“This clause here,” said Conrad, tapping the paper with his index finger. “Section 7.3. It states that all disputes will be resolved under Australian law. We had agreed that a neutral international arbitration tribunal would have jurisdiction.” Jurisdiction in international contracts was the difference between mutual protection and a legal trap. If Conrad signed accepting Australian jurisdiction without realizing it contradicted the original agreement, he would be handing all legal power to Declan’s side.
Tristan translated without hesitation. “He praised the drafting of the dispute-resolution clause. Said it’s very well structured.” Declan smiled with satisfaction. “Good. Our legal team worked hard on that.” Conrad continued, his tone firmer now. “I do not agree with this. Can we change it?” Tristan did not even blink. “He asked if the wine is from this region, Mr. Thornycroft. Seems he’s quite enjoyed it.”
Margot’s blood ran cold. Conrad had expressed formal disagreement about jurisdiction, and Tristan had turned it into a comment about wine. It was so brazen that for a moment Margot wondered if she was losing her mind, if perhaps her German had eroded after so many years. But no. She knew what she had heard with the same certainty with which she knew how to breathe. Declan laughed. “Tell him it’s an exceptional Barossa Valley Shiraz.” And as Tristan translated the response about wine with flawless precision, because when the information was irrelevant, he was impeccably accurate, Margot watched Conrad Weiss frown slightly.
The German had expected an answer about jurisdiction and received a comment about grapes. But since he did not understand English, he had no way of knowing that his serious question had been replaced by a triviality. The negotiation reached its critical moment. Conrad held the pen above the contract, asking one final question. “Just to confirm, the profit split is fifty-fifty as we discussed, correct?” Tristan smiled. “He said he’s ready to sign. No objections.”
Conrad positioned the pen on the paper. Declan was smiling. Tristan held the folder like someone holding a trophy. Margot leaned in to pour wine into Declan Thornycroft’s glass. She was so close she could smell his cologne, the warmth rising from the fabric of his suit, the texture of the contract centimeters from her fingers. And then, in the quietest voice she could manage without being inaudible, she spoke into his ear.
“Sir, your translator is lying. The German just asked if the split is fifty-fifty as they agreed. He didn’t say he wants to sign. He’s asking a question. And the jurisdiction clause, Mr. Weiss disagrees. They had agreed on international arbitration. Your translator said he praised the drafting.”
Declan Thornycroft froze. The glass stopped halfway to his mouth. His eyes moved slowly to Margot, and what she saw in that gaze was something she knew well. The disorientation of someone who realizes the ground beneath them is not solid. “Are you certain?” he murmured, so quietly she almost needed to read his lips. “Absolutely.”