The neighborhood where Julia Ferraz was born never appeared on the city's postcards. It was one of those places forgotten by time, where the houses were glued to each other, the streetlights were always off, and the children learned to run before they walked—not for fun, but to survive.

She lived in a small two-room house, with peeling walls and a roof covered in leaks patched with plastic and bricks. It was there, in that piece of the world, that Julia learned to be strong.

At 19, she carried on her shoulders a responsibility that most girls her age would never imagine. Her mother had died when she was only 13, a victim of a stray bullet during a robbery at the corner market. Her father? She never knew who he was. Since then, the one who took care of her was her grandfather, Ernesto Ferraz, a stubborn and sweet old man, with calloused hands from working too much and a smile that, despite the misery, never failed to appear when he looked at his granddaughter.

"You have fire in your eyes, girl," he would say. "And fire, when used well, can illuminate the world. But if you don't take care... it burns everything."

Julia hadn't studied since she was 16. She dropped out of high school to work as a clerk in a small market that paid minimum wage and demanded everything from her—body, patience, overtime, and sometimes, dignity. But she never sold herself out. She preferred to be fired than to lower her head to a disgusting man or abusive boss.

In the neighborhood, she was seen as a rebel. And she was. She had messy black hair, tied in a loose bun, homemade tattoos on her wrists, and the annoying habit of saying what she thought. She carried a lighter in her pocket, not because she smoked often, but because she liked to light old things and watch the fire consume what was already broken.

Julia was anger and tenderness, mixed in equal doses.

The day everything changed began like any other: she woke up before the sun, made coffee with the last of the grounds, changed her grandfather's sweaty sheet, prepared the watery soup she had learned to make when hunger was routine. Then, she left with her headphones on and a surly look—as always.

At the public hospital, the news came like a stab:

"Mr. Ernesto needs a new cycle of chemotherapy, but unfortunately... the treatment will not be released without the high-cost tests. And these tests... well, you know."

She knew. Money. Always it. Always missing.

"How much does everything cost?" she asked with a dry voice.

The nurse looked at her with pity. "About twenty thousand reais."

Julia felt the world spin.

Twenty thousand. She earned twelve hundred a month—when they didn't cut the days she was late. The only option left to her was humiliation: borrow money from the neighborhood loan shark, or... do what she swore she would never do.

Sell herself. Not her body, but her freedom.

It was at that exact moment, when she left the hospital with red eyes and clenched fists, that the black car stopped in front of the gate. Two men got out. One of them looked like a bodyguard. The other, a devil disguised as a prince.

Edward Salvatore.

But Julia didn't know who he was yet. She didn't know that that man—with his ice-cold eyes and oppressive presence—was going to turn her life upside down.

She only knew he was dangerous... when he called her by name.

"Julia Ferraz?" he said, as if he already owned her.

She stared at him with contempt and replied:

"Who's asking?"

The man in front of her didn't seem real. Tall, dark, too elegant for that miserable neighborhood, he wore a custom-made black suit. His dark hair was perfectly combed, and his eyes... God, his eyes. They were gray. Not an ordinary gray—they were like wet steel: cold, calculating, dangerous.

Edward Salvatore.

Julia crossed her arms, suspicious. The other man beside him—a bald brute with an unfriendly face—didn't take his eyes off her for a second.

"I'm not going to repeat myself," Edward said, his voice low, husky, and so authoritative that it seemed to cut through the air. "Get in the car. We have something to discuss."

"If you're mistaking me for some desperate bitch, let me warn you right now..." she began, ready to explode.

But he raised his hand, interrupting her with a simple gesture.

"I know exactly who you are, Julia Ferraz. Ernesto's granddaughter. Nineteen years old. Rebellious, proud, and full of unpayable debts."

She felt her blood run cold. How did he know so much?

"Who are you?" she growled. "Police? Loan shark? Psychopath?"

A smile appeared on his lips, slow and cruel.

"I'm the man who can save the only relative you have. Or... watch from the stands as he wastes away in a third-rate hospital."

Rage rose like fire. She took a step forward, her finger raised:

"If you lay a finger on my grandfather, I'll..."

"You'll what?" Edward tilted his face, slightly amused. "Going to hit me? With that glass courage of yours?"

She stopped. Because, for the first time, she felt fear. Real. Deep. And not for herself. But for what this man could do to old Ernesto.

"What do you want from me?" she whispered, finally.

Edward took an envelope from his jacket and handed it to her. Inside, there was a contract.

Marriage contract.

"You're going to be my wife, Julia. In exchange, I pay for everything. The hospital, the exams, the treatment, the house, everything. Your grandfather will live comfortably until the end."

She widened her eyes, shocked. Her first reaction was to laugh. And that's exactly what she did.

"You're crazy. Totally nuts. Why would you want to marry me? There are beautiful, rich, blonde women with high heels and silicone dying for you!"

"Precisely." He stared at her. "None of them will do. I need someone like you. An ordinary girl. Without connections. Without a big family. Without ties. A credible fake."

"And if I refuse?"

Edward leaned back in the back seat of the car, relaxed.

"Then your grandfather dies in up to six months. And you continue living in this hole, being exploited, waiting for a miracle that won't come."

That sentence hit her like a punch in the stomach. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. But the truth was a monster she already knew: she was alone. And without a way out.

"This is emotional kidnapping. It's blackmail. It's disgusting." She spat the words like poison.

He smiled. A smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I prefer to call it... opportunity."

Silence.

Julia's world seemed to crumble. All her life she fought to be free. And now, the only way to save the only one she loved... was by selling herself.

"This is hell," she whispered, defeated.

Edward Salvatore watched her for a few seconds and replied calmly:

"Welcome to my world, little one."

"Men like me aren't born. They're molded in hell."

"Edward Salvatore"

It was a silent night. The moonless sky, the air heavy with storm, and Edward Salvatore's office plunged into darkness. He was sitting, alone, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and a file open on the glass table.

Inside it, there were photos. Records. Reports.

Information about a nineteen-year-old girl.

Name: Julia Ferraz.

Status: under observation.

Profile: perfect.

But to understand why Edward was there, planning to forge a marriage with a stranger, it was necessary to go back a little further in time — to the rubble of the man he used to be.

Three years before

Edward Salvatore was feared. No one dared to pronounce his name aloud within the criminal underworld. Leader of one of the most powerful families in the international mafia, he commanded illegal business between Europe and South America with an iron fist, absolute coldness, and a reputation for silent cruelty.

But even monsters fall in love.

And it was this weakness that almost killed him.

His mistake had a name and perfume: Chiara, a dazzling, sophisticated woman, sweet on the outside — rotten on the inside. She entered his life like a poison disguised as a cure. She infiltrated his world, his room, his heart. And when she had access to everything... she sold information to the enemies.

Edward narrowly escaped an ambush that would have left him dead and dismembered in an abandoned warehouse. The woman fled with millions in jewels and confidential data.

Since then, he made a vow:

"I will never again trust something too beautiful to be real."

He hardened. He killed without hesitation. He cleaned up the empire.

And he started solving everything with logic, numbers, control.

Present.

When his lawyers presented the need to stabilize his image to close a deal with Arab investors — who demanded morals, marriage, and a "structured" family — he didn't hesitate.

He needed a wife. But not just any wife.

"Choose someone without ties, without ambitions, without access to our world" he ordered Marco, his right-hand man. "I want someone I can control. Someone who needs me. Not someone who desires me."

Days later, Marco delivered the name.

Julia Ferraz.

"Lives in a forgotten favela. Works in a neighborhood grocery store. Raised by her grandfather. Her mother died young, her father disappeared. She has a history of rebellion, but she's clean. Never been arrested, never involved with drugs."

"And why would she accept?" Edward asked, without looking up.

"Because old Ernesto Ferraz is dying. And she would give her life to save him."

Edward closed his eyes for a moment.

The decision was quick. Cynical. Cold.

He had already been deceived by love. Now, he would use pain to buy silence.

Julia would be his wife by contract.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

What he didn't expect — yet — was that this rebellious girl, with fire in her eyes and invisible scars, would be the only one capable of burning him from the inside out.