The Invisible Girl and the Millionaire

Night fell heavily on Lisbon, enveloping the alleyways in a blanket of dampness and darkness. The cobblestones slipped beneath Beatriz Silva's bare feet as she ran, dodging shadows, clutching the small handkerchief her younger brother had left soaked with sweat.

The boy's cough still rang in her ears, harsh, broken, like a desperate warning. There was no time to waste. She couldn't wait for morning, not when Tomás was tossing and turning in bed, burning with fever.

The only hope was her mother. And her mother was working that night at the grand Moura mansion, on the other side of the upper neighborhood, where the streetlights seemed more concerned with illuminating the gilded walls of the rich than the urgent footsteps of the poor.

Beatriz knew better than to go near it. "Never go through the gates alone," her mother had warned her again and again. The Mouras didn't tolerate interruptions, much less uninvited visitors from the low alleys.

But her fear for her brother was stronger than any rule.

When she arrived in front of the tall wrought-iron gates, her heart pounded like a drum in her chest. She couldn't enter through the main entrance. The light from the lamps, the elegant murmurs that floated from within, all were a reminder that she didn't belong in that world.

She looked for the small passageway where the servants sometimes sneaked out to smoke. A forgotten corner in an ancient stone wall. She climbed as best she could, tearing her worn skirt, and fell on the other side into a silent garden, scented with jasmine.

She advanced crouching, her heart in her throat, following the side corridors until she reached the back door of the servants' quarters. It shouldn't be long. She would only find her mother, beg her to return to her.

Only that. Without being seen.

But fate had other plans that night.

As she turned into a dark hallway, she bumped into someone.

"What the hell...?!" a male voice growled before grabbing her by the arms.

Beatriz looked up, gasping. In front of her, illuminated only by the light from a wall lamp, stood a young man with messy dark hair and intense eyes, an unbuttoned jacket, and a crooked smile that boded no good.

It was Eduardo Moura.

And she had just interrupted him at the worst possible moment.

Behind him, a young maid was trembling, her eyes wide and frightened. The scene was crystal clear: Beatriz had barged into something she shouldn't have seen.

"Who are you?" Eduardo demanded, his fingers digging into her arms. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, lingering on her worn clothes, her dirty hands, her shaky breathing.

Beatriz tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She struggled, terrified, aware that a single accusation could condemn not only her, but her mother as well.