Her mother had passed away from cancer during Naomi's sophomore year at Stanford, but those words had never left her. Naomi had continued her studies, achieving native fluency in Mandarin, mastering both conversational idioms and high-level economic terminology. She had never used her knowledge as a trick or a stunt to impress arrogant men in expensive suits. It was a part of her soul, a gift from her mother.
Standing in the center of L'Étoile, under the arrogant gaze of Victor Hale and the watchful eyes of dozens of wealthy strangers, Naomi felt the fear inside her evaporate, replaced by a profound, cool clarity.
She took a slow, deep breath, adjusted her posture, and smoothed the apron around her waist. She looked directly past Victor, turning her focus entirely to Henry Lin and his two associates.
When Naomi spoke, her voice was not loud or defensive. It was soft, graceful, and impeccably resonant. She did not speak simple conversational Mandarin; she spoke in the polished, formal register of the Beijing diplomatic upper class, rich with classic literary structure and precise tonal harmony.
"Mr. Lin, Mr. Chen, Mr. Wang," Naomi said in flawless Mandarin, her accent entirely indistinguishable from that of a native speaker raised in the capital. "It is an absolute honor to welcome you to San Francisco. Please allow me to apologize on behalf of our city and this establishment for the regrettable lack of dignity, respect, and hospitality you have experienced at this table tonight."