elite circles, entering the room next to a young woman clearly from the streets, with torn clothes, worn shoes, and dirt on her hands.

Murmurs began to spread among the tables.

But the old man ignored everyone.

"Private table." He said to one of the maîtres, who nodded respectfully and led them to the upper floor, more secluded.

Cleia followed with restrained steps, her eyes absorbing everything as if she were on another planet. The marble, the sparkling glasses, the silver cutlery... none of this seemed to have space in her world.

But, for some reason, she didn't feel as out of place as she expected.

The atmosphere on the upper floor of the restaurant was quiet, shrouded in an almost intimidating luxury. The sound of the cutlery was soft, controlled, and the aroma of the refined dishes hung in the air like a reminder of exclusivity. The lights were warm, reflecting in the gilded mirrors and the crystals of the glasses.

Mr. Castelier adjusted his cane and signaled something to the head of security and stepped away to give instructions.

But before she could settle in, a tall, slender man, in an impeccable suit and his hair slicked back, approached with swift steps and an icy gaze. He was the restaurant host.

He stopped in front of the two of them, his gaze going directly to Cleia. The disdain on his face was as clear as the light from the chandelier above them. He examined her from head to toe, wrinkling his nose as if the simple fact that she was there was a personal insult.

"Young lady*?!" He said with a voice poisoned with formality: "*I ask you to leave. We do not accept beggars in this establishment."

Cleia raised an eyebrow and looked directly at him, firm as a wall.

"I don't even know who you are*" She said sarcastically\, raising her chin: "*And I am a guest."

At that moment, the elderly man, with a glint in his eyes, looked at the head of security and made a slight gesture with his head, stepping back a few steps, in silence.

He wanted to observe.

He wanted to see how she would defend herself.

The host scoffed, with a crooked smile that dripped venom.

"A dish here costs more than your life seems worth. The young lady wouldn't pay for it even with three years of work. Who, in their right mind, would be so mistaken as to invite her to such a refined place?"

Cleia was not shaken.

Instead, she smiled with disdain, the same one he had launched at her seconds before. With a mocking elegance, she turned her body to the side and pointed with her chin to the old man behind her.

"Him. Who else?"

The host widened his eyes. The blood drained from his face like a river returning to its source. His eyes darted to the well-known figure of Nathaniel Castelier, the patriarch of the powerful family who was not only a rare presence, but the owner of the restaurant where he worked.

"M-Mr. Nathaniel..." He stammered, paling.

The elderly man approached calmly, leaning on his cane, but his voice came out with steely firmness:

"Who taught you that, in my restaurant, people are judged by their clothing?"

Silence fell like a death sentence. The host, now almost trembling, bowed immediately to Cleia, his forehead already shining with sweat.

"I-I apologize, Miss. It was a terrible mistake on my part. I will serve you personally, if you allow it. A thousand pardons, Mr. Anton."

Cleia raised an eyebrow, surprised inside, but maintained her composure with a disconcerting naturalness. She pretended not to have noticed the revelation of the name Nathaniel Castelier, as if he were just the kind old man with a Bentley.

"I was going to demand that anyway, you're only getting away with it because I'm starving. Otherwise, I would ask for you to be fired*." She replied with a victorious little smile: "*Besides, I'm not the one who's going to pay. So hurry up, I'm hungry."

With her head held high, she walked to the reserved seat, her old, worn clothes contrasting with the leather armchairs and the impeccable floral arrangements. She sat like a lady, but with the audacity of someone who never begs for space, she only occupies it.

Nathaniel followed her slowly, with a smile on his lips, a rare, almost nostalgic smile. As if he were reliving something from the past, or perhaps witnessing the birth of something grand.

The host, still bowed, discreetly wiped the sweat from his forehead with a white linen handkerchief, barely able to contain the trembling in his hands.

At that moment, no one else in that room saw a homeless person.

They saw someone that Nathaniel Castelier himself chose to bring with him.

And that was enough to rewrite any judgment.

Cleia sank into the leather chair, her body still a bit tense, legs crossed awkwardly, as if unsure whether to settle in or be ready to run at any moment.

The soft texture of the chair contrasted with the rough, stained fabric of her worn pants. Even here, in this scene of absurd luxury, she kept her chin raised and her eyes alert.

The host returned with the menu in his hands, now completely transformed. The arrogance of before had given way to an almost theatrical humility, his movements too careful, his eyes always lowered.

"**Madam..." He said in a gentle tone, as if speaking to royalty: "... allow me the house menu."

He handed it to her with both hands, as if offering an ancestral treasure. Cleia took it and began to leaf through it, her eyes scanning the pages with growing curiosity. The golden letters shone under the soft light, and the descriptions of the dishes seemed more like poetry than cuisine.

The customers at the surrounding tables still cast judgmental glances. Discreet murmurs, eyes that swept over her clothes and then turned to each other with scandalized expressions.

But she ignored them all with the mastery of someone who had become accustomed to being invisible — or unwanted.

She turned a page and stopped, her eyes widening as if she had just found a crime printed there.

"All this for a piece of meat?" She exclaimed, shocked, speaking loudly enough for a neighboring table to cough in protest.

The host shuddered.

"Five thousand reais for a rare steak**?" She repeated, now raising her eyes with comic indignation: "There are people who pay all that for an almost raw steak**?"

The man almost had a minor heart attack. His right hand immediately went to his chest, as if trying to contain the impact of the heresy.

His face contorted in a mixture of astonishment and vicarious embarrassment.

It was then that Nathaniel Castelier let out a sonorous laugh. Rich, carefree, contagious. The sound filled the room, and for a moment, all eyes turned to him — no longer to Cleia.

The patriarch was enjoying himself, as he hadn't done in years.

"Don't look at the price, my dear. Just order."

She turned her head slowly and stared at him.

"But I don't want to bankrupt you, do I?"

One of the security guards, standing behind the old man with his arms crossed, almost burst out laughing. He had to turn his face away, coughing to disguise it.

"Give me this dish here**." She said to the host, pointing to one of the meats on the menu: "But I'm warning you: I don't want to see blood on the plate. If I wanted to pay to eat something raw, I would steal a piece from the butcher myself and not even wash it**."

The host turned pale, perplexed, static for a moment. The words seemed to strike like slaps on the restaurant's starched etiquette.

He took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and, after a small bow, left with contained disgust, muttering to himself about "unforgivable culinary offenses".

As he walked away, Cleia still grumbled softly:

"Five thousand on a dish... just to come with hay essence and potatoes reduced in Himalayan wine, frankly..."

Nathaniel was enchanted. He leaned back in his chair with a serene smile, watching that unfiltered young woman, so out of place and yet so authentic.

"So tell me something about yourself, what made you live on the streets?" He said, now in a low, curious voice.

Cleia stopped grumbling, closed the menu with a soft snap, and placed it on the table. Her clear eyes stared at him calmly, but without defensiveness.

"What do you want to know? The resume I lost along with my house**?" she said with irony, then shrugged: "My parents died a few years ago. A car accident. The house had debts, and I had no one to turn to. The banks don't wait for anyone to cry. The street was all that was left**."

She picked up the glass of water in front of her with unexpected elegance, but drank it like someone who has no time for frills.

"I learned to fend for myself. To eat trash, to sleep with one eye open, to fight when they try to steal your blanket in the middle of the night. And now I'm here... talking to the owner of the most expensive restaurant in the city as if it were normal."

Nathaniel remained silent for a few seconds, absorbing each word. That young woman had something rare: raw truth, without adornments.

"And do you... always talk like that?"

Cleia smiled with a mocking glint.

"Only when I'm hungry. When I eat, I become an angel."

He laughed once more, while the other customers now looked with less contempt... and a little more astonishment.

Her body was slightly bent over the table, her fingers sliding lightly over the water glass. The water was no longer so cold, but she didn't mind. Her eyes wandered for a moment in the reflection of the glass, until Nathaniel's gentle voice called her back:

"And where do you sleep, my granddaughter?"

The question came laden with tenderness. An unexpected warmth crossed Cleia's chest.

"My granddaughter." That way of saying it — so affectionate, so protective — undid her inside. Her heart, hardened by cold and lonely nights, warmed for a second.

"Anywhere**..." She replied softly, but firmly: "Park bench, abandoned bus, empty building staircase. Wherever there's a corner and few people around, you learn to be strong even in the face of a storm, Mr. Castelier**."

Nathaniel frowned, and before she continued, he corrected her gently:

"Call me Nathaniel. No Castelier. Just Nathaniel."

She blinked in surprise. She was used to being treated with disdain or superiority, never with such quiet humility.

"Okay... I'll call you by the diminutive: Nathan."

A slight smile appeared on her face. And then, with even more honesty, she said:

"Living on the streets isn't necessarily bad. You learn to survive with self-defense. When we have a roof, food, a closet full of clothes, we don't pay attention to any of that. But when we have nothing... even a broken hair brooch found on the sidewalk becomes a treasure. You look at it and think:"It's mine, no one will take it from me."And you value it."

Nathaniel listened to her with a gleam in his eyes, touched by every word. This was not just a lesson in survival — it was a philosophy.

A soul shaped by misery, but not corrupted by it.

"My grandson will arrive soon." He said, after a brief silence.

Cleia straightened up in her chair, nodding.

"Sure... I can leave when they arrive."

But what came next made her freeze in place.

"I want you to stay."

She looked at him with narrowed eyes, uncomprehending. The old man smiled, enigmatic.

"I have an idea... to help you. And to help my grandson too."

Cleia widened her eyes, suspicious and curious at the same time.

"What idea?"

The old man simply adjusted his cane next to the table and, with a secret smile, replied:

"You'll know soon enough."

She remained motionless for a few seconds, her heart beating a little faster.

On that afternoon that had begun with leftovers from a garbage can, she was now in front of a millionaire — and something told her that life was about to take an impossible turn to predict.

The food arrived silently, pushed on a silver cart by well-aligned waiters, with white gloves and impeccable posture.

The dishes were placed before Cleia and Nathaniel with the reverence of a ritual. The aroma of grilled meat, enveloped in sophisticated sauces and accompanied by vegetables sculpted with almost artistic precision, invaded the air.

"How does one eat this?" she murmured to herself, trying to remember if different forks were for different foods or if it was just rich people's fussiness.

She picked up the "friendliest" piece of silverware, but on the second forkful, it slipped from her hand and fell with a sonorous "clang!" on the marble floor.

Some customers looked in horror. Cleia smiled shamelessly and said, with the meat glistening before her:

"Ah, you know what?" And she picked up the juicy piece of meat with her hands anyway.

The customers at the other tables gasped in shock.

A woman dropped her wine glass.

A waiter stopped in mid-stride.

The host, who was watching from afar, put his hand to his forehead as if he were having an apocalyptic vision.

Cleia bit into the meat with relish, her eyes closing briefly as the rich flavor and soft texture filled her mouth. A sound almost of relief escaped her lips.

"Sorry, Nathan**." She said, still chewing, without the slightest ceremony: "It's just that I haven't eaten anything good in years**."

The old man just smiled, with his eyes brimming with tenderness, and nodded with a calm gesture.

He understood. There was nothing to forgive.

But the moment was brutally interrupted when the restaurant door opened.

A man entered who looked like he had stepped out of a perfume ad: tall, long-legged, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, and a face that looked hand-sculpted, green eyes, symmetrical and precise, like a living statue.

Next to him, an older but still stunning woman: hair impeccably styled, haute couture clothes, and an aloof presence.

It was clearly his mother — the same aristocratic nose and cold eyes.

Nathaniel raised his hand enthusiastically and said in a clear, low voice:

"Jonas, I present to you your fiancee."

The sound of Cleia's fork falling on the plate echoed like a bell of catastrophe.

Her eyes widened, and in a pure reflex, she spat the meat onto the plate, immediately choking. She coughed desperately, pounded her chest, knocked over the glass of water and pulled another to drink, all clumsily.

The atmosphere plunged into a stunned silence.

Jonas looked at her as if he were seeing a rare insect in his dessert.

"Grandpa, I heard you were almost run over... did that affect your head?"

The elderly man, until then patient, slammed his hand on the table. The sound reverberated through the walls like thunder.

"Sergey, close the restaurant."

The giant security guard, with a simple nod, began to escort the customers out.

The murmurs ceased.

Eyes darted away.

In seconds, the luxurious restaurant was empty, leaving only the Casteliers, Cleia... and the silence charged with tension.

Nathaniel spoke firmly:

"She saved my life. And as gratitude, she must become your wife."

Cleia was still coughing, but managed to take a sip of water and, with wide eyes, said:

"Sorry, Nathaniel ... but I'm not in the mood to get married, no."

The old man just took a deep breath, patiently:

"You saved my life. I would never allow you to fall into disgrace living on the streets. I want to give you more than a dinner."

But then a hysterical scream cut through the air like a razor:

"Dad! You want to marry my son to a beggar?! He's already waiting for Suzan to return from abroad."

Jonas's mother seemed to have completely lost control. Her beautiful face was contorted with fury, as if she had witnessed a sacrilege.

Cleia, calmly, didn't even turn her face to her. She just spoke naturally:

"Excuse me, ma'am. Before you talk about me, understand one thing:"beggar"is someone who kneels, begs, and belittles themselves. I don't beg, I survive. Homeless is not a label of shame, it's a portrait of circumstance. The difference between me and you? It's that I'm poor and I fight. You're rich, but if you judge me by what I wear, maybe you're much more miserable than I am."

Absolute silence.

Nathaniel looked at Cleia as if he were seeing the future before his eyes.

With pride.

Then, with a firm and imperative voice, he declared:

"She will be your wife, Jonas, or the Castelier company will never be yours. You are old enough to marry. It's time to think beyond the mirror. And about that woman, don't even bother thinking about her."

Jonas stared at his grandfather with a mixture of anger and disbelief. His mother seemed about to faint.

Cleia, with wide eyes, turned slowly to the elderly man:

"But wait a minute... if I saved your life, why do I have to accept this"gratitude"by marrying this guy?"

She pointed to Jonas, then shrugged.

"Wouldn't the right thing be to marry you?"

The phrase landed like a bomb.

Jonas was speechless.

His mother, without words, choked on her own air.

And Nathan... laughed.

He laughed loudly, a deep, joyful, scandalous laugh, as if that were the best joke he had heard in years.

And Cleia, still licking the meat off her fingers, raised an eyebrow and said:

"Did I say something stupid?"

"You have more courage than this whole family put together." Said the elderly man, still laughing: "That's why you will be a Castelier. One way or another."

Cleia picked up another piece of meat with her hands and ate it.

 — I like her, and it will be her. No more to decide. - Declared the elderly man with the firmness of someone who does not admit rebuttal.

His voice resonated strongly in the silent hall, cutting off any attempt at objection.

Cleia widened her eyes and turned her face in his direction, serious.

"And me**?" She asked firmly: "Don't I have the right to choose**?"

The elderly man smiled at her, not arrogantly, but like a patient grandfather explaining something important to a restless granddaughter.

"Food every day, a warm house and your dignity returned... what do you think?"

She shook her head, pursing her lips. That was an attempt to convince her with promises that she knew well the value of: comfort.

And she knew the weight of that. But still, it wasn't a light price.

Jonas, with his arms crossed and a mocking smile on the corner of his mouth, spoke:

"I agree with this beggar. Finally something sensible."

Cleia immediately turned her head and glared at him.

"I'm the one who agrees with myself. Since when do you think you're worthy of me?"

Jonas scoffed with disdain, as if her response were laughable.

"A beggar like you should be grateful for a man like me just casting a glance at you."

Cleia let out a dry laugh and crossed her arms.

"Right... keep dreaming. You're just desperate for your grandfather's inheritance."

At that moment, Jonas's gaze darkened. His jaws clenched and the smile disappeared. The anger transformed his face into a cold and threatening contour.

His mother, from the side, whispered in his ear:

"Let your grandfather do this..." her voice was poisonous. "Just put her in a house and keep her there. Locked up. Like a social contract. Nothing more."

Jonas didn't answer, but the look of agreement was enough.

Then, silently, they all left for the registry office.