Episode 3

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.

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