“If your kid can translate this document, I’ll double your pay.”
The words fell from billionaire industrialist Edward Lancaster’s mouth like shards of ice. His voice carried that smooth cruelty only power can breed. It was late afternoon inside the glittering lobby of the Lancaster Tower in downtown Chicago, where marble floors gleamed and every reflection reminded visitors of their place.
Edward had approached the desk with a thick folder under his arm. He tossed it onto the counter as if discarding trash.
“This contract’s written in Mandarin,” he said with a sneer. “My team’s behind schedule. If your daughter over there can make sense of it, I’ll make good on my promise. But I doubt she knows more than a few fortune cookie phrases.”
Naomi looked up from her sketchbook. Her expression was calm, her voice soft but steady. “May I take a look, sir?”
Edward smirked. “Be my guest, little prodigy.”
She opened the document, her eyes darting across the page. Within seconds, she began translating—fluent, clear, precise. Her tone carried the rhythm of someone not just repeating words but understanding meaning. She paused occasionally to explain context and cross-cultural nuances that even professionals often missed.
The smirk slid from Edward’s face. Silence thickened the air. The billionaire leaned closer as Naomi flipped another page, reading with confidence. Her translation wasn’t mechanical—it was alive, intelligent, and exact.
When she reached the final clause, she gently placed the folder back on the counter. “There’s an inconsistency in Article 9,” she said. “It could cause a tax issue if filed internationally.”
For a long moment, Edward said nothing. Even his chauffeur shifted uneasily beside him. The arrogance that had filled the room moments earlier evaporated.
“Where did you learn that?” Edward finally asked, his tone softer, bewildered.
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