The air conditioning in the meeting room, perched on the third floor of one of the most luxurious and imposing buildings on Avenida Faria Lima, seemed to have failed without warning. The panoramic view of São Paulo, which moments earlier radiated unquestionable power and undeniable success, now served only as a cold backdrop to a scene that would be permanently engraved in the memory of everyone present.
For illustration purposes only
“I don’t shake hands with just anyone!”
The shout tore through the polished atmosphere like a sharp, brutal slap. The soft tapping of laptop keys and the rustle of turning pages ceased instantly. Eight heads snapped in the same direction, eyes widened, breaths suspended. The regional director, Ricardo Farias, withdrew his hand with obvious, almost theatrical disgust. He brushed the lapel of his custom-tailored suit with his fingertips, shaking the fabric as though the mother attempted at a greeting had stained it with something unclean, something beneath him.
His laughter followed at once. Too loud. Too ridiculous. It bounced off the glass walls and sliced through the stunned silence. It was the laugh of a man drunk on his own ego, someone who had long mistaken his title for a crown and viewed everyone else as nothing more than steps on his ladder of ambition.
In front of him, time appeared to freeze. Helena Duarte remained standing. Her right arm was still extended, suspended in the air a moment longer than any person should have to endure such public humiliation. She wore a flawless red dress, its precise tailoring mirroring the strength and discipline in her posture. Her spine remained straight. Her dark, steady eyes locked onto Ricardo’s mocking face.
Slowly, with a composure that bordered on defiance, Helena lowered her arm. She drew her green handbag closer to her body, inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, and said nothing. The heel of her shoe struck the hardwood floor with a crisp click. The sound echoed louder than any insult could have.
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