She rides the elevator up a sleek glass tower, clutching her résumé and replaying her mother’s advice. It’s her first day as a secretary at Salgado & Partners, the most prestigious law firm in the city.
At reception, she introduces herself, trying to sound confident despite the knot in her stomach. The receptionist tells her she’s right on time and warns her that “the licenciado” hates lateness.
Laura is passed to Marta, an older secretary with a kind face and sharp eyes. As Marta leads her through marble corridors full of expensive suits and murmured million-dollar cases, Laura feels how far this world is from the one where every month is a struggle to pay for treatments.
Marta lays out the rules: Ricardo Salgado, the head of the firm, is demanding—perfect punctuality, flawless organization, absolute discretion. And never interrupt him during an important call.
Laura nods, determined not to fail. When she asks when she’ll meet him, Marta says, “He’s waiting for you now. And don’t panic if he seems cold—he’s like that with everyone.”
Ricardo’s office looks like something from a movie: floor-to-ceiling windows over the city, dark wood shelves, a massive desk radiating power. Behind it sits Ricardo Salgado, 53, silver in his hair, tailored suit immaculate. He finishes signing documents before finally looking up.
His eyes are gray, sharp, and oddly sad. He greets her formally, has her sit, and mentions that although her résumé is modest, her university references are excellent. He expects the same dedication at his firm. She promises she won’t disappoint him.
As he explains her duties, something on his desk pulls her attention away. In an elegant silver frame is an old, slightly faded photo of a little girl in a white dress holding a sunflower.
Laura’s heart stops.
It’s her. The same white lace dress her mother keeps in a box. The same sunflower from a day in the park. The same tiny stain in the corner.
Ricardo notices her distraction and calls her back to the conversation. She mumbles an apology, but her eyes stay glued to the picture. He follows her gaze, understands, and his expression tightens; a flash of pain crosses his face.
When she quietly asks who the girl is, his voice changes, almost breaking. He calls it “a personal photograph” that “doesn’t matter” and abruptly ends the meeting, sending her back to Marta. Both know it matters very much.