Ramón paled. —Mr. Tabáres, that position requires… tact, image, social polish…
—That position requires someone I can trust, Ramón. Someone who doesn’t bend at the first difficulty. Someone real. Call her right now.
Marisol was already on the bus, her forehead resting against the cold glass, watching the city blur beneath the downpour. She was thinking about her mother, Elena, waiting at home with hope shining in her eyes. How could she tell her she had failed again? How could she explain that the world valued appearance over effort? Her phone vibrated in her pocket. An unknown number.
She hesitated, but answered. The voice on the other end was tense, almost reluctant. —Miss de Campos? This is the Office of the General Director of Grupo Tabáres. There has been… a change of plans. Mr. Antonio Tabáres requests your presence tomorrow at nine sharp. Personally.
Marisol’s heart slammed violently against her ribs. Antonio Tabáres? The owner? The man featured in business magazines as the “Golden Bachelor” and the shark of finance? It had to be a mistake. Or a cruel joke.
—Mr. Tabáres? —she asked, her voice trembling—. For what?
—For an interview, miss. Don’t be late.
The call ended. Marisol stared at her phone, stunned. A mixture of fear and hope flooded her. She knew this was her last chance, the lifeline she needed before sinking. But she also knew she would be walking into the lion’s den, to the very top of that glass tower that had spit her out earlier that day.
When she arrived at her small apartment, the smell of hot soup and medicine welcomed her. Her mother coughed from the bedroom but smiled when she saw her enter. —How did it go, my girl?
Marisol took a deep breath, swallowing her fear. —I have another interview tomorrow, Mom. With the owner.
Elena’s eyes lit up. Despite the illness draining her strength, she rose with difficulty and walked to the old wooden wardrobe. —Then you need this —she said, pulling out a plastic garment cover—. It was your Aunt Carmen’s. I saved it for a special occasion. I think that occasion is today.
It was a navy-blue dress, classic cut, heavy fabric with a beautiful drape. Old, yes, but elegant and dignified. When Marisol tried it on in front of the spotted bathroom mirror, she did not see the poor girl counting coins for bread. She saw a strong woman. She saw Elena’s daughter.
