—Who is she? —Antonio asked, his deep voice breaking the silence of the observation room.
His Human Resources director, Ramón, barely looked up from his tablet. —No one important, sir. A certain Marisol de Campos. Her résumé is… adequate, but her personal presentation is unfortunate. She doesn’t have the bearing for a company of this level. We have already selected Daniela Morales, the senator’s daughter, for the position.
Antonio felt a surge of irritation. He remembered his own origins, the story of his grandfather arriving in the city with a cardboard suitcase and a dream. At what point had his company become an exclusive club for the elite, blind to true talent?
—I want to see her file —he ordered, extending his hand.
Ramón blinked, confused. —Daniela’s?
—No. The young woman you just rejected for being poor.
As he read through the documents, a faint smile curved Antonio’s lips. Perfect grades. Brilliant recommendations. A life of struggle written between the lines: scholarships, part-time jobs, caring for a sick mother. This woman was not only capable; she was a warrior. And his company, full of soft executives who had never known real adversity, desperately needed someone like her.
—Call her —Antonio said, handing back the folder—. Have her come tomorrow.
—But sir, we already told her no. And besides, the analyst position is already…
—I don’t want her as an analyst —Antonio interrupted, turning to look out the window at a small figure walking away under the rain with a broken umbrella—. I want her in my personal office. As my Executive Assistant.
