Aline Novak E Duda [top] Direct

Aline froze. The words hit a nerve she didn’t know was exposed. “I don’t need a pep talk, Duda.”

It was a Tuesday, the kind of grey São Paulo Tuesday that makes the concrete sweat. Aline, the newly appointed head of logistics for a multinational shipping firm, had spent sixteen hours recalibrating delivery routes that had been sabotaged by a rival company. Her hair, a severe auburn bun, was coming undone. Her glasses kept sliding down her nose. She was, by all accounts, a fortress of caffeine and irritation. aline novak e duda

“Why do you care?” Aline whispered.

Afterward, they sat on the cold floor, backs against a rack of hard drives, and talked until dawn. Aline talked about her father, who had never learned to say “I love you.” Duda talked about her mother, a samba dancer who had left when Duda was twelve, chasing a dream that never came true. Aline froze

Aline looked up. Leaning against the doorframe was a woman who seemed to be made of contradictions. Her name was Duda—full name Maria Eduarda Farias—and she was the new data analyst from the Rio de Janeiro branch. She had the round, kind face of a Renaissance cherub, but her eyes were the color of a stormy sea. She wore a faded Clash T-shirt under a blazer, and her sneakers were bright yellow. Aline, the newly appointed head of logistics for