Episode 2

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.

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