Episode 1

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?"

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