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.