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.