The confidence in his face faltered: only slightly, but enough. Raymond noticed; so did Margaret; Mr. Liang noticed, too.
Charles forced a laugh. "What difference does that make?"
Maya placed one finger on the document. "This section."
The room became silent again. She opened the folder to a specific page, then pointed: "The environmental compliance clause."
Mr. Liang sat forward immediately. Charles did not, because suddenly he already knew where this was going. And he didn't like it—not one bit.
Maya looked at the investors, then at Charles, then back at the page. "The Mandarin version and the English version don't say the same thing."
The room exploded with whispers. Mr. Liang's associates immediately exchanged glances. Raymond straightened in his chair. Margaret looked shocked. Charles's jaw tightened.
Maya continued: "The English version suggests investors lose their withdrawal rights only after a final regulatory violation." She tapped the page. "But the Mandarin version allows those rights to disappear much earlier under a broader interpretation."
Mr. Liang's eyes widened. One associate grabbed the document; another leaned closer. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier, because this wasn't about language anymore: this was about money—a lot of money.
Maya continued, "If the project causes environmental damage near the residential district by the lake," she paused, "investors could lose protections they believe they still have."
Nobody breathed.
Mr. Liang slowly took the folder, read the section himself, then looked toward Charles. The disappointment on his face was unmistakable.
Charles swallowed hard. For the first time all evening, he had no immediate response: no clever comeback, no insult, no joke—nothing. Because the waitress he had mocked wasn't simply speaking Mandarin: she had just identified a problem inside a $90 million deal, a problem nobody expected her to see. And judging by the look on Mr. Liang's face, a problem that might be very real.
The room remained silent. Every person inside understood one thing: the night had just become far bigger than a bet—much bigger. And Charles Whitmore was beginning to realize he might not be fighting to save his pride anymore; he might be fighting to save the entire deal.
The silence inside Lakeshore Terrace felt almost unnatural. Outside, rain slid down the windows in shimmering rivers of silver. Inside, 60 people sat frozen around white tablecloths and candlelight. Nobody cared about dinner anymore; nobody cared about dessert; nobody cared about wine. Every eye remained locked on the table at the center of the room—the table where a waitress had just uncovered a problem buried inside a $90 million investment agreement.
Charles Whitmore forced himself to smile. It wasn't convincing—not anymore. The confidence that had filled the room when he arrived was beginning to crack, just enough for everyone to see.
"That's a legal interpretation." His voice sounded tighter than before.
Maya remained calm. "It is."
"So you don't actually know whether it's a problem."
Raymond slowly turned toward him; the statement sounded weak. Even Charles seemed to hear it.