"I do."
Dr. Hart studied her. For a moment, neither spoke. Then the older woman smiled faintly. "Do you want to do this?"
The question surprised everyone—especially Charles.
Maya thought about it. For a brief moment, she saw her mother's face: Denise sitting at the kitchen table sorting medication. She saw Caleb studying late into the night. She saw Mrs. Chen patiently tracing Chinese characters across old newspapers. She saw the hospital hallway, the community kitchen, the bus stop, the rain. She remembered every person who had invested something in her, every person who believed she was capable of more.
Then she looked up. "Yes."
The answer was immediate: no hesitation, no uncertainty. The room grew still.
Dr. Hart nodded. "All right." She opened a file on her screen. "We'll keep this simple."
Charles smiled again. Finally. At last. A battlefield he understood. Or so he thought.
Dr. Hart began with a legal passage: dense language, complex terminology, investment clauses, regulatory wording—the kind of text designed to make ordinary people uncomfortable. She read it aloud in Mandarin. Then stopped.
"Translate."
Maya listened carefully. The words flowed through her mind: not as sounds—as meaning, as structure, as patterns she had been learning since childhood. Then she answered: sentence by sentence, clause by clause—clear, accurate, natural.
Several investors exchanged looks. Mr. Liang smiled. Raymond slowly sat back in his chair.
Dr. Hart nodded. "Excellent."
Charles's smile faded slightly.
Dr. Hart continued. The second passage was medical: more difficult, technical, specialized—a description of symptoms, diagnoses, treatment protocols, and pharmaceutical instructions.
As the words filled the room, Maya felt something unexpected: not fear—memory. The memory of translating prescriptions for elderly immigrants at free clinics. The memory of helping frightened families understand what doctors were saying. The memory of the dream she never completely abandoned: medical interpreter. The dream still lived somewhere inside her, waiting.
Dr. Hart finished reading. The room waited.
Maya translated: carefully, confidently. Then she reached a phrase: a difficult one, rare, specialized. For the first time all evening, she paused—only a second, but everyone noticed.
Charles leaned forward immediately. There. The crack. The mistake. The limit. He could almost feel victory returning.