HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)

Chapter 41: Unqualified

I must be the most naïve person in the universe, I think to myself as I watch Ash storm toward Lila's office. Whatever's being said in there, I really don't want to hear it, so I focus on my first task: brewing fresh coffee. It feels slightly demeaning, like I'm being treated as an intern rather than someone with a journalism degree. But I'm not above menial work, as long as that's not all I'm given. I have ambitions, just like anyone else.

With the coffee refreshed, I head back to Lila's office just as Ash exits, smirking at me on her way out. When I enter, Lila is on the phone, no longer glued to her computer screen.

"Please send me a copy of the new hire's résumé," Lila says. "I want to review her qualifications again." As the person on the other end speaks, Lila sees me enter. She doesn't even try to hide what she's doing. "What do you mean there's no résumé on file?"

"If there are concerns about my qualifications, I'm happy to discuss them directly," I say.

Still holding the phone, Lila asks, "How exactly did you get this job?"

I can't hear the response, but I see the way Lila's expression shifts from annoyance to understanding.

"Mr. Vincent is usually more... selective with his hires," Lila says. "I hope you understand my confusion. Yes, thank you." She hangs up.

Instead of addressing me, Lila returns to scrolling through her computer, ignoring me entirely. I stand there for ten minutes before she finally hands me a piece of paper.

"Deliver this to one of the reporters," she says. "They're in the cubicle pit."

That's all the direction I get.

My frustration is mounting, but I'm determined to make this work. Even though it feels demeaning, wandering through the cubicle pit is somewhat thrilling. This is the heart of the newsroom. Reporters are bouncing ideas off each other, making calls, and chasing leads. Some are typing furiously, eyes ablaze with determination.

This is where I want to be.

Unfortunately, I'm just a visitor in this world. Too soon, I find the reporter I'm looking for.

"Thanks," she says, taking the paper and tossing it onto an already cluttered stack. Will she even read it? An email probably would've been more effective.

Curious, I glance at her screen, eager to soak in as much as I can before returning to Lila's soulless office. The headline she's working on catches me off guard: *Rep. Sandro Marcos: Sources Talk of His Playboy Past.*

She notices me looking and flashes a grin. "You're new, right?"

I nod.

"Here's a tip: in this town, everyone's a gossip if the price is right."

Logically, I know my name won't appear anywhere near that article. Sandro and I were a one-time thing. I've seen the women falling all over themselves to get close to him. Any of them could be the source.

This has nothing to do with me.

Yet it still bothers me. Why? If I'm not worried I'll be mentioned... then why does it sting?

Deep down, I know the truth—I don't like thinking about Sandro with other women.

Back in Lila's office, I report, "The letter's been delivered."

"Did she read it?" Lila asks.

I hesitate. "No, she just added it to a pile."

Lila sighs. "You're terrible at this. If I give you something for one of the staff, you need to make sure they read it. If I wanted them to ignore it, I'd just send an email." She prints another copy. "Now, this time, make sure she actually reads it."

The day continues like that—one menial task after another. Every time I venture into the cubicle pit, I'm filled with envy, watching others do the work I know I'm capable of. I just need a chance to prove myself.

To get that chance, I need to earn it, and the only way to do that is to follow orders.

By the end of the week, I've refilled the coffee 13 times and delivered 78 messages. The rest of my time has been spent standing by Lila's desk, watching her read on her computer.

I know I should keep quiet and be patient, but my frustration is growing. I have skills. I can contribute. But I need real work to show what I can do.

"Lila, please," I say, finally reaching my limit. "If there's more I can do, I'd be happy to—"

"You should be happy just to be here," Lila snaps. "I don't know what favor Vincent owes your father, but you don't deserve to be here. Everyone knows it except you."

"I have a journalism degree," I say.

"When did you graduate, Rafha? And in all the time since, have you ever once put that degree to use?"

"I can show you what I'm capable of, but you have to give me the chance. Please, let me do something real."

Lila stands abruptly. "You think you've earned that just because you're an-?"

"Is there a problem?" Vincent's voice suddenly cuts through the tension as he appears in the doorway.

Lila's face goes pale. "No, sir. I was just answering a question Rafha had."

Vincent looks at me, silently asking if that's true.

I know I could tell him what's really going on. He'd back me up, maybe even reassign me to a different supervisor. But that wouldn't solve anything. It would only prove Lila's point.

I don't need anyone's help to succeed. I'm going to show them all that I'm capable on my own merits, not because of my last name.

"Everything's fine," I tell Vincent.

He studies me, likely sensing I'm lying, but he doesn't press the issue.

"If you're sure..." he says, giving me one last chance to speak up.

Lila watches me with a mix of confusion and surprise.

"I'm sure," I say.

The moment Vincent leaves, Lila's eyes narrow. "You didn't do that out of the kindness of your heart," she says. "So what do you really want?"