Chapter 4 The Dinner
"The investors are Japanese. Very traditional." Lawrence says smoothly as we get out of his Mercedes-Maybach.
"You'll bow when introduced," he continues, adjusting his already perfect tie.
He's been doing that since we were on our way here.
We walk towards the magnificent brown mansion surrounded by pine trees, everything about the estate screaming old money.
Lawrence throws me a glance. "You're here to take notes. That's it. I'll handle the rest."
His eyes run over my simple but professional blue tulle dress.
My jaw tightens. "Yes, Mr Moore. I know how to behave at a business dinner."
"Do you?" He asks dryly, smoothing his already flawless hair in a casual gesture that makes him look even more dashing.
"Yes." I hiss through my teeth.
The Satō family we're meeting with today are basically royalty in Japanese business circles. Gatekeepers of the entire market. Their conglomerate, Satō Industries, controls the largest distribution network for enterprise tech in East Asia.
We need their help.
Law & Moore's Japan branch is underperforming despite the great engineers and products. Perhaps the problem is the location.
According to Lawrence, we're not making enough money there.
Apparently, the Satōs are the ones who can help fix that.
A maître d' in a tailcoat awaits us upon arrival, leading us to a private dining room on the first floor.
The Satō family is already seated.
Mr Ishida Satō is in his sixties, bald and wearing a simple dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His wife, Aiko Satō, is beside him, looking elegant in a black kimono-style dress.
Their only son, Kenji, in his early thirties, sits slightly apart, scrolling on his phone until we appear.
Lawrence bows first, and I follow.
They all rise to welcome us.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he begins.
Mr Ishida nods, and they exchange pleasantries in flawless Japanese.
I'm not all that surprised he can speak it; he's a genius after all.
Lawrence steps aside to introduce me.
"Kochira wa watashi no hisho, Scarlett Thorn desu." (This is my assistant, Scarlett Thorn.)
Unknown to everyone, I understand what they're saying—my mother is part Japanese as well.
I bow again. It's an honour to meet you, sir."
He nods. "Please, join us. We were just about to have dinner," he says, gesturing to the wide table.
We sit.
I'm beside Lawrence, directly opposite Mr Ishida and his wife, while Kenji sits at the end.
The meeting begins as we dine.
Lawrence and Mr Ishida dominate the conversation, discussing market conditions and other business-related topics.
The son, eager for his father's approval, contributes occasionally, while Mrs Aiko listens and watches but says little.
Lawrence is charming, speaking Japanese like it's his first language.
Now I understand why people trust him with millions and billions of their money. There's this calm authority around him… with the way he speaks and answers each question precisely.
I mean, the man doesn't even stutter. Not once.
He knows the exact moment to pause, to defer, to push.
I sit quietly, eating my meal while my phone records the audio (with prior permission)
But I also take note of important information.
Mr Ishida leans forward, gesturing toward the small dish of pickled radish.
"They say the younger generation doesn't care for traditional tsukemono anymore. Is that true?"
Kenji chuckles. "Especially in America."
"That's not true at all. My grandfather's pickled vegetables were the best. I ate them almost every day after school." I respond to Kenji's comment in a strong Kansai-ben accent because I've noticed Mrs Aiko's warm, musical Osaka accent peeking through all night.
It sounds nothing like Tokyo's clipped formality, which Lawrence and Mr Ishida have been speaking.
The table goes still, and Lawrence turns to me slowly, his expression frozen in rare surprise.
I continue in Japanese, a soft smile on my face at the memory. "He's passed away now, but lately my mother makes them for me when I visit. They're delicious, I'm not saying they're not, but… Grandpa's was just different, you know?"
Mr Ishida's chopsticks pause in the air.
Kenji's eyebrows shoot up.
Mrs Aiko recovers first, leaning forward with a bright smile. "Maaa!"
She exclaims, her own Kansai-ben coming out full force now. "You speak Kansai-ben so naturally! How lovely, this makes me so happy."
She reaches across the table and pats my hand like I'm her own niece. "Where did you learn it?"
"My mother's part Japanese. Her father is from Osaka. I spent every summer at his house. He taught me everything I know.
"I'm from Osaka too!" She nearly squeals.
Mr Ishida nods approvingly, a small smile hanging at the corner of his lip. "Your grandfather did a good job. You speak it like a native."
I'm no longer invisible for the rest of the meal.
Mr Ishida pulls me into conversation. We talk about Osaka—the food, the people, the dialect itself.
Lawrence's eyes keep finding me across the table. But I can't tell if he's furious or fascinated.
By dessert, the deal is all but sealed. Mr Ishida raises his sake cup toward me first.
"Thanks to Miss Scarlett, tonight has been very enjoyable."
Lawrence's expression doesn't change, but something in his voice goes very flat. "I'll try not to feel offended."
Everyone laughs.
I risk a glance at him again. He's watching me as he brings his glass to his lips.
And for one scary second, I think he's smiling.
At the end of the night, when we finally rise to leave, Mrs Aiko takes both my hands and gestures to a servant.
Moments later, the maid returns with a small wrapped package.
Mrs Aiko presses it into my hands.
"It's a box of my homemade umeboshi," she says happily in Japanese. "You must come to our home next time. I will teach you my mother's recipe."
I bow deeply. "Thank you, Mrs Satō. That would be a great honour.
Mr Ishida shakes Lawrence's hand, then mine. "Your assistant is remarkable," he says in English. For Lawrence's benefit, maybe. "You're lucky to have her."
Lawrence's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but he replies in a confident tone. "I'm aware."
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We're merely three blocks from the Satō mansion when my stomach decides to misbehave.
Had it been a mild upset, I'd have ignored it, but a full, violent cramp squeezes my insides, causing me to fall forward in the back seat.
"Pull over," I gasp.
Lawrence looks at me like I've lost my mind. "We're on the West Side Highway."
"With all due respect, sir, I don't care. Please, pull over. Now."
Something in my face must communicate urgency because he presses the button and speaks, his voice carrying through the partition.
"Elias. Find somewhere to pull over."
The car swerves onto the right, and I'm out before it fully stops, stumbling toward the guardrail.
It's embarrassing that I'm about to be sick in front of my terrifying billionaire boss on the side of a major highway, but I don't really care.
My body empties itself onto the shoulder.
Behind me, I hear the car door open, followed by footsteps.
A hand appears in my peripheral vision, holding a white cotton handkerchief.
I take it and mumble a "thanks", too embarrassed to look up.
"Was it the food?" Lawrence's voice is weirdly calm. It's not sympathetic or mocking, it's just calm.
Factual.
I spit, then wipe my mouth. "The raw fish, probably. My stomach's not used to…" Another cramp slices through my insides, and I grip the guardrail.
"I'll call a doctor."
"No," I say quickly. "I just need… g-give me a minute."