"Someone did," Kim said. She held up her own phone. The article was already being shared on two Korean business news sites. "The story is only forty minutes old. The details are accurate. This is not a guess."
Ana thought fast. The liability clause had been discussed in only three places: the conference room this morning, the late-night renegotiation, and — her mind snagged on something — the hotel bar last night.
After the renegotiation, she had stopped at the bar in the hotel where the Daesung delegation was staying, just to sit down for five minutes before going home. She had been exhausted. And at the next table, half-hidden behind a potted plant, Marcus Hale had been drinking with a woman Ana had not recognized. She had not been eavesdropping — she had been too tired to eavesdrop — but she had heard Hale's assistant, a young man named Peter, speaking Korean on his phone. At the time, she had barely registered it. Now the words came back to her, sharp and clear, the way a song lyric returns years later.
Peter had said, in Korean, "Tell Reyes the story is ready. The liability angle. He'll run it before noon."
Reyes. A reporter's name.
Ana's breath caught. She had assumed it was a business call. She had not realized she was listening to a leak being arranged.
It was the kind of detail she had trained herself to notice. Years of waiting tables had taught her to read a room the way other people read headlines — the way a guest held his menu, the pause before a complaint, the glance exchanged between two people who thought no one was watching. At Meridian, noticing was survival. A good server saw the spilled water before it reached the edge of the table. A great one saw the argument coming before the first sharp word. Ana had never thought that skill would matter anywhere but a dining room. Now it might matter to a three-hundred-million-dollar deal.
"Mr. Park," she said, standing up. Her voice was steadier than she felt. "I think I know where it came from."
Every head turned. Vance's eyes narrowed. "Go on."
"Last night, at the hotel bar, I heard Marcus Hale's assistant on the phone. He was speaking Korean. He said —" she switched to Korean for the exact words, then translated — "'Tell Reyes the story is ready. The liability angle. He'll run it before noon.' I didn't think anything of it at the time. I didn't know who Reyes was. But the article —" she held up her phone — "the byline is Daniel Reyes."
Silence. Then Okafor swore softly under his breath.
"Reyes writes for the business desk," Okafor said. "He's been covering Vance for years. And Hale has been feeding him tips for months — I've suspected it, but I could never prove it."
Park turned from the window. He looked at Ana for a long moment, and she felt the weight of his attention the way she had felt it at Meridian, when she first spoke Korean at the table. Then he spoke, in Korean, and Kim translated: "Chairman Park says: you heard this in Korean, and you remembered it. Most people would have forgotten. You did not."
"It was a detail," Ana said. "I notice details. It's my job."
"No," Park said, and this time he spoke in English, slowly, each word precise. "It is not your job. It is your character."
Vance was already moving. He grabbed his phone and dialed. "Get me Marcus Hale," he barked at someone. "Now."
But Park raised one hand, and Vance stopped mid-gesture. "No," Park said. "Not by telephone. This is a matter of honor. If Mr. Hale wishes to play games with my company's reputation, he will hear my response in person."
He turned to Ana. "Miss Delgado, will you come with me? I may need someone who understands both languages — and both kinds of games."
Ana looked at Okafor, who nodded. She looked at Vance, who gave a short, grim nod of his own.
"Yes, Mr. Park," she said. "I'll come."
She straightened her shoulders, the way she did before walking into a difficult dining room, and followed him out.
As they left the conference room, Ana thought of her father again — of the taco truck, of the way he had taught her that a reputation was like a pot of soup: it took all day to make and one careless moment to spill, and no apology in the world could un-spill it. Someone had tried to spill Daesung's reputation. And now Park Joon-ho was going to answer, in the quiet, formal, devastating way that was his own.
Chapter 13 — The Confrontation
The lobby of the St. Regis was all marble and hush, the kind of place where even the footsteps seemed to whisper. Marcus Hale was waiting by the fountain, scrolling through his phone, looking pleased with himself in the way of a man who had just read his own handiwork in the news. When he saw Park approaching, he smiled the smooth, practiced smile Ana had seen on a hundred salesmen — the smile that arrived before the man did.
"Chairman Park," Hale said, extending his hand. "What a pleasant surprise. I was just —"
Park did not take the hand. He stopped two steps away, folded his hands behind his back, and looked at Hale the way a judge looks at a man who has already been sentenced.
"Mr. Hale," Park said. "I believe we need to talk."
Hale's smile flickered, but he recovered quickly. "Of course. Shall we sit? I can order coffee —"
"No," Park said. "Standing is fine. This will not take long."
Ana stood slightly behind Park, beside Kim Se-young. She felt exposed in the middle of the grand lobby, with bellhops and businessmen drifting past, but Park seemed utterly unbothered by the audience. That, she realized, was the point. He wanted Hale to feel the weight of being seen.