Who was she?

The boy pointed desperately at the door, his eyes watering, his chest rising and falling in short breaths.

Henrique, his face cold as steel, took a step forward.

“Open the door.”

“Y-yes, sir!” replied the bar owner, his voice trembling, and turned to the manager, despair written all over his face. “Manager Ione! What are you waiting for? Quick, where's the key?!”

The woman turned pale.

“O-open the door...?” she stammered, her whole body shaking. Cold sweat ran down the back of her neck.

Helena!

She was still locked inside, and Tania had ordered that no one release her until the hearing was over — and now, Henrique Ballmer himself was demanding that the door be opened.

With no alternative, the manager swallowed hard and, with trembling hands, inserted the key into the lock.

The metallic sound echoed in the silence like thunder, and the door slowly opened. And in the next instant, everyone held their breath.

A woman lay on the floor — unconscious, her pale face bathed in the cold light streaming down from the skylight.

The contrast between her white skin and the shadows of the room made her an almost ethereal sight.

“What is this?!” roared the bar owner. “Why is there a woman locked in here?!”

“I-I... I don't know!” stammered the manager, pale. “N-no one was here when I checked earlier!”

Henrique didn't answer, he just looked. But the child was quicker, and Mateo ran to the woman and threw himself on her, hugging her tightly.

“Mateo!” Axel took a step, but stopped halfway, surprised by the expression on his nephew's face.

The little boy looked at Helena with a mixture of fear and tenderness—a pure, protective look, as if he wanted to protect that woman from the whole world.

Henrique took a step forward.

His gaze—sharp, calculating—scanned the scene with precision.

The fallen ladder.

The open skylight—too small for an adult.

The burned-out light bulb.

And the guilt stamped on the manager's face.

In seconds, he understood everything.

“Step back.” His low, firm, authoritative voice was so cold that no one dared breathe.

The security guards immediately backed away.

Henrique approached slowly.

Then, without hesitation, he knelt beside Helena.

Time seemed to stand still.

The light filtering through the window touched her face, revealing delicate, serene features.

Her black hair fell over her shoulders like silk. Her lips, even faded, retained a soft, almost pinkish hue.

Henrique felt his heart skip a beat.

A sound, a memory, an instinct — something inside him reacted to that woman.

And then, the smell.

The same scent that permeated Mateo's clothes. Sweet, pure... and sharp.

A perfume he shouldn't have recognized, but which somehow took his breath away.

Without saying a word, he slipped an arm under her body and lifted her carefully, her light weight against his chest disturbing. Mateo watched him, motionless — but there was something in the boy's gaze that said it all:

“If I were bigger... I would have carried her myself.”

Henrique kept his face impassive, but her touch burned against his skin, and Helena's weak, irregular breathing beat against his neck. And for a moment, the man who never lost control... hesitated.

As they left the warehouse, the entire bar watched in silence, and no one noticed the look Henrique gave the unconscious woman—a look that mixed curiosity, fascination, and something deeper... something he still didn't dare name.

Unimedes Hospital, São Paulo.

The soft morning light filtered through the white curtains, bathing the room in a pale, cold glow, and when Helena opened her eyes, for a moment she thought she was still dreaming.

A man was sitting in front of the window—a picture of power and silence, his long, elegant legs crossed, his dark tailored suit molding his broad shoulders and impeccable waist.

His white shirt, buttoned up to the collar, had not a single crease out of place, and looked as if it were made of marble.

Until he looked up. And Helena's world stopped.

His eyes were as deep as the ocean, but so cold they seemed to freeze the air.

Helena shivered.

That look... it was too much. Intrusive. Cutting. Dangerous.

She turned her face away, trying to compose herself, and whispered, her voice still weak:

“Excuse me, sir... how did I get here? Have you seen a little boy? About four or five years old... white, quiet, with a somewhat distracted look... and very cute?”

The man raised an eyebrow, as if he found her sweet and unpretentious tone curious.

Then he slowly looked to the right and replied, his voice deep and cold as steel:

"You mean... Mateo?

Helena followed his gaze—and her heart raced, for next to her bed was a hospital crib. Inside it, the little boy slept soundly, an IV attached to his little hand.

“Yes! That's him!” she sighed, relieved, her face softening. “His name is Mateo, so...”

She leaned over, touching the boy's forehead. It was cool.

The fever had broken.

A slight smile appeared on her lips—fragile and pure. For a moment, she forgot the man watching her silently, and all she felt was relief.

But when she looked up again, she felt the weight of his presence. His aura seemed to fill the entire room.

Authority. Control. Distance.

“Are you... responsible for him?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

And she was.

“I am his father.” His voice was deep, low, relentless.

Helena blinked in surprise.

The words echoed inside her—and before she could react, a new voice cut through the air:

“You're finally awake!” exclaimed a man, smiling nervously. “I'm the child's uncle!”

Helena was startled, backing away slightly.

But when her eyes focused on his face... she widened her eyes.

“Axel Ballmer? Is that really you?”

He laughed, somewhat awkwardly.

Axel Ballmer.

Playboy of magazines, heir to headlines, owner of World Entertainment.

Charismatic, reckless, dangerous—the complete opposite of the man sitting by the window.

And if that was her uncle...

Helena slowly turned her face, and her heart beat faster.

Henrique Ballmer.

The name weighed on her mind like a silent thunderclap, for the legendary heir to the ProCosan Group.

Cold. Inaccessible. Unshakeable. And now — the man before her.