“What are the terms?” she asked, her voice suddenly business-like. The shock was fading, replaced by the same cold clarity she’d felt in the restaurant.
Thorn almost smiled. “The terms are simple. You are on retainer, 24/7. You will be my personal advisor and sole translator for this negotiation. You will fly with me to Riyadh tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The negotiations are in person. You’ll have an office here, an expense account, a new wardrobe. Miss Bishop will handle everything. All you have to do is what you did last night. Listen to what they’re really saying.”
Elena thought of her debt. This check would erase it. This check would change her family’s life. This check was her get-out-of-jail-free card for the life she was trapped in. But it was more than that. It was validation. It was the chance to use her skills. The chance to be in the room where it happens. Not serving the water.
“I have one condition,” Elena said.
Thorn raised an eyebrow.
“I am not your assistant. I am not your servant. I am your linguistic and cultural advisor. You will treat me as a professional. When I am in that room, my word on language and culture is final. If I tell you not to say something, you don’t say it. If I tell you that you’ve misunderstood, you listen. I am not an employee. I am a consultant. Is that clear?”
The shadow of a genuine smile touched Julian Thorn’s lips. “Ms. Sanchez, for four million dollars, you can call yourself whatever you want. As long as you save this deal. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Elena said.
“Good. Welcome to Thorn Global.” He pointed to the check. “Deposit that on your way to see Ms. Bishop. She’s waiting for you. A car will take you to get a passport, expedited, and then to a tailor. We fly at 6:00 a.m.”
The next 24 hours were a surreal blur. Elena was whisked from the bank, where the teller’s hands shook as they processed the deposit, to a high-end salon, to a private tailor who measured her for a dozen bespoke suits and business dresses, all in muted, powerful colors. She was given a new laptop, a new phone, and a portfolio of the deal’s sticking points.
She didn’t sleep. She spent the entire night in her new, temporary corporate apartment, which was larger than her entire old building, poring over the documents. She read the mistranslated emails, the faulty contracts. She instantly saw the problem. The translation service Thorn had used was using formal, classical Arabic. But the consortium’s internal memos, which had been poorly translated, were peppered with a specific, regional Najdi dialect. The translators were missing the colloquialisms.
They were translating “We must wait for the wind to settle” as a poetic musing. Elena knew it was a common business idiom, meaning “We are waiting for the regulatory committee to give the unofficial go-ahead.” Thorn’s team had been replying to idiomatic expressions with sterile, legalistic English. They weren’t just talking past each other. They were insulting each other. Thorn’s side seemed blunt and untrusting, and the Saudi side seemed flaky and non-committal.
She was walking into a minefield.
At 5:00 a.m., she met Julian Thorn and Mr. Cole at a private airfield. Thorn was back in his suit armor, his face grim. He nodded at her.
“Ms. Sanchez. You look different.”
“So do you, Mr. Thorn,” she said. She was wearing a dark navy suit, her hair in a sleek, professional chignon. The waitress was gone.
They boarded the Gulfstream G650. As the jet climbed over the dark Chicago skyline, Elena opened her laptop.
“We need to talk,” she said. “We are not going to win this by arguing the contract points.”
Thorn and Cole looked at her.
“We are going to win this,” she said, “by offering an apology.”
“An apology?” Thorn balked. “For what? Their indecision?”
“An apology,” Elena said, her voice firm, “for our arrogance. We’ve been translating their courtesy as weakness and our directness as strength. It’s the other way around. We’ve been shouting at them in a language they understand all too well. We are going to start this meeting by me apologizing, on your behalf, for the cultural ignorance of our previous translators. We are going to show humility. And then, we are going to fix this.”
Julian Thorn stared at her. The woman who had served him water forty-eight hours ago. He was about to argue, but he saw the look in her eyes. It was the same look she’d had in the restaurant. A look of absolute, unshakable certainty.
He nodded. “Do it.”
The boardroom in Riyadh was an exercise in opulent power. A single, polished slab of mahogany stretching thirty feet, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a cityscape of sand and glass. On one side sat Julian Thorn, Mr. Cole, and Elena Sanchez. On the other sat Sheikh al-Jamil, the patriarch of the consortium, and his three sons, along with their own legal team. And at the end of the table sat a man introduced as Mr. Ibrahim, their lead translator.
Elena recognized him. Or rather, she recognized his name. She had read a paper he’d published. He was brilliant, but known for being ruthless.
The mood was ice cold. The Sheikh, a formidable man in immaculate white robes, had not smiled. The meeting began in English.
“Mr. Thorn,” the Sheikh said, his voice a deep rumble. “We are displeased. Your contracts are aggressive. Your timelines are disrespectful. We feel you do not understand the way we do business.”
Thorn tensed, about to retort. Elena placed a hand gently on the portfolio in front of him—the prearranged stop signal. She leaned forward and addressed the Sheikh. She began in perfect formal Arabic.
“Your Excellency Sheikh al-Jamil. May I be permitted to speak?”…
