A French Kiss – Lorena Murien N Veronica Espinosa

Along with the memory of a kiss that marks the beginning of something unexpected, another challenge emerges—one I am undoubtedly willing to face. 1kitap1.com/en The clock on the table reads seven in the evening as I finish the last details of the document that will constitute the final report for the Paris board.

My fingers remain on the keyboard, gently brushing the surface, as if they need to confirm the real existence of this proposal I have shaped after exhausting days. I stare at the screen with tired but lucid eyes. The text unfolding before me reflects what I stand for: a proposal that reformulates the contractual clauses, guarantees a more gradual and reasonable transition for the benefit of Tejidos Valera, and provides strategic, financial, and deeply human arguments.

It is a robust, honest, and coherent defense that I have built thanks to my conversations with Marta; a document that reflects the intention to preserve, tooth and nail, a history and essence that cannot be lost. Just as I am about to press the “send” button, my phone vibrates insistently on the table.

I see Olivier’s name on the screen, and a wave of nerves washes over me. I sense that the conversation will not be easy, much less pleasant. “Yes?” I answer, sitting up straight in my chair, as if that could give me a little more confidence. On the other end of the line, Olivier’s voice sounds cold and relentless, leaving no room for preamble.

“The board is in session,” he announces curtly, making it clear that he is not alone. I immediately understand that everything that comes out of my mouth could have repercussions, so I remain calm—or try to—for the sake of the operation. “Go ahead,” I reply, struggling to maintain full control of my voice, even though inside I feel a chill running down my spine. “We have reconsidered our plans,” Olivier continues without softening his tone in the slightest. “The acquisition will proceed exactly as originally agreed: Maison Élitaire will take 55% of Tejidos Valera.

There will be no gradual transition clauses or special conditions of any kind. Either you accept it as is, or there will be no deal.” My body tenses. “With all due respect,” I reply, trying to anchor myself somewhere steady, “you are making a mistake of considerable proportions.” There is a heavy silence on the other end of the line.

The total reproduction of this work by any means or procedure, including reprography, reproduction, and computer processing, as well as the distribution of copies through rental or public loans, is prohibited (without the written authorization of the copyright holders) under the penalties established by law. However, partial reproduction of this work is permitted for promotional, advertising, or inspirational purposes, or for reviews of its content in any written or digital medium, with the sole obligation of mentioning the copyright holder. 1kitap1.com/en TABLE OF CONTENTS FOREWORD 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 EPILOGUE ABOUT THE AUTHORS 1kitap1.com/en FOREWORD MARTA Madrid.

February, 2026 The sound of the machines is constant, almost hypnotic. It has been that way here for decades. Sometimes I think I could distinguish each of the looms around me with my eyes closed, as if they were old companions confiding their secrets to me through the rhythm of their stitches. I grew up here, surrounded by rolls of fabric and long conversations about natural dyes.

Here I learned that true beauty comes from steady effort and, at the same time, that nothing—not even a deeply rooted family legacy—is ever completely guaranteed. Tejidos Valera was born as my grandfather’s dream; it began as a modest workshop in the heart of Madrid which, thanks to the determination and joint effort of the whole family, ended up becoming a well-established company. “Textile craftsmanship with soul,” he used to repeat every time he looked me in the eyes.

Now that same phrase appears on our labels, but it has lost some of its original strength and feels more like an advertising slogan than a promise of something lasting. Because the soul of this company is slowly unraveling, and I feel as though I am unraveling with it. I have been fighting against what seems like an inevitable fate for three years. Sales have plummeted, some suppliers consistently miss deadlines, and international orders have vanished as if they had never existed.

We can no longer even sustain the enthusiasm of our two designers. We have renegotiated contracts over and over again, reduced the workforce with deep regret, postponed launches we were once so excited about. I have applied for grants, sought loans, pursued every possible lifeline. However, the bank has just informed us that it will not extend our line of credit; they do not believe in our “medium-term viability,” as they put it in those clear, cutting words.

When I heard the news, I did not shed a tear in front of them; I kept my composure, but that night, alone in the car in the dark, I cried. I cried because I feel I have failed my grandfather’s memory.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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• Unique ID: a2cd62347114c8d4
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 1,695,165 bytes (1.617 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 222
• Language: English (en)

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• Estimated Reading Time: 341.64 minutes
• Total Words: 68,329
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