The crimson ink across Valencio Morad’s name seemed to glow in the dim bedroom. Calligraphed desert script swirled around the diagram, charting illicit off-shore shell companies and diverted cargo lines. The reality settled into her gut: the man Orenzo revered as a surrogate father was dismantling his empire from within. And Orenzo, his head still heavy on her shoulder, slept with the vulnerable ease of a child, oblivious. She couldn't stay here, deciphering secrets. Not now. Not with the sun already a pale smear against the vast window. She carefully, painstakingly, slid the dossier back under his pillow, the leather cool against her fingers. Her next move needed to be calculated. Exposing Valencio prematurely, without irrefutable proof, would only destabilize Orenzo’s empire further. And with Timo’s custody hanging by a thread, she couldn't afford a single misstep. Easing herself from beneath Orenzo, she felt a strange pang. His weight, once an overwhelming burden, now felt almost protective, and his steady breathing, a balm. She dressed quickly, buttoning an emerald wool suit. Before leaving, she paused by the bed, tempted to wake him and lay out the ledger. But his face, smoothed out on the linen, looked decades younger without the constant insomnia grinding him down. She stepped out into the corridor, tucking the secret away. *** The Vettori Tower, a gleaming spire of smoked glass and steel, hummed with a different kind of tension that morning. Zesara entered the executive boardroom, the hushed murmur of anxious executives a stark contrast to the usual corporate buzz. Executives shifted in their leather chairs, glances darting toward the polished mahogany table where Orenzo sat, unmoving. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, betraying the relentless grip of his insomnia, even after the brief respite he’d found. Valencio Morad, seated directly opposite, maintained an easy poise, his manicured fingers resting lightly beside an untouched water glass. “The Eastern merger,” Valencio began, addressing the board with practiced ease, “has stalled. Despite Mr. Vettori’s direct oversight, the envoys from the Iridescent Trade Conglomerate remain uncooperative. The terms offered by our executive committee met firm resistance.” He leaned back, tilting his head toward Orenzo. “This partnership opens our sea corridors. Losing it cripples our autumn revenue.” Orenzo gripped the edge of the mahogany. “Our proposal matched market rates, Valencio. Their counter-demands border on extortion. I will not sign away company collateral.” “Prudence matters, Orenzo,” Valencio countered smoothly. “Yet growth requires flexibility. Perhaps this table requires someone less entrenched in dogma.” Several board directors exchanged uneasy murmurs, swayed by the older man’s critique. Just then, the double doors at the end of the room swung open. Three men entered, gold-threaded silk sashes marking them as envoys from the Iridescent Conglomerate. Their head representative, a broad-shouldered man with heavy brow ridges, surveyed the room with open scorn. He barked three sharp sentences in High Dune dialect, a cadence rarely spoken west of the dunes. “Where is Alani?” Valencio asked, feigning concern. “He confirmed his attendance at dawn.” One of Valencio’s aides, a young man with a perpetually flustered air, stammered, “Sir, we… we can’t locate him. His phone is off. No one has seen him since last night.” Whispers broke out along the table. Orenzo sat rigid, his knuckles whitening against his notebook. Seeing their hesitation, the foreign envoy flashed a gold molar and delivered another rapid cadence of harsh vowels. “He says,” Zesara interrupted from the doorway, her voice ringing across the glass walls, “that Vettori Group is squandering their hours. He considers the missing linguist proof of structural incompetence. He demands an immediate signature on the draft agreement, or his team boards their yacht for rival docks before noon.” Every head in the room swiveled towards Zesara. Orenzo’s eyes, previously dull with fatigue, sharpened, focusing on her with an intensity that stole her breath. Valencio’s composed expression faltered, just for a fraction of a second. The Qalaran leader, however, looked genuinely surprised, his arrogant smile vanishing. “You understand that dialect?” Orenzo asked, leaning forward. “It is classical Dune mercantile, customary during southern pacts,” Zesara replied, stepping to the end of the long table. “My contract work before entering concierge service covered coastal ports. I can handle the exchange.” Valencio’s chin lifted. “Ms. Fane, this involves sovereign trade tariffs. Hospitality staff cannot manage sensitive commercial accords. We will adjourn until Alani is found.” “Every hour lost costs forty thousand credits in dock fees, Mr. Morad,” Zesara replied, holding his stare without flinching. “Unless you happen to be fluent in High Dune grammar yourself?” Valencio’s lips thinned. He couldn’t risk exposing his own ignorance, not in front of the entire board. He gave a grudging nod. Zesara turned toward the three visitors. The lead envoy scowled and leveled another harsh set of phrases toward the head of the table. Zesara inclined her chin. “The chief envoy rejects our delay and insists our revised tariffs dishonor their house.” Turning to Orenzo, she continued in measured tones: “He invoked the scales of Khaldun. That is not an ultimatum; it is a liturgical proverb regarding trade balance. In Dune custom, one does not speak of Khaldun unless invited to counter-offer.” Orenzo’s posture straightened, the strain around his mouth relaxing into sharp focus. The board members leaned forward, eyes fixed on Zesara. Zesara addressed the foreign spokesman in his native cadence, rolling the guttural consonants with crisp precision. She did not defend the raw numbers. Instead, she quoted the proverb of the sapphire basin, equating Vettori’s deepwater harbor rights to the desert clan’s historic wells—two resources sustained only through mutual water-sharing, not extortionate tolls. The lead envoy’s scowl faded into an assessing squint. When she concluded the formal blessing of partnership, the man smoothed his sash and bowed his head three inches. He replied with measured warmth, trading the sharp staccato for fluid vowels. “He agrees to review our port fee schedule at two this afternoon,” Zesara reported to Orenzo. “And he asks which desert master taught this house how to honor Khaldun.” Zesara turned to the envoy, answering in his tongue: “Tell your masters that Vespari merchants know the desert sun reveals what true partners are made of.” Orenzo’s gaze remained fastened on her, dark and unreadable, though the tension across his shoulders had vanished. Beside him, Valencio’s smile had turned into a rigid, bloodless grimace. “Superb work, Ms. Fane,” Orenzo said, standing up. “The chair is in your debt.” When the board dispersed for the midday recess, Valencio caught up with Zesara beside the elevator bank while Orenzo gathered his briefs across the hall. “Impressive, Zesara,” Valencio murmured, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “A truly unexpected performance. But meddling in boardroom treaties has costs.” He pressed the brass call button, the doors sliding open with a pneumatic hiss. “I know all about little Timo, my dear. Keep inserting yourself into Vettori business, and you will lose that custody hearing before the week ends.”

Lost in Translation