Not just competent, exceptional. By her third year, professors were recommending her for interpretation work at trade conferences. The Japan-US Business Council, the Pacific Economic Forum. She'd stood in rooms where the men wore suits that looked like Nakamura's and translated their words into English with a precision that made the professional interpreters jealous.
She'd had a career waiting for her. A firm in Roppongi had offered her a full-time position before she'd even graduated. Senior interpreter, six figures in yen, an apartment with a view of Tokyo Tower. Then her mother called.
It was a Tuesday, Iris remembered, because she'd been ironing her blouse for a Wednesday conference when the phone rang. Her mother's voice was steady, too steady, the way people sound when they've rehearsed bad news. Stage three, ovarian. The doctors in New York were talking about aggressive treatment, but aggressive treatment meant aggressive bills, and her mother's insurance had a cap that might as well have been written in invisible ink.
Iris was on a plane within 48 hours. She never went back to Tokyo. The Roppongi firm filled her position within a week. Six years of building a life, friendships, routines, a favorite ramen shop on a side street in Ebisu.
Gone in the time it takes to pack two bags. The money ran out fast. Her mother's treatment cost more per month than Iris had earned in a year in Tokyo. She applied for interpretation jobs in New York, but the agencies wanted certifications she didn't have.
American certifications, not Japanese ones. She applied for corporate positions, but the interviews took weeks and she needed money now. Not next month. Now.
The Meridian hired her on Thursday. She started on Friday. The tips from one weekend dinner shift covered what a temp agency would pay in a week. So, here she was.
A Waseda graduate with six years of professional interpretation experience carrying plates of Wagyu to a man who thought she couldn't count to 10. Iris opened her eyes. Straightened her back. Picked up the dessert menus from the counter.
She wasn't weak. She wasn't broken. She wasn't waiting for someone to save her. She was waiting for the right moment.
And it was almost here. Iris walked back to table nine with the dessert menus in her left hand and a fresh bottle of Margaux in her right. The table had shifted while she was gone. Brooks was leaning back in his chair, tie still absent, jacket unbuttoned, looking relaxed.
The business talk had gone well. Yuki's translations had smoothed every rough edge. The contract folder sat in front of Brooks, open to the signature page. A Mont Blanc pen lay across it like a loaded gun.
Nakamura saw the pen. He saw the open page. And he smiled for the first time all evening, a thin, controlled smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was almost done.