Episode 2

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.