"Water, sparkling," Sterling barked waving his hand dismissively. "And bring out two plates of the wagyu beef skewers for the table right now while we look at the main courses."
"Right away, sir," Maya said. She bowed her head slightly and turned to leave the room.
As she reached the oak door, she heard Sterling snort softly and lean in toward Mr. Zhang.
"Sorry about the speed of the service, Zhang," Sterling said in a loud, boisterous voice that carried clearly across the quiet room. "You know how it is in this country now. You pay top dollar for a private room, and they give you servers who look like they belong in a track-and-field meet instead of a five-star dining room."
Two of Sterling’s executives let out quiet, uncomfortable chuckles, adjusting their ties.
Mr. Zhang’s translator whispered a quiet, truncated version of Sterling’s remark into Zhang’s ear in Mandarin: "He apologized for the slow service."
Mr. Zhang’s expression remained completely impassive, though a cold flicker of distaste passed through his dark eyes as he glanced at Sterling.
Outside the door, Maya stood in the dimly lit hallway for a single second. Her hand rested on the brass door handle.
The insult was not new. She had heard variations of it a thousand times in a thousand subtle ways—the casual dismissiveness of men who measured human worth by skin tone, tailored wool, and bank accounts.
She took a long, slow breath through her nose, feeling the cool air fill her lungs. She remembered her father’s voice echoing from her childhood: "The calm river carves the deepest canyon, Maya. Never let an ignorant man drag you into his dust."
She exhaled slowly, straightened her collar, and walked toward the kitchen to place the order.
When Maya returned ten minutes later carrying the heavy silver tray laden with sparkling water, crystal goblets, and sizzling wagyu skewers, the atmosphere inside Private Room B had noticeably deteriorated.
The air was thick with tension. The lazy-susan table was covered in spread-out legal documents, blueprints, and financial spreadsheets.
Sterling was leaning forward, his face flushed red, his tie loosened at the collar. He was pointing a thick finger at a specific clause on a legal document written in English.
"Look, Zhang," Sterling said, his voice rising in frustration. "My legal team spent three weeks drafting this exclusivity clause! We are offering you primary docking rights in the Hudson terminal! If you don't sign off on the liability waiver today, the whole deal is stalled!"
Mr. Zhang sat back in his chair, taking a slow sip of hot tea that Maya had quietly placed beside his elbow. He looked at the document, then looked up at his young translator.
The young translator was sweating profusely. He fumbled through his dictionary app on his phone, leaning in to whisper to Zhang in Mandarin.
"Boss... he says if we do not accept the liability clause today, they will suspend the contract negotiations. But... the legal term he used for 'liability' is complicated. I am not sure if it covers insurance for storm damage or operational negligence."
Mr. Zhang frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows. He spoke to his translator in a quiet, rapid stream of Mandarin:
"Tell him that without an explicit storm exemption from their port authorities, my shipping line will not bear the financial risk. Tell him we will walk away from the table if he tries to force this clause."
The translator swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and turned to Sterling, stumbling over his English words:
"Uh... Mr. Sterling... Mr. Zhang say... he say if no storm paper... we cannot sign. We go home."
Sterling slammed his fist onto the table so hard that the tea in Zhang’s cup sloshed over the rim.
"God damn it!" Sterling yelled, throwing his pen onto the documents. "This is absurd! I’ve been sitting in this room for two hours trying to explain basic maritime law to a man who can’t even read the front page of the Wall Street Journal!"
Sterling turned to his vice president, a thin man named Henderson, and scoffed loudly.
"It’s like talking to a brick wall, Henderson," Sterling sneered, waving his hand toward Zhang. "You spend fifty million dollars bringing these guys across the ocean, and they can't even speak a civilized language. Everything has to go through a kid who looks like he just finished high school!"