Chapter 1I speak eight languages. But my résumé only lists one—Spanish, C2.
Why?
My dad was a diplomat. My mom did simultaneous interpretation.
I grew up across seven countries—language wasn't something I learned, it was just THERE.
But they died five years ago. Car accident.
So after that, I kept everything to myself.
No showing off, no sob stories, no letting anyone dig into where I came from.
That worked fine. Until the company gala.
The head of the German team was about to blow a ten-million-dollar deal.
I watched it happen for as long as I could—then I opened my mouth.
Just a few lines. Enough to fix it.
Yet she looked right at me and hissed:
"Think a couple of words makes you special?"
"As long as I'm here, you'll always be bottom-tier trash!"
That was it.
That was the moment I decided—I was done playing small.
...
I speak eight languages.
English, German, French, Japanese, Korean, Spanish, Arabic, Russian.
Three years at Hart International.
My resume listed one language: Spanish—C2.
Simple reason.
My dad was a diplomat.
My mom interpreted at summits.
I grew up in seven countries.
Languages stuck the way bad habits do—you don't notice until they're already part of you.
But they died in a car accident five years ago.
So I didn't want to coast on any of it. Didn't want the look. You know the one.
So I kept my head down.
Bottom-rung translation job. Steady paycheck. Tiny apartment. One cat.
Everything flowed smoothly—until the year-end all-hands.
Every employee packed into the main hall.
CEO Raymond Hart at the podium in a full suit, eating it up.
Ten minutes in English. Gratitude, vision, synergy. The usual.
Then he switched to German.
"Next year, every German speaker in this room gets a 70% raise."
Two hundred people clapped.
Even though most of them had no idea what he'd just said.
But I did.
The woman next to me—Vivienne, head of the German team, senior translator—visibly lit up.
She looked at me.
"Lyra, did you catch that?"
I shook my head.
"Nope. My German's basically nothing."
She smiled.
I knew that smile—[I'm better than you and we both know it.]
"Right. You're just the Spanish girl. Eighty K a year, huh? Rough."
I said nothing.
A 70% raise...
Only the six German team members, plus Raymond himself, would qualify.
Nothing to do with me.
I told myself that.
Meeting wrapped. I grabbed my bag.
My phone buzzed.
Megan.
The only real friend I had at this company.
[LYRA!!! You understood that German thing right??]
[SEVENTY PERCENT!! Why didn't you say anything!!]
Megan worked in admin.
About a year ago she caught me reading a German novel in the break room.
I made her swear to stay quiet.
It had been visibly killing her ever since.
[Don't start. I'm not blowing my cover.]
[Are you serious?? 70%!! That dump you're renting doesn't even have proper heating!]
I pocketed my phone and headed for the elevator.
Raymond was already there.
With the VP, Derek Walsh. Still in German.
"Smart move—only the German team could understand anyway."
"Raise for the inner circle, keep the costs down everywhere else."
Raymond smiled. Derek added.
"Someone like Lyra? Eighty K her whole career."
Chapter 2
Elevator opened.
I stepped in behind them.
Kept my face at nothing.
They kept going in German.
"Hargrove Group meeting next week—who are we sending?"
"Vivienne. Strongest German we've got."
"Their CEO—he's a problem. Last deal he ran with Horizon Consulting, he threw the whole translation team out mid-meeting."
"Vivienne can handle it."
Lobby. I walked out first.
Raymond switched back to English without turning around.
"Lyra, get me that contract proof by tomorrow."
"Sure."
I didn't look back.
Next morning I left the marked-up contract on his desk.
Thirty thousand words.
Forty-seven corrections.
Every mistake Vivienne's.
But my name wouldn't appear anywhere.
Just: Proofed by: Translation Dept.
She had no idea I'd been cleaning up her work for months.
And she genuinely thought she was that good.
Back to my desk, Megan showed up with two coffees.
"Did you hear? Vivienne's going to the Hargrove meeting."
"Yeah."
"You know who runs Hargrove?"
I looked up.
She dropped her voice.
"Cole Hargrove. Thirty-two. CEO. Forbes—ninety-eighth last year. Five languages, supposedly. TERRIBLE temper!"
"What does that have to do with me?"
"You don't think she's going to crash?"
"Not my problem."
Megan sighed.
"You are the most frustrating person I know."
She left.
I opened the next file.
Japanese supplier quote sheet.
Should've gone to the Japanese team, but their guy Marcus called out sick.
Derek dropped it on my desk—
"Didn't you take Japanese as an elective? Just rough it out."
I told him I'd taken one semester.
Actually, I lived in Tokyo for two years.
Japanese is basically my fourth native language.
Fifteen minutes. Left two small errors on purpose—looked elective-level.
Sent it to Derek.
He replied: Fine.
Fine was enough.
That afternoon Vivienne dropped a thick stack of papers on my desk without stopping.
"Lyra. Organize this for the Hargrove meeting."
I glanced at them.
Hargrove Group background materials.
All Spanish. Fifty-odd pages.
"That's not really in my—"
"You're in translation. I'm your team lead. Problem?"
She'd been promoted last month. Now she had authority over both teams.
"Fine."
She turned to leave. Stopped. Looked back
"Oh, and we have a small team meeting tomorrow about the Hargrove strategy. You don't need to be there."
"Got it."
"You're on proofreading. This level of deal isn't your lane."
"Got it."
She finally left.
My phone went off immediately.
Megan:
[I was in the break room I HEARD EVERYTHING who does she think she is]
[Used to it.]
[You could shut her down!]
[I don't want to.]
[What are you even scared of Lyra???]
I didn't answer.
What was I scared of?
Maybe being seen.
Maybe someone pulling up my background and giving me that look—oh, you're the diplomat's kid.
The one who lost both parents.
That face. I couldn't stand that face.
Or maybe I was just tired.
Evening.
I got home.
Biscuit was at the door.
I picked him up. He yawned in my face.
"Biscuit~~~ I fixed 47 of Vivienne's mistakes today! She has no idea."
He looked at me for a second. Jumped down to eat.
I opened the fridge. Two eggs. Half a cabbage.
$80000 a year in this city.
After rent, utilities, and Biscuit's overpriced grain-free food—not much.
So dinner that night was boiled eggs and a cabbage salad.
I was eating by the window when my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
"Ms. Lyra Collins?"
"Speaking."
"This is Voss Hoffman from Bennett & Associates Law Firm. Your parents' estate—there are documents that need your signature."
"I've told you. I don't want any of it. Donate it."
"Ms. Collins, the balance in Zurich alone—"
"Mr. Hoffman. Thank you. And stop calling."
I hung up.
Biscuit jumped on the table and tilted his head.
"Nothing. You little chubby face~"
I turned off my phone.
Chapter 3
Monday morning. Translation team meeting.
Nobody told me about it.
But my desk was right next to the glass-wall conference room.
So I heard everything anyway.
Vivienne was at the whiteboard.
"Cole Hargrove himself is fluent in German and Spanish."
"His team has French and Japanese translators."
"The deal covers Middle East supply chain partnerships—they're handling Arabic."
"We just need solid German and Spanish coverage."
Derek nodded. "You confident?"
"Absolutely. Three years in Germany. Business negotiations at this level are nothing."
I kept my eyes on the document in front of me.
Vivienne's German was genuinely good.
Conversational. Confident.
But I'd proofed enough of her work to know the problem:
She defaulted to straight translation.
Didn't adjust for the formal register German business correspondence required.
In casual settings, it didn't matter.
But if the guy across the table was a perfectionist who noticed everything?
...
Anyway, not my problem.
The meeting ended.
Vivienne walked out past my desk and glanced at the Hargrove stack I'd been organizing.
"Done?"
"Done."
I handed her a twenty-page summary—
Sorted by project type, partnership history, key contacts.
She flipped through two pages.
"It'll do."
She took it and left.
Four o'clock.
Raymond came down to the translation floor himself.
That almost never happened.
"Vivienne. Hargrove moved up the timeline. Cole's arriving tomorrow afternoon. You ready?"
Vivienne stood up. "Tomorrow? I've reviewed everything. No problem."
"Good. Bring one person for on-site support."
"I'll take Marcus."
"Marcus is still out sick."
She frowned. Scanned the room.
Her eyes landed on me.
"Lyra. You're coming with me tomorrow."
"Me? But... I only do Spanish."
"You're there to take notes and stay out of the way. I'll handle the actual work."
Raymond glanced at me. "Her? You sure?"
"She's fine for backup. More than enough."
Well.
That's how I ended up at Hargrove Group headquarters as a note-taker slash human furniture.
Two o'clock the next afternoon.
Hargrove Group building.
Forty-eight-floor tower.
Black marble lobby.
Vivienne had on a brand-new Chanel suit and four-inch heels.
I had on my company-issued button-down and a canvas tote.
The receptionist looked us over.
"Hart International?"
"That's us. I'm Vivienne Sullivan, head of translations. This is my assistant, Lyra Collins."
I didn't correct her.
Cole was finishing up a meeting.
So we sat in the waiting area for fifteen minutes.
Vivienne used that time to reapply her lipstick twice and fix her hair three times.
"When we go in—you sit off to the side and take notes. Don't make ANY noise. Got it?"
"Got it."
"And use formal address. Don't let your eyes wander. Guys at his level hate unprofessional."
"Sure."
The elevator opened.
Cole's assistant stepped out—a man around thirty, wire-framed glasses.
"Ms. Sullivan? Cole's ready."
We rode up to the forty-sixth floor.
The conference room doors opened. And I saw him:
Thirty-two. Six-two, maybe. Gray suit, no tie, top button undone.
Cold face.
Not performed cold. Just cold.
He was reading something and didn't look up.
"Sit."
Vivienne sat. I took the seat beside her and opened my laptop.
Cole had two people with him—
His general counsel and a young woman with a translation device.
Five seconds of silence.
Cole looked up and spoke.
In German.
"The proposal your company submitted referenced 2021 tariff data. Three separate figures."
"It's not 2021 anymore. What's your explanation for that?"
Fast. Sharp. No warmup.
Vivienne froze for two seconds.
She understood him—but she hadn't expected him to open like that.
"Mr. Hargrove, that proposal was a draft—"
English.
Cole cut her off.
Still German.
"I asked in German. Respond in German. Running everything through a translation layer wastes time."
Vivienne's face went red.
She switched: "That draft was preliminary, we'll update the data."
"Update it?"
"Has ANYONE on your team actually reviewed the new EU import tariff amendments on the Middle East this year?"
"Article Three and Article Seven—"
"Those amendments compress your pricing window by 15%. Are you aware of that or not?"
Vivienne's mouth opened.
She didn't know.
But I did.
Those amendments were in the Spanish background materials.
I'd flagged them specifically when I put together the summary.
The one she'd flipped through for thirty seconds.
"I… I'd need to go back and confirm the details—"
Cole set down his pen.
"You didn't do your homework."
"I—"
"And your formal register has been off three times. Do you understand what it signals in a business setting?"
Vivienne had gone from red to pale.
"It means either you don't respect me, or your proficiency isn't what you claimed. Which is it?"
The room went quiet.
Cole's general counsel shook his head.
This meeting was over before it started.
"Mr. Hargrove, I'm so sorry—"
Vivienne's hands were shaking.
Cole had already closed the folder.
"If this is Hart International's standard, I'll be looking elsewhere."
He started to stand.
My hands stopped over the keyboard.
Two voices in my head.
One said:
[Not your problem. You're just here to take notes.]
The other said:
[This is the BIGGEST contract the company has this year. If it falls apart, there will be layoffs. You'll be FIRST on the list!]
Cole had his jacket button in hand.
Vivienne looked like she was about to cry.
That's when I opened my mouth.
In German.
"Mr. Hargrove. Five more minutes. Please."
