"Monique Carter?"
"Who's asking?"
"Philip Davenport. We spoke last night at the restaurant. I gave you my card."
She looked across the kitchen. The business card was on the counter, propped against the salt shaker. She'd almost thrown it away. Almost.
"I remember."
"I'll get straight to it. The Japanese delegation is still in Chicago. They leave tomorrow. The deal with Whitfield is dead—you already know that. But they didn't fly 6,000 miles to go home empty-handed." He paused. "They want to meet. Not with Whitfield, not with my firm—with you."
Monique set down her coffee. "With me?"
"The CEO asked for you by name, specifically. He wants to discuss a potential consulting relationship. Not through a firm, not through a middleman—directly with you." Another pause. "I'm also offering you a position at Davenport & Foley: cultural liaison and linguistic consultant. Full-time. Benefits. A salary that doesn't start with eleven."
Nadia looked up from her cereal. "Mommy, who's on the phone?"
Monique covered the receiver. "Someone from work, baby." She took a breath. "Mr. Davenport, I don't have a degree. I don't have a resume. I don't even have a suit."
"Monique, last night you translated a live business negotiation in Osaka dialect Japanese with more accuracy than a certified interpreter. You read cultural signals that a room full of executives missed, and you did it in a waitress uniform with a ketchup stain on the sleeve." His voice didn't waver. "I'm not hiring a resume. I'm hiring what I saw. Can you be downtown by ten?"
She looked at Nadia. Nadia looked back, spoon halfway to her mouth, milk dripping on the table.
"I'll be there."
She hung up, sat still for ten seconds, then she called Trisha. "Trish, I need a suit."
Trisha showed up in twenty minutes. She brought a blazer from her cousin who worked in real estate—charcoal gray, slightly too big in the shoulders—a white blouse, and a pair of black heels that were half a size too small.