“What is it? You sound different.”
“Dad, do you remember Antoine Dubois from the Paris embassy? And Genevieve Laurent?”
There was a long pause. “Dubois. Of course I remember Antoine. A brilliant man. Sharp. Honest as the day is long. Genevieve? Yes. She was with the luxury consortium. A powerhouse. Why? What about them?”
“I met them tonight, Dad. At the restaurant.”
“At your job?” He sounded confused.
“It’s a long story. But they were there, and there was a situation.”
“Eve, what did you do?” he asked, his voice strained.
“I spoke French,” she said simply. “And I read a contract.” She explained in a rush what had happened. Damian Thorne’s sneer. The menu. The humiliation. Her response. The contract. The spilled water. The clause. The deal collapsing. Her father was silent, just breathing into the phone.
“Dad.”
“My God, Eve,” he whispered. “That’s my girl. That’s my daughter.”
“That’s not all, Dad.” Her voice cracked. “They knew who I was. They remembered you. And they offered me a job.”
“A job? What? As a translator? A consultant?”
“Associate director. North American acquisitions. Cultural vetting.” She said the number. “Two hundred thousand euros. Starting.”