Page 8 of One Week To Claim It All
The teasing tone in her voice made his face flush with heat, but how could he not stare at the embodiment of his every desire sitting only a few feet away?
“And yes, I saw the invitation. I’m not going.”
Her dismissive tone annoyed Rodrigo. He could deal with pissed Esmeralda, but petulance was never something he could handle well. “It’s not a suggestion. Youhaveto go, Esmeralda. All of our biggest advertisers will be there.” She shook her head stubbornly as he spoke and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to throttle her or kiss some sense into her.
“I don’t have anything suitable to wear to a formal reception at The Cloisters, Rodrigo!” Her eyes widened at the mention of the museum of medieval art in upper Manhattan where the event would take place. He could understand her feeling intimidated—as far as gala locations went, that one was definitely for the New York City A-listers crowd.
“Tantrums are not going to help you this week, Joya.” He almost laughed at the way her eyes narrowed, the Danish halfway to her mouth. But treating her with kid gloves was not going to help either of them. “Take this as the good faith advice that it is. It’s not a smart move for you to miss this chance to interact with the board. It will be good for them to see how you handle yourself, how you could potentially represent the studio. You’re a shareholder now and that won’t change even if you’re not CEO.”
She opened her mouth, about to protest, but he held up his palm. “This isn’t about us being competitors, it’s about you assuming your place as part of the Sambrano family. You need to think of the big picture, Esmeralda. You now own a quarter of a billion-dollar company. This isn’t you trying to get a job on a set or to get someone to look at your pilot. This is the big leagues, and you need to start acting like you get that.” She was still glaring at him, but he could see the set of her shoulders had drooped ever so slightly. “I’m giving you good advice. Take it.”
She took another sip from her mug, which from the smell wafting toward him seemed to be something spicy and aromatic—maybe Masala chai. She’d always loved that. She was staring into space, processing what he’d told her. He could see the precise moment she saw the value of his words. She was smart, smarter than any of the fools running around the building. And she’d always deserved a seat at the table.
Too bad that the seat she wanted was one he was not ready to give up. When she turned her eyes to him they were slightly less contentious.
“I see your point, but I really don’t have anything to wear.” She lifted a shoulder as she ran a finger over the edges of the binder in front of her. “I get that people didn’t have a chance to let me know it was happening since I only showed up the day before yesterday, so it’s not that I’m mad or anything. I just don’t have the time to spend the entire day hunting for a designer gown.”
“Leave it to me.” It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “I’ll find you a gown and you focus on your work until it’s time to get ready.” He could see it already. Something satiny and expensive that hugged her every curve.
“Suit yourself. I’m certainly not going shopping like a Dominican Cinderella when I have barely five days to come up with a whole strategic vision for the studio. This is no time to play games.”
He laughed and she scowled. “I assure you, none of this is a game. And no one is getting a fairy-tale ending.” Esmeralda wasn’t sure why Rodrigo would say that, but she wasn’t going to let his tough love act get in her head.
She had no intention of going to a reception or anywhere else with him. No matter how delicious he looked in the navy suit he had on. The man had no right to look that good at 7:00 a.m., especially in a blue-and-yellow shirt. The audacity. Who could even pull off that color combination? Rodrigo, that’s who.
She’d almost kissed him. Ten years of telling herself she wanted nothing to do with him. That she despised him for betraying her. That if she ever saw him again she would tell him all the ways he’d hurt her. And it had literally takensecondsalone with him to have her swooning at his feet. Yeah, this man was not good for her, and what she needed was to pick up all the binders she’d pulled off his shelves and go to her office across the hall.
Instead she stared at him as he sipped his coffee. “Do you still take it teeth-rottingly sweet?” What in the world? Why did she ask him that? Was she trying toflirtwith the man?
He winked at her. The bastard. His big body was sprawled on an office chair that frankly looked a bit spindly to accommodate all that Cuban–Puerto Rican real estate. He was a beautiful man. No question about it. Brown skin, dark eyes fringed with eyelashes most women would kill for, and a broad mouth with full, fleshy lips that she could still remember on her skin.
Focus, Esmeralda. FOCUS.
The presentation. That was what she was supposed to be talking to Rodrigo about, not fixating on how his hands had gripped her two nights ago. Her belly did a somersault at the thought of how close she’d come to kissing him, and everything that moment had brought roaring back. Taking in a shaky breath, Esme willed herself to redirect her focus. Rodrigo was supposed to help her, so she could ask him some questions. Hell, she needed to.
Yesterday she’d taken the day to review some of the material she’d been given, and she had a sense of what direction she wanted to go with her presentation, but there were a few things that weren’t adding up. She needed some institutional knowledge, some insight, and the only person she could get it from was Rodrigo.
“Can I ask you something?” He dipped his head in response, so she sat up. “Where did all the Afro-Latinx people go?”
He straightened in the chair as soon as she posed the question, throwing his shoulders back for good measure. It was almost like he was readying himself for them to have it out. She knew he got what she was asking, but was curious to hear what excuses he’d make. His brows dipped and the line of his mouth hardened at whatever he was thinking about.
Sambrano had begun as a studio that produced content forallLatinx communities. While the Spanish-language networks that came later focused on catering to a very specific kind of audience, Sambrano always embraced the many shades and sides to Latinx identity. They celebrated the Black and Indigenous communities that also wanted to see themselves reflected positively on screen, when every other outlet seemed content with erasing them. No surprise there since her father was a Black man, and for Patricio, celebrating his heritage had seemed—at least in the beginning—to be a vital part of the Sambrano brand.
In the ’90s the studio had embraced the same idea as other American networks who were producing hit shows with all-Black casts. Other Spanish-language networks refused to cast Black and Indigenous casts and production staff, while Sambrano made them a central part of their programming. It had made the studio stand out to Latinx audiences, but somewhere in the past twenty years that had fallen by the wayside. Looking at the movies and TV shows Sambrano was currently producing, it seemed like they’d forgotten their roots, and Esmeralda couldn’t figure out why they’d made that change. She did notice the programming had gotten a bit more diverse since Rodrigo had been chief content officer, but even with those efforts it was not even a shadow of what it had been at the start. She wanted to know why her father, who had seemed almost fervently committed to represent every face of the Latinx community, had betrayed his own vision.
Rodrigo considered her for a minute before he opened his mouth. “Depending on who you ask you will get different answers to that question.”
“I want to hearyouranswer.” Esmeralda didn’t know too many things about who Rodrigo had become in these past ten years, but she knew there was no one more devoted to the studio than him.
He shifted in his chair again, his body tense now. He clearly wasn’t sure how to answer this without pointing fingers. He wouldn’t like doing that. Always the quintessential company man.
“Carmelina always had a bigger influence on Patricio than was advisable. He was a proud man, but his insecurities about his lack of education would get to him. And Carmelina knew how to prey on them. She would flaunt her Ivy League degree, her family’s pedigree, and he’d end up taking her advice, even to his own detriment. That’s how it started, anyway.” Rodrigo shook his head distastefully at whatever he was remembering. “She always had a million ideas.” He smiled then, but it was sharp, cold. “And most of them involved making Sambrano a carbon copy of American networks, to take all the Latinx culture out of it and just have the same type of programming but in Spanish.” There was something in his expression, a barely restrained frustration that told her this was something he’d been seething about for a long time. “I always pushed back, reminding Patricio the core values of the studio were to make movies and television our people could see themselves in. But Carmelina was relentless. She never understood that our biggest asset was leaning into our authenticity.”
Bitterness filled Esme’s mouth. How had her father let Carmelina destroy his legacy? How had Rodrigo let that happen?
“Aren’t you the chief content officer? How did you let her influence things so much?” She sounded judgmental, and she knew criticizing the man would probably not help matters. But she was annoyed at all this. Annoyed that her father had gone along with his wife’s greedy intentions, annoyed that she had been kept out, annoyed that Rodrigo seemed to always let people’s shitty behavior slide if it meant he got to keep his multi-million-dollar salary. Yeah...she’d seen the payroll and her eyes were still watering at the figures she saw.
He gave her a long, assessing look, clearly considering what to say. “I bet it’s nice to stroll in and start making judgments, but you don’t know what it’s been like. I’m not Onyx or Perla, or even you. I don’t have ‘Sambrano’ attached to my name. Your father lost sight of his mission, but the man could never admit he was wrong. And that meant the rest of us could only mitigate the damage and hope he eventually saw the error of his ways. Then he got sick.” With every word she could see his shoulders stiffen and his jaw tick with tension. Barely restrained frustration blended with the grief written across his face.
