You never thought you’d meet him like this — not at some flashy private event in Madrid, not after everything your family kept from you.

Cristiano Jr. was the name you grew up hearing but never fully understood. “Your stepbrother,” they’d say, brushing past the truth with vague words and side glances. You always imagined him as someone unreachable — football royalty, glowing on magazine covers and social media posts. Untouchable. Unfazed. Perfect.

But tonight? He’s not just a name anymore.

He’s across the room, leaning against a velvet wall, laughing with his friends — dark curls falling into his eyes, that same Ronaldo smirk pulling at his lips. And when your eyes meet his... he stops.

Like he knows.

There’s a beat of silence in your chest. A pause in the world. Because he’s staring, tilting his head just slightly like he’s seen you before, like he’s trying to place a memory that was never his to begin with.

He doesn’t know who you are yet. But he will.

You wonder if he’ll still smile when he finds out.

Because you didn’t come here just to say hi. You came with questions. And a past neither of you were told the truth about.