The marble walls reflected the golden glow of the imposing chandelier, as if with each glance they wanted to remind everyone there how powerful that family was. I felt suffocated. Not by the heat — the air conditioning was doing its job — but by the environment. By the looks. By the invisible comparisons that, to me, were always blatant.

The party was for my sister, of course.

Isadora Vasconcellos, the jewel of the family. Graduated in Law, fluent in three languages, slim, elegant, her smile trained in front of the mirror. She was the woman everyone wanted to see. And me? The one no one noticed. The one who served herself champagne while the waiters ignored her presence. The daughter who was only there to complete the family photo — as long as she was in the background, preferably behind someone more beautiful.

I adjusted the strap of my wine-colored dress. It was the most discreet one I found. Just fitted enough not to look like a sack, but loose enough to hide what I couldn't accept. My body. The curves they said were "exaggerated," the arms I never showed, the belly I learned to hide with coats, even in the summer.

"Helena, darling, could you step aside a little? You're blocking the light for the photo," my mother whispered through her teeth, with that social smile on her lips.

I took a step back, my heart sinking in my chest as if each of her subtle gestures was a reminder that, no matter how hard I tried, I would never be enough.

Not like Isadora.

"At least try to smile," she added before turning, putting her arm around her favorite daughter with pride.

I smiled. Because it was easier to pretend it didn't hurt.

I moved away from the group and went to the balcony. I needed air. The city stretched out before me, lights blinking as if celebrating everything I wasn't. I felt the wind tousle my hair and closed my eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like to be someone else. A Helena who took up space without apologizing. Who looked in the mirror and liked what she saw.

"Is everything okay?" the male voice pulled me from my reverie.

I turned quickly, embarrassed. And there he was.

Rafael Monteiro.

CEO of the Alcor Group. Young, successful, absurdly handsome. A man who walked as if the world belonged to him and everyone only lived in it by permission.

Of course he would be there. He was the big guest of the night. The merger between the companies depended on his signature. My father almost had a happiness collapse when Rafael confirmed his presence.

"Yes, everything is fine," I lied, crossing my arms in an instinctive attempt to hide my body.

He approached slowly, without the invasive look I expected. He didn't scan my body like so many others had, as if they were judging every inch outside the standard. He just... looked into my eyes.

"There are a lot of people in there. I imagine it's suffocating sometimes," he commented, with a wry smile that seemed too sincere for someone like him.

I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say. Men like that didn't talk to me. Never. And if they did, it was out of obligation. Out of politeness. Or out of mockery.

"Helena, right?"

"Yes..." I was surprised he knew my name. Most didn't. Some thought I was Isadora's cousin. Or a friend. Never part of the family.

"Rafael," he said, extending his hand.

I accepted it hesitantly. His was firm, warm. And there, for a second, I felt seen. Not as the middle daughter. Not as the fat girl. Just as me.

"You look like you want to run away," he said, tilting his head slightly. "What if I told you I'm in exactly the same vibe?"

I let out a nervous laugh. I almost apologized for it. But he smiled too. A smile that made me want to stay.

"If you want, we can discreetly escape through the side," he suggested, with a slight humor in his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest, as if he were really considering the idea.

The joke drew another laugh from me — more timid, more restrained, but genuine. And, for some reason I didn't understand, he seemed pleased with that. It unnerved me. Men like Rafael Monteiro didn't seek the approval of women like me.

"I don't know if my father would be happy if the future partner escaped the party before the toast," I commented, staring at the city beyond the balcony, avoiding his gaze that burned too much for my comfort.

"Maybe. But I think he would survive if he knew I prefer to talk to his daughter than to continue listening to the Minister of Commerce's speech for the third time this week."

I turned my face to him, trying to interpret that. There was sarcasm, yes, but also a kind of rare frankness. And that bothered me. Because I wanted to doubt, as I always doubted everything — the empty compliments, the forced looks, the attempts at sympathy that always hid some kind of pity. But that wasn't what I saw in his eyes.

"I'm not the kind of person who usually holds the attention of arrogant CEOs," I blurted out, as if defending myself before being attacked.

He raised an eyebrow.

"And who convinced you of that?"

"Everyone," I thought.

My mother, with her disapproving looks every time I took an extra dessert.

Isadora, with her passive-aggressive phrases about "how I could be pretty if I tried."

The boys at school who laughed behind my back — and sometimes, not so much behind my back.

"Life," I replied, with a shrug.

Rafael leaned against the balcony railing, sideways to me. The well-cut suit seemed to have been molded to his body. Perfect, like everything he represented.

"You know what I find curious, Helena?" he said, after a few seconds of silence.

"What?"

"The way you try to hide even when you're in the spotlight. As if you're apologizing for existing, even when you're not doing anything but breathing."

That phrase hit me harder than I wanted to admit. And it made me furious.

"Sorry if my existence bothers you," I retorted, dryly, shame mixing with anger.

He turned his face to me, calm. Unshakable.

"It doesn't bother me. It just makes me want to understand why someone like you believes they deserve less than anyone else in this room."

My heart beat too hard. Not out of romanticism. But because he was stirring up something no one had ever dared to touch.

The truth.

I didn't know how to respond. My silence seemed enough for him, because Rafael just let out a slight sigh and looked at the city in front of us.

"I grew up with people like that," he said, slowly. "Who tell you who you should be, what you should look like, what you should keep quiet about. I learned to play the game. To wear the right suit, the right tone of voice, the arrogance in just the right measure so as not to seem weak. But... it's tiring."

I turned to face him, surprised by the unexpected honesty.

"And why are you here, then?"

"Because, sometimes, you need to enter the castle before you can tear it down from the inside."

We were silent for a few seconds. Me absorbing every word, him perhaps respecting the time I needed to digest all of that. And when our eyes met again, there was no cheap flirting there. No condescension.

There was truth.

"You're not invisible, Helena," he said, without smiling, without embellishing. He just spoke.

"And if you think you are, you're looking in the wrong mirror."

I felt exposed. As if someone had turned a light on me after years of living in the shadows.

But I also felt… alive.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to run away.

Or hide.

I wanted to stay.

With him.

Even without understanding why.

I left the balcony with trembling hands.

Not from the cold—the night was warm, even stuffy—but from the feeling of having been emotionally stripped bare in a few minutes. Rafael Monteiro looked at me as if he had seen what even I couldn't see. As if there was something of value in me, even shrouded by all the layers of protection, shame, and fear.

And I didn't know how to handle that.

As I crossed the hall, trying to find a place to hide, his words echoed:

"You're not invisible. You're looking in the wrong mirror."

That man had no idea how many mirrors had already rejected me.

"Helena!" my mother's high-pitched voice cut through my thoughts. "Where were you?"

Her tone was sharp, but polished enough to maintain appearances in front of the guests. She smiled at a couple behind me before discreetly pulling me by the arm.

"Talking," I murmured.

"To whom?"

"To Rafael Monteiro."

She looked at me as if I had said I was drinking wine straight from the bottle in the bathroom.

"What? Why?"

"Because he talked to me."

My mother blinked, surprised. As if she couldn't understand why a man like him would waste time with someone like me. That hurt. But it was predictable. It was part of the silent game we had been playing for years. The game where she pretended to accept me, and I pretended not to notice her constant disappointment.

"Helena..." she sighed, more tired than annoyed, "you know he's a key player in your father's negotiation. We don't need him to get... the wrong impressions."

I swallowed hard.

Wrong impressions.

Yes, of course. Because if he saw me as someone interesting, intelligent, or even minimally desirable, he would obviously be mistaken.

That's how she saw me. How everyone saw me. And, most of the time, that's how I saw myself too.

But something in that encounter, in Rafael's firm and calm gaze, cracked the armor I had spent years building.

Back in my room, on the upper floor of the mansion, I hastily removed my earrings and looked at myself in the mirror.

Even with the impeccable makeup and the tailored dress, all I saw was what was wrong. What was too much. What took up space. The fat on my arm, the curve of my hip, the belly that stood out more than it should.

But, for the first time, something rebelled inside me.

What if he was right?

What if I had learned to see myself through the wrong eyes?

I dropped the earrings on the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed, hugging my knees, still in the dress. The party continued downstairs. The laughter, the toasts, the important names being spoken aloud. The world where Isadora shone and where I was just a shadow.

But, suddenly, the shadow had meaning. Because someone had stopped to see it. And that was new. Scary, but new.

In the following days, I tried to forget. I buried myself in the commitments of the institute where I worked—a small social project funded by the family to "improve the public image." It was my refuge. There I could be useful, invisible in the right way. No cameras, no expensive dresses, no people expecting me to pretend to be someone I wasn't.

But he was everywhere.

On the cover of economics magazines. In a radio interview in the car. In a snippet of the news on the TV in the reception area. Rafael Monteiro seemed to follow me, even when I tried to avoid remembering his face. Or his voice. Or the way he said my name, as if it were a secret between us.

On the fourth day after the event, I walked into the house and heard my father's voice in the meeting room.

"The presentation was a success. Rafael was impressed with the project management."

"Who was responsible for the social impact proposal?" he asked on the other end of the line.

My mother answered before my father could say anything:

"Helena. She's taking care of it."

The silence on his end was brief but intense.

"I'm liking her work. Give her the freedom to continue with it."

My heart pounded.

Me?

He was liking... something I did?

I took a step back before they realized I was listening. I ran up the stairs, my heart racing.

This wasn't just a flirtation. It wasn't a passing kindness. He was watching. Following. Paying attention to what I was doing. As if I had some real relevance.

That night, before going to sleep, I opened the institute's email and there it was:

Subject: Possible technical visit – Rafael Monteiro

Dear Helena,

I am impressed with the social project presented and would like to see it up close.

Would you be available for a visit to the space next week?

Rafael Monteiro

I read and reread the email seven times.

Not for the content.

But for the form.

He wrote to me directly. He called me by name. And he asked for something. He asked me for something, as if my opinion mattered. As if I mattered.

My hands were trembling again.

But this time, it was different.

It wasn't fear.

It was anticipation.

It was the beginning of something.

And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to see how far it could go.

Even if it was dangerous.

Even if I didn't know how to survive the fall.

I woke up two hours earlier than necessary.

I couldn't sleep well all night, waking up from time to time as if something was wrong. As if I had forgotten an important detail or as if the world was about to turn upside down.

Maybe it was.

Rafael Monteiro was coming to the institute today.

And not as an arrogant businessman looking for the spotlight—at least, that's not how he seemed. The way he wrote the email, direct and objective, but without coldness... told me that he wanted to see more. Not of the statistics, not of the goals—but of the people. And maybe, of me.

I dressed carefully. Not as my mother would like—no high heels or overly tight silk blouse—but not as I used to either. I picked out a pair of tailored black pants that shaped my body without disguising it. A white shirt with a slight neckline, just enough to show that I was present. I lived too long trying to disappear. Maybe today was the day to allow myself to exist.

I tied my hair in a low bun and applied light makeup. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't find myself beautiful. But I didn't hate myself either.

And that was already a lot.

When he arrived, I knew even before I saw him.

The electronic gate opened and the reception's movement became different—more attentive, more tense, as if a figure from another world had invaded our humble corner of the city.

I met him at the door of the main building. He was wearing a navy blue shirt folded up to the elbows, no tie, no suit—which immediately confused me. He wasn't the Rafael Monteiro from the magazine covers. He was the man from the balcony. The one who looked at me as if he wanted to decipher me.

"Good morning, Helena," he said with a discreet smile.

"Good morning..." I tried to contain the tremor in my voice. "Welcome to the Institute."

He extended his hand to me, as he had done at the party, and, once again, I held his with the strange feeling that there was something there. Something that held me. That recognized me.

"I hope you're prepared for a long visit. I'm curious."

"That's good... I think."

He laughed, and the tension in my shoulders eased a little.

We started with the workshops courtyard.

There, young people from nearby communities were learning carpentry, sewing, gardening, music. Rafael listened to everything attentively, asking relevant questions, observing the environment as if he were truly interested. And he was.

"This isn't just charity, it's an investment in autonomy," he said at one point, while listening to one of the coordinators of the sewing wing. "You are training people who will build their own path. That has real value."

I looked at him in surprise. Most people with financial power who visited the institute used words like "noble initiative" or "philanthropic action." Rafael spoke like someone who understood. Like someone who valued.

"I imagined you were more... distant from this," I confessed, as we walked down the hallway towards the library. "CEOs tend to have a more... cold view."

"CEOs are taught to appear cold," he replied. "But some of us learn to listen, if we're lucky."

I smiled. For the first time that day, it was a light smile.

"You listen very well."

"Only when it's worth it."

And again, he looked at me that way. As if he was seeing everything I was and everything I was trying to hide.

In the library, we sat at a reserved table with two cups of coffee. He had asked to talk more calmly. I felt the nervousness return, as if, when we moved away from the others, I had no more excuses to hide.

"When did you start here?" he asked, stirring his coffee with a small spoon, distracted.

"Four years ago. But I only took over the social development core last year."

"And no one knew that?"

"They know. But they prefer to say that my mother 'gave' me this job so I could feel useful."

He frowned.

"That's absurd."

"It's the standard. I'm the daughter 'who didn't fit in'. The one who doesn't meet expectations. So they always belittle what I do to keep the family's emotional hierarchy functioning."

Rafael looked at me intently for a few seconds.

"Do you have any idea how strong you are?"

I laughed, skeptical.

"No. Not at all."

He leaned slightly forward, his elbows on the table.

"Maybe because you've spent your whole life trying to fit into a mold made for someone else. No one taught you to look at yourself with justice. Only with judgment."

"And why do you care so much about that?"

I couldn't hide the question. It confused me. Men like him weren't interested in women like me. Much less in their feelings.

"Because I see you, Helena. And seeing you... makes me want to stay."

My heart stopped for a second.

His words lingered between us like a promise. Or a threat. I didn't know yet.

I looked away, staring at the window, trying to control the flood of thoughts that invaded me.

"You don't know me," I murmured.

"Not yet. But I want to know you. If you allow it."

I closed my eyes for a second, trying to breathe.

It was easy to want to believe.

It was difficult to accept.

But something in me—very small, almost imperceptible—began to desire that.

Not just to be seen.

To be chosen.

To be loved.

Even if it seemed impossible.

We were silent for a while. A comfortable silence for him. Uncomfortable for me.

My body seemed to be always on alert. As if it were ready for criticism, mocking laughter, the rejection that would inevitably come. And that's what confused me about Rafael Monteiro: he didn't try to fill the silence with catchphrases or generic compliments. He just looked at me as if he didn't want to be anywhere else.

That made me vulnerable. And I hated feeling vulnerable.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said, breaking the silence.

I nodded, reluctantly.

"When was the last time you looked in the mirror and said, 'I like who I am'?"

I let out a low laugh. Acidic. Almost bitter.

"Never."

He didn't react with pity. He didn't try to console me in a cheap way. He just nodded slowly, as if respecting a pain even without fully understanding it.

"Can I tell you what I see when I look at you?" he asked, his voice low, as if the world around had disappeared.

I swallowed hard.

"I don't know if I want to hear it."

"Maybe you need to."

I looked at him with a mixture of defiance and fear.

"Then speak."

He rested his arms on the table and leaned slightly forward. His eyes, brown and intense, didn't leave mine for a second.

"I see a woman who has learned to hide so well that she doesn't even recognize herself. Who carries an absurd strength, but who has spent her whole life apologizing for existing. I see a brilliant mind, an exhausted heart, and a smile that appears only when she forgets what others think. And I see a beauty that doesn't follow any standard—and that's why it's real."

My hands clenched into fists on my lap. I wanted to fight with him. To scream. To say that he was wrong, that he didn't know me, that it was easy to say these things when you came from a world where everything was easy. But nothing came out of my mouth.

The truth is that a part of me wanted to believe in every word.

But it was too scary.

"You shouldn't say those things to me, Rafael."

"Why?"

"Because I might believe it."

He was silent for a second. Then, he replied firmly:

"I hope you do."

The visit continued, but the tone had changed. The atmosphere was denser, charged with something I didn't know how to name. Desire, maybe. But it was more than that. It was the feeling of being seen and heard attentively, cleanly, without apparent ulterior motives.

On the way out, he walked with me to the main gate. The sun was beginning to slant in the sky, casting golden shadows on the ground.

"Thank you for receiving me, Helena. Really."

"Thank you for... seeing beyond."

He gave me a warm, but restrained look. There was still a care in his gestures, as if he didn't want to scare me. And that made me respect him even more.

"Can I call you?"

I felt my stomach tighten.

"You can."

"Will you answer?"

I smiled, finally.

"Maybe."

He laughed, shaking his head.

"I like your 'maybe'."

"It's what I can give for now."

"For now, it's enough."

He got into the car with that calm and confident air. And I stood there, watching the vehicle disappear around the corner.

And I realized that something was changing.

I didn't know what yet.

But, for the first time, I didn't want to run.

That night, lying in my bed with the lights off, I stared at the ceiling and let the memory of the conversation invade every corner of my mind. I repeated each of his words as if they were verses of a forbidden poem. Every time he looked at me, every time my name came out of his mouth. Nothing sounded rehearsed. Nothing seemed manipulated.

And it was in that silence that my mind whispered, for the first time in a long time:

"What if he's right about me?"

I cried.

Not from sadness.

But from fear.

Fear of finally allowing myself to believe that, perhaps, loving—and being loved—wasn't a privilege reserved for others.