Julian swallowed hard, then nodded. "Okay. Say that."
She presented the new terms. Von Amsel conferred with his team. They whispered, studied charts, and then looked at Annie.
"Agreed," von Amsel said.
The room released a collective breath. Pens were uncapped. Signatures were scratched onto thick cream-colored paper.
The $1.2 billion deal was sealed.
Waiters, Annie's coworkers, came in with champagne. They looked at her sitting at the table, their eyes wide with shock. The maitre d' looked as if he might faint.
Julian stood and buttoned his jacket. He looked like the master of the universe again. The fear was gone, replaced by the arrogance of victory. He shook hands with Yamamoto and von Amsel. They were smiling now.
"Mr. Thorne," Yamamoto said in careful English, "your assistant is remarkable. The best we have ever worked with."
"Yes," von Amsel added. "Where did you find her? Harvard? Oxford?"
Julian stiffened. He looked at Annie, who was standing now and suddenly feeling exhausted and out of place in her inexpensive slacks among the couture suits.
"She's..." Julian paused. He did not want to admit she was the waitress he had humiliated. "She's a special consultant. Very exclusive."
"I can see why," von Amsel said. He handed her his card. "If you ever tire of this American cowboy, call me in Munich. We pay double."
She accepted the card with both hands. "Thank you, Herr von Amsel."
The guests left, escorted out by security. The room emptied until only Annie, Julian, and Marcus remained.
The silence returned, but this time it was not expensive. It was awkward.
Julian poured himself champagne. He did not pour any for her. He drank it in one swallow, then turned.
"Who are you?" he asked. His voice was not grateful. It was suspicious. "Waitresses don't speak nine languages. Waitresses don't know who the CEO of Samsung talks to.
Who sent you? Are you corporate espionage? A spy?"
Annie laughed. It was a tired, bitter sound. "A spy? Mr. Thorne, if I were a spy, I wouldn't be serving you bread rolls for minimum wage plus tips."
"Then explain," he demanded, stepping closer. "Because what just happened doesn't make sense."
"My name is Annie Vance," she said quietly.
Julian frowned. "Vance? Like Arthur Vance?"
She looked down at her scuffed shoes, the same ones he had mocked hours earlier. "He was my father."
Julian's face went slack.
Arthur Vance, the diplomat who had negotiated peace protocols in the Balkans. The man later disgraced in an embassy embezzlement scandal.
"He wasn't a thief," Annie said, her voice hard. "He was set up by people he trusted. He died of a heart attack two years ago trying to clear his name. The government seized everything.
Our house, his pension, his accounts. I was halfway through my master's at the Sorbonne when the money ran out. So I came home, and now I serve pasta to people who have more money than manners."
Julian stared at her. The pieces clicked into place: the languages, the diplomatic instincts, the understanding of high-stakes negotiation.
"Arthur Vance was a legend," Marcus whispered.
"If she has half his talent..."
"I have all of his talent," Annie said, "and none of his patience."
She picked up her apron. "The deal is signed, Mr. Thorne. You have your billion. I assume my shift is over."
Julian looked at the apron in her hand, then at the signed contracts.
"You're not going anywhere," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"You're fired."
Her heart stopped. "What? After everything?"
"You're fired as a waitress," Julian clarified. He walked to the table and picked up the contract. "I need you on my team. Brad is gone. My vice president of international relations is an idiot. I need someone who can actually think."
He pulled out a checkbook, wrote quickly, tore out a check, and held it toward her.
"Fifty thousand dollars," he said. "That's a retainer. Your salary will be two hundred thousand a year, plus bonuses. You start tomorrow at seven."
She looked at the check. It was more money than she had seen in three years. It was rent, freedom, and perhaps a chance to clear her father's name.
Then she looked at Julian's face. He still looked arrogant. He still thought he could buy people.
"I have conditions," she said.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "You're in no position to negotiate. You're broke."
"And you," she said, pointing at the contract, "just signed a deal that contains a liability clause written in Portuguese in the appendix. Did you read it?"
Julian froze. "There is no Portuguese in the contract. It's English, German, and Japanese."
"There's a shell company listed in the financials," she said. "Rio Verde Holdings. The footnotes regarding its liability are in Portuguese because it is a Brazilian entity. I saw it when I was flipping through the pages for von Amsel."
Julian's expression changed. "So?"
"Unless you speak Portuguese, you probably missed the fact that Rio Verde Holdings is carrying four hundred million dollars in toxic debt that you just agreed to absorb."
Julian dropped his champagne glass. It shattered on the floor.
"What?" he wheezed.
"You didn't just buy a clean-energy company, Julian," she said, using his first name for the first time. "You bought a sinking ship. Someone in that room set you up. And since von Amsel and Yamamoto seemed genuinely happy, I'm guessing they aren't the ones who hid the debt."
She looked at Marcus.