CEO arrogant

don't worry," I confirm. Cris taps her shoes on the floor impatiently. "Sorry, Mom, but I have to go. I'm in the middle of a meeting with my secretary." "You're not going out with her, are you? I'm not going out with Cris. She's married and has two children, but I can't say I've stopped dating other secretaries. Here, on this same table, in front of the glass wall that covers half the room, while the sunset over the city of São Paulo covered us in orange tones.

The helicopters from competing broadcasters would have been quite a sight if they had been passing near the building at that moment. "I'm not. I really have to go. See you on Sunday." "Okay. Kisses." "Another one," I reply. As soon as she puts her phone down, I hang up mine and turn to Cris. "I always ask her to call me at work only in case of emergency, but you know how it is. People over sixty think, rightly, that they can do whatever they want." I smile and focus my attention on the secretary. "What were you saying, Cris?" "The print media sector wants to know when the contract with the new printing company is signed. They're worried because... Maybe it won't be signed, I think, but I don't have the courage to say. Not yet. I need the board to decide, and even though I took over as CEO of that media conglomerate five years ago, I never wanted to be one of those responsible for deciding whether to shut down an entire industry. It wouldn't be a decision made overnight. Last year, we stopped printing weekly magazines, and it was obvious that it would only be a matter of time before newspapers followed suit, given their meager revenue. Some old-time journalists, who were my partners when I used to hunt for news on the streets, work there. That's right. Even though I'm now at the top of the professional food chain, I was once a journalist at heart, and just like those guys, I would wake up at five in the morning to go to the newsroom, eager to take on the next story and hit the streets in search of news.

As a child, I never had an answer to give when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. As a teenager, I discovered my love for writing. Sometimes, I would make a little money selling short stories to my classmates. I started with the horror stories, until one of them asked if I couldn't spice up the relationship between the young virgin and the bloodthirsty vampire. So I did, and soon I discovered that whoring around paid a lot more. Not that any of us had any money to spare, but for those who didn't have much, any coin was synonymous with extra candy or new superhero comics.

The fun ended when the dumbest of my classmates dropped a sheet of notebook paper from his backpack and one of the teachers picked it up. The scolding was so bad that the boy soiled his pants. And, of course, he ended up reporting me. I vehemently denied it, but the teacher insisted on sending a message to my mother. The old woman was no longer surprised by anything coming from me. Undeterred, she asked me to stop doing that. I stopped, but the words always stayed with me.

Every now and then, I wondered if one day I would be able to use them. As much as I wanted to, my mother couldn't afford to help me with my college tuition. I was smart, but not smart enough to pass the entrance exam for a public university. With my high school diploma in hand, I temporarily put my studies aside and went looking for work. My first job was as a motorcycle courier for a bank in the city center. I needed to earn more than my salary allowed to get into a private college, but a job was a job, and I was happy to have it. It gave me the freedom I valued so much and it didn't take long for me to know the names of most of the businessmen who received my envelopes.

Being known on the streets also gave me the cunning that would help me a lot in my days as a journalist. And the opportunity came thanks to Mr. Omar Turgut. At least once a week, I would go to the headquarters of his newspaper on a street near Avenida Paulista. I had been walking up and down the city for almost a year when the man, instead of checking every page before dismissing me, stared at me from top to bottom. I stared back, curious. A tall, broad man, with a belly hanging out of the belt of his well-cut dress pants, which made it clear how much he liked to eat well. Mr. Omar always treated me politely, but he never spared the delivery boy more than a glance. This time, he opened his mouth to ask if a young man like me didn't want to study. I said yes, but I didn't have the money for it. That seemed to catch him by surprise.

I fidgeted, uncomfortable at the possibility of being rude. It wouldn't be the first time that my loose tongue had gotten me into trouble, and I couldn't afford to lose that job. After the initial surprise, he continued as if nothing had happened. "If you did, would you study?" "Yes." "What?" "Something to do with words." "And why?" "Because I like to write." Something in my decisive tone made Mr. Omar look at me more closely. Suddenly, he took a notebook and a pencil stub from his jacket pocket and held them out to me. - Write a story using only one page. I accepted the objects and looked around, searching for inspiration. A woman was crossing the crosswalk with a baby carriage.

Another was walking her dog and humming a popular song of the time. An old man passed by smoking and, upon seeing me, winked and blew out a smoke ring. Interesting, but not what I wanted. I was starting to get anxious when the traffic light changed again. Inside one of the cars was a man crying. The question rang in my mind like a siren: why was he crying? I made up an answer and quickly wrote it down in my notebook. Two simple, squished paragraphs about a young, passionate husband who, while following his wife, discovered that she was cheating on him. I put a full stop and Mr. Omar took the notebook from my hands. His brow furrowed, but his eyes were wide when they looked back at me. He asked, bluntly, if I had ever thought about studying journalism.

He didn't have one, but his offer was irresistible: I could work for a year at his newspaper as a personal assistant. If I worked hard enough, he would pay for my college education. It only took me six months to start the course. And a few years for his newspaper to grow, move to Avenida Faria Lima and become a conglomerate comprising radio, television and, more recently, digital media. I grew up with the media networks, my heart always overflowing with gratitude for that man. In addition to teaching me everything he knew, there were countless happy hours, where we would meet just to chat. During those happy hours, Omar would talk about the challenges of running that entire network and his disappointment that none of his children wanted to follow in his footsteps.

He was never afraid to keep me up to date with the entire management area and, from time to time, he would send me to management courses. At the time, I didn't understand why a journalist needed that, but I accepted, both for the opportunity to improve myself and for fear of displeasing him. Every now and then, I dared to make some suggestions, and several of them were applied to the company over the years. When Mr. Omar passed away, I felt like I was losing a second father. His children chose to follow in their mother's footste

can't do it anymore!" "Yes, I do," I emphasize. The secretary looks at me, angrily, with the defiant expression of someone demanding that I repeat, word for word, what she just said. - I know how worried the veteran journalists are, but I still don't have an answer. Schedule a meeting with the board to resolve this, okay? She takes a deep breath and nods. Poor Cris. I'll personally talk to the human resources department to find out what the possibility is of increasing your salary again. Training a new secretary is a lot of work and I like her. The woman continues.

- The last message of the day is about the CEO of the Year event. - Oh, it's today, isn't it? - My cell phone vibrates on the table and a notification appears on the screen. I glance at it sideways. It's the advisor, asking if we can meet tonight. Hmm, she's in a hurry. Do I really need to go to this event? - Yes, it's today - Cris confirms. - Your tuxedo just came back from the cleaners. I think quickly, trying to decide whether or not to go. The awards ceremony is one of the only opportunities I have throughout the year to keep up to date with the lives of executives from all over Brazil. In search of a bigger reason, I open Instagram and start scrolling through the stories of the CEOs I follow and who will probably be there. One of them immediately catches my attention. It's a story by Ricardo Martins, but I'm not interested in the man in the photo.

I'm interested in the woman next to him. The image has no caption and the two of them seem to be having coffee somewhere. I feel the blood draining from my face and bite my lip, unable to believe what I'm seeing. I want to know if those two are together, and if the woman will be there. "My dear, I don't know what my life would be like without you," I say to the secretary, trying to forget what I just saw. With a little smile on my face, I get up from my chair, walk around the table and move forward to hold her hands. They're soft and I can't resist planting a kiss on her fingers. The woman blushes like a teenager. "Of course I'll go to the event. Thank you." "You're welcome, Mr. Costa. Can I go back to my office?" "Yes, you can. And you can leave early, too," I wink. "You deserve it."

Some of the excitement that had drained away during our little meeting seems to be returning. She nods, grateful, and leaves. I sit back down and drum my fingers on the table. Regardless of whether the woman next to Ricardo is at the awards ceremony or not, there's nothing stopping me from opening the advisor's attachment. She actually sent me a nude photo, enough to make my little friend flutter in my lower belly. If I hadn't seen the stories, I would definitely ask if she wanted to go with me, but it would be better to go alone.

Before I can answer, she sends a second nude photo, letting me know that she'll also be available on Saturday. Unless I've forgotten something, Saturday night is free. We agree to see each other tomorrow and I'll focus on tonight. I don't know if I'll leave the party with the award, but I'll definitely leave with a woman in my arms. And I hope it's the one in the arms of the other CEO. Only those with curly or frizzy hair understand how, on some days, styling creams or curl-defining products decide not to work. The strands take on a life of their own and don't take shape at all. No matter how much I put in the finishing touches, I never know how my hair will behave. Today, it decided to shine in all its glory as it frames my face. Using a comb, I adjust a curl that had fallen out of place and add a dose of volume by placing the comb between the strands and the scalp, pulling gently until it reaches the desired shape.

Satisfied with the result, I check my makeup in the mirror, staring at the false eyelashes on the vanity, unsure whether to use them or not. The black eyeliner combined with the golden touch of the eyeshadow on my dark skin highlights my brown eyes, but their shine is slightly dull. If it weren't for the expectations my cousin created for the CEO of the Year award, I would wipe my entire face with makeup remover, throw this black dress back into the back of the closet and go down to the grocery store to buy at least three extra-large chocolate bars.

There are some annoyances that can only be resolved with high doses of glucose in the blood. But if Ricardo Martins, with all his seriousness and reserve, asked if I could accompany him to the awards ceremony, it's because he really needs company. A cousin who was once distant due to an old family feud, Ricardo has been trying to get closer since his mother died last year. I like his company and, whenever he comes to São Paulo, we try to meet up.

When he arrived from Rio de Janeiro for the awards ceremony, he asked if we could go out for coffee, which is when the invitation came. I was surprised when he went further and asked if we could take a photo to put on his stories. The company where the CEO works wants him to humanize his professional Instagram profile. So I'm not going to leave my cousin hanging, even if the email I received just ten minutes ago ruined my evening. I could have left it to read in the calm of the next morning, but journalists tend to be curious by nature. I threw the blush brush aside and picked up my phone as soon as the notification sounded through my room. - We like your project, but we'll only do it if we can change everything

- I scoff, holding my eyelashes between my fingers as I summarize the content sent by the producer. I grimace at the mirror, part of the disappointment giving way to anger. - Does that make sense, Percival? - I turn to the old black and white cat, just like Sylvester. The animal doesn't even lift its head. Ever since I adopted it, it's been lazy, but its age is making it sleep almost all day. It snuggles up to itself, hides its paws under its body and sinks even deeper into the mattress. The idea of ​​buying chocolate bars and spending the night in bed with it while I drown my disappointment with some bad romantic comedy becomes more tempting. - No, it doesn't make sense - I continue, as if the cat had answered me. - And I'm not going to accept that proposal! Which brings me to the number of... zero proposals.

I thought that after becoming the youngest black professional to win the main journalism award in Brazil, at just twenty-six years old, doors would open for my documentary. While I continued with my work as a freelance journalist, waking up early and going to bed late to deliver the stories on time, I spent six months studying, collecting data, visiting businesses and talking to black women who had left the CLT (Consolidation of Labor Laws) aside and started their own businesses. Today, they are their own bosses, and they helped me build an extensive report on overcoming barriers and realizing dreams. The written words became spoken words. Some were invited to give interviews on television and one was so successful with her exquisite sweets, which were sought after at weddings all over São Paulo, that she became a judge on a cooking show.

I watched everything, delighted to help give them the attention they deserved. Then my turn came. I won the award. With the trophy in hand and the script of an old project ready, I began contacting the largest audiovisual production companies in the country to develop my first documentary. Until I realized, in the worst possible way, that the doors were not open. Some

uncertain. I insisted on the certainty of the project, but they were adamant. Only one production company seemed excited about bringing the documentary to life. With renewed hope, I scheduled a meeting and presented everything. The enthusiasm soared and they were certain that the contract would be signed with my script in its entirety. Now, they sent an email saying that the idea is good, but some details need to be changed. Less than seventy percent of the original idea would be used.

Instead, they suggested the script written by a man who probably knows nothing about the subject, much less what I want to convey. I want my documentary to move, raise awareness, and shake up cinema and television. But, apparently, I will be left wanting.

Be patient, daughter. Accept part of what the world wants to give you. I smile to myself as I hear my father's calm voice in my mind. My mother, on the other hand, would nod emphatically and say loudly that I should only accept what I deserve. I look up and stare at the trophy, placed next to some of my favorite books. I worked hard to deserve that award. And I will continue working until I find someone willing to accept the idea as it is. I let out a long sigh. This is not the first obstacle I have had to overcome to get what I want, and it is far from the last. But that does not mean it does not hurt, either. It does hurt, in many ways, which makes me wish the world were just a little bit fairer. Just yesterday I found out that one of the production companies I contacted had signed a contract to produce a documentary about a digital influencer.

I accessed her channel on social media, curious to find out what kind of content she produces to become famous enough to gain thousands of followers, but the girl only records videos staring at the camera without blinking. She's pretty, a teenager with dark hair and eyes as blue as the Caribbean Sea, her porcelain skin emphasizing her doll-like appearance. But that's what she's all about: staring at the camera without blinking while wearing imported makeup and designer clothes. "Frustrating,"

I say to myself. Percival lets out a low meow, as if he agrees. "Thank you for your support," I thank the cat. He blinks his yellow eyes and stands up, stretching before getting off the bed with a soft thud. He probably needs to use the litter box. My cell phone starts ringing and the image of Lilian and Valentina, my best friend and her just-a-few-month-old daughter, appears on the screen. "Hello?" the shy voice rings in my ears as I answer the call. I shake my head and keep my laughter to myself. It's hard to believe that she, withdrawn as she is, has also managed to become a digital influencer. With content, in this case. "Hi, friend. How are you?" - Wow, what happened? Her voice is a little sad. I take a deep breath, unsure whether to tell her now or not, but there are no secrets between Lilian and me. I decide to be practical. - Oh, the producer of last week's meeting got in touch. - And they want to change your entire script - she says categorically. - They want to. - I'm sorry.

- I'm sorry too - I say sincerely. - Maybe my invitation comes at a good time. There was a problem with the company's system and Guto will be back late - she explains, her voice also sad before brightening in anticipation. - What do you think about coming here for a girls' night out? I smile at the tempting idea. Much better than spending the night at an event full of arrogant guys or alone in my apartment. Percival meows again, passing through the doorway of the bedroom. Not alone, accompanied by me! He jumps back on the bed and lands right on top of the TV remote. Thanks to the heavy paw of my overweight feline, the device turns on, changes channels three or four times, until it stops at Mercury Communications.

I stiffen and, as if by omen, a voice in the back of my mind tells me that I should choose either of the two alternatives to go to the party. It had been a while since I had thought about that damned Marcello Costa and I am surprised by the slight wave of anger that spreads through my body at the possibility of meeting him again. After what he did, I buried him deep in my mind and I don't know how I would react if he had the nerve to show up in front of me

. But what would he be doing at the awards ceremony? The man likes to go after bloody stories and would never be sent to cover a party unless one of the CEOs planned to commit murder. We may share the same profession, but luckily we don't have the displeasure of sharing the same environments. He won't be there. As if to remind me of my commitment, the cell phone vibrates in my hand. I pull it away from my face, hoping to see an email from the producer saying that the previous one was just a prank, when I see that it's a message from Ricardo saying he'll be there in fifteen minutes. I reply with a thumbs up and go back to the call. - I'd love to, but I can't. I'm getting ready to go to an awards ceremony with Ricardo and he'll be here soon. - Oh, am I disturbing you? - Not at all. - Then send me a picture of your outfit. - I put my phone away again and take a selfie in front of the mirror. Lilian takes a few seconds to respond. - You look beautiful, but can I make a guess? - Sure. - Why don't you wear the dress you wore to my wedding? - Honestly?

I don't even feel like going. I wore that one because it's basic and you can't go wrong. - Girlfriend, since you have to go to the party, go and rock it. - I hear a baby crying in the background and I can almost see Lilian's tiny body tensing up. - I'm going to see what my little one wants. Happy holidays and good luck to Ricardo. Tell him I sent you a kiss. "I will." She hangs up before even hearing the answer, anxious to check what her daughter needs. I look at my face in the mirror again. The feeling has passed, giving way to a spiral of determination, quickly rising from my feet and spreading throughout my body.

I turn off the television, take off the black dress and throw it back into the closet, diving into the doors in search of the dress she wore to Lilian's wedding. I grab the hanger and take the piece out. As I unzip the cape, the gold of the fabric reflects the lights in my room and shines throughout the room. It's been two years since I wore it and, even with my gym routine, I'm afraid it won't fit. I twist myself to do up the little buttons on the back and it fits perfectly. I go back to the vanity, accentuate the gold eyeshadow a little, apply my eyelashes and look at myself again.

It's as if I'm looking at a new woman. Lilian is right. I put defeat aside and get ready to rock. I hand the Jaguar key to one of the valets and climb the few steps that lead to the carpeted entrance of the Loyola Inn, one of the most expensive five-star hotels in the city. I notice that the decorator preferred to keep the red carpet from the last awards ceremony stored in the basement. There are no movie stars there and the hotel owner himself thought the intervention was a bit over the top. Not that he's there. Since being named CEO, Fernando Loyola seems more interested in spending his money on trips, parties and women than running the company he inherited