Episode 1

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.

***This work has been signed with NovelToon, and piracy such as reprinting without permission is strictly prohibited.***

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***