Everyone mocked the man in the worn-out boots at the most important corporate meeting of the year.
They laughed at his simple clothes, at his thick rural accent. A mistake that would cost them everything, because that humble man was the new owner of the company.
—Who let this vagrant in? —Borja Valdés’s voice cut through the air-conditioned boardroom like a knife.
Fifteen executives turned their heads in unison, like a school of startled fish.
Manuel Ortega stopped at the doorway. He wore a faded blue suit, worn by time, one that had seen better days decades ago. Leather boots cracked with deep creases. Calloused hands, hardened by the land, held a cheap cardboard folder.
—Security. Someone call security immediately —ordered Cayetana Ruiz, covering her mouth with a perfectly manicured hand as she stifled a cruel laugh.
The old man walked slowly between the designer leather chairs. Each heavy step echoed in the uncomfortable silence of the room. His reflection appeared ghostlike in the glass walls overlooking the skyline of Madrid’s Four Towers: disheveled white hair, deep sun-carved wrinkles, a shirt buttoned all the way up, no tie.
—Sir, are you lost? —asked Javier Serrano, standing up as he adjusted his cufflinks—. This is the 20th floor. Administration. Deliveries are on the ground floor.
Manuel dragged an empty chair and sat down with Olympic calm.
The room erupted into scandalized whispers. Two interns at the back exchanged incredulous looks.
—I have a scheduled meeting —Manuel said, his voice rough and slow, shaped by wide open plains rather than the muffled acoustics of Madrid offices.
Borja threw his head back and burst into loud laughter.
—A meeting here? Are you sure you’re not looking for the agricultural cooperative in your village? —he glanced at the others conspiratorially—. Someone call the nursing home. I think one of them escaped.
Cruel laughter echoed around the room.
Manuel opened his folder and took out a pristine white envelope.
—I won’t repeat myself. I have a meeting.
Borja stepped forward, three quick, aggressive steps. He leaned over the table, invading the old man’s personal space. His expensive cologne assaulted Manuel’s senses.
—Listen carefully, old man. You have five seconds to leave this office, or I’ll have you dragged out by force.
Manuel’s hands trembled slightly. Not from fear, but from restrained tension.
The strong smell of freshly brewed coffee suddenly filled the room… or perhaps it existed only in his mind.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Six months earlier.
The simple kitchen of his estate in Castilla-La Mancha. A solid wooden table marked by decades of work. Two lawyers in expensive suits tried to look comfortable on hard chairs.
—Don Manuel, are you absolutely sure about this step?
—I’ve worked my entire life for this —he replied as he poured coffee—. The land has already given me everything I needed. Now I want to know where my money is going to sleep.
—As of today, you are the majority shareholder of the Valdés Agro Group.
—The company that mistreats suppliers and falsifies layoffs?
—That same one, sir.
Manuel gently set down his cup.
—Then that’s where I’ll go. I want to see who’s really running the estate.
Weeks later, a call in the middle of the night.
—They’re stealing —Carlos Ibáñez whispered—. Borja Valdés and his inner circle. I have proof, but if I come forward, they’ll destroy me.
—No one will destroy you —Manuel replied—. If there’s filth, we’ll clean it.
Two weeks later, the flash drive lay on the table.
—I want to go in as a nobody —Manuel said—. That way I’ll see who deserves to stay and who should leave in handcuffs.
And now, he was there.
—Security! —Borja shouted again.
A hand grabbed Manuel’s shoulder and began to pull him away.
Then the old man slowly took out a document folded into thirds.
—I have a summons for an Extraordinary General Shareholders’ Meeting —he said calmly, extending it.
The guard froze.
Silence fell like a slab of stone.
Javier Serrano took the paper, read it… and went pale.
—This… this is authentic.
Borja snatched the document from his hands. His eyes scanned the lines. The color drained from his face.
—Majority shareholder… —he stammered—. Manuel Ortega…
Manuel stood up.
—Good morning. I am the new owner of Valdés Agro.
Chairs screeched. Cayetana dropped her phone. Luis Mendoza was sweating.
—And before we begin the meeting —Manuel continued—, I want to thank you for something. You yourselves have shown me exactly who must be fired… and who must be handed over to justice.
The door burst open. Officers of the Guardia Civil entered the room.
—Borja Valdés, Luis Mendoza, Cayetana Ruiz —said the inspector—. You are under arrest for fraud, embezzlement, and falsification of dismissals.
Borja collapsed to his knees.
Manuel watched the scene without a trace of satisfaction. Only justice.
He turned to the remaining employees.
—This company can become decent again —he said—. Those who work honestly have nothing to fear.
He looked down at his worn boots.
Every crack told a story.
And every one of them had brought him here.