My Husband Brought His Mistress To A Business Dinner To Humiliate His “Useless” Wife. He Didn’t Know I Speak Eight Languages Or That I’m The One Who Actually Owns Our Mansion. Am I Wrong For Letting Him Ruin Himself?

Lost in Translation

An indescribable bitterness seized my throat. Ten years of my youth, 10 years sacrificing my career, 10 years in the background only to receive this public contempt. We entered the elevator. The confined space reeked of Chloe’s cloying perfume.

She chattered on, briefing Julian on the situation, peppering her speech with English words pronounced with a pretentious accent.

“This deal is super important. Mr. Richter is very tough. We have to be flexible.”

I huddled in a corner of the elevator listening to her every word. Deal. Tough. Flexible. Basic words. She mispronounced her intonation, saccharine. Yet Julian nodded in approval as if listening to a divine edict.

“Chloe, you’re a rock star. Thank God I have you. The interpreter I hired for tonight has me worried. The kid just graduated from college.”

“Don’t you worry, Julian. I’m here to support you. My English is good enough for socializing, and for the technical stuff we have the interpreter. Besides, the important thing is the attitude, you know.”

The elevator doors opened onto the top floor. A brilliant golden light flooded everything. The clinking of glasses, the soft music, the murmur of conversations. This was Julian’s world, the world he had always been proud of and had forbidden me from entering. He turned and pointed to a round table hidden behind a large column far from the main stage.

“Sit there. It’s a quiet spot. You can eat in peace. Don’t wander around and bother the guests. I’ll call you when the party’s over.”

He spoke as if giving an order to a mischievous child. I looked at the empty, lonely table in the corner, then at Chloe, who clung to Julian’s arm as they headed to the center of the party where the lights shone brightest.

“Yes, I know,” I replied with surprising calmness.

I walked to that secluded corner and sat down. But my eyes weren’t on the plate of food. They followed every move of Julian and Chloe. More importantly, I watched the group of foreigners in the most prominent position.

The tall man with salt and pepper hair and blue eyes as sharp as a hawk’s was Klaus Richter, the CEO of H&G. Beside him, his partners had serious faces, and I saw him frown with clear dissatisfaction as he checked his watch. A bad feeling, or rather the scent of an impending disaster, hit me full force.

Strangely, instead of worrying about my husband, the warm blood inside me began to boil. An excitement similar to what I felt the first day I stepped into an interpretation booth. From my position, I was like a spectator in the cheapest seat of a grand theater but with the best panoramic view.

The enormous hall was lavishly decorated with imported fresh flowers and cascading crystal chandeliers. But behind all that glitter, an undercurrent of tension was rising. I ordered a glass of water. The waiter gave me a pitying look, probably thinking I really was a lost country bumpkin. I didn’t care.

All my senses were focused on the main table in the center where a crucial negotiation was about to unfold under the guise of an informal dinner. Julian was trying to play his role as host. He talked non-stop, gesturing excessively. He spoke in English, and the young interpreter, a boy with thick glasses and a brow beaded with sweat, struggled to translate into German.

I narrowed my eyes. Even in the first few pleasantries, I spotted the problem.

Julian said, “We are very honored to have you. We hope this collaboration will be the beginning of exponential growth for both parties.”

The interpreter translated haltingly, “We are very happy to see you. We hope the cooperation is good.”

A poor translation, lacking the formality and nuances of respect necessary when speaking with a partner of H&G’s caliber. Mr. Richter frowned slightly but nodded politely. He replied with a long sentence, his voice deep and rapid with the distinct accent of Hanover, considered the cradle of the purest German.

“We appreciate your hospitality, but let’s get straight to the point. Time is of the essence and we still have some doubts regarding the patent issue.”

The interpreter’s face drained of color. He turned to Julian and stammered.

“He says thanks for the hospitality. He wants to talk business. He says there’s a problem with the patent.”

Julian looked impatient. He clapped the interpreter on the shoulder.

“Translate word for word. Ask him what the problem is exactly. I thought we had agreed on everything.”

The conversation became disjointed and clumsy. Chloe at his side tried to interject with a few English phrases, but Mr. Richter waved his hand to signal it wasn’t necessary. He wanted to negotiate in his native tongue to ensure the absolute precision of the legal terms.

The atmosphere grew tense. The laughter and conversations around them seemed to diminish and all eyes began to focus on the main table. People started to whisper. Julian’s predicament and the young interpreter’s helplessness were turning an elegant scene into a cheap comedy.

I saw Richter turn to whisper something to his assistant in French. I strained my ears. Despite the distance, thanks to the room’s surround sound system, I managed to catch fragments.

“Unbelievable. They haven’t prepared at all. This is a lack of respect.”

He was underestimating Julian’s company, and worse, he was underestimating the capability of American professionals. The blood rushed to my face, not out of sympathy for Julian, but because my professional pride, the pride of someone who had been at the top, was being insulted.

Then the disaster materialized. They began to discuss the contract details. Julian, with the arrogance of someone used to shady deals, talked non-stop about sharing the usage rights.

“Tell him we’ll share all this technology with our local partners to optimize profits.”

The interpreter, completely lost, translated the verb “share” as “transfer,” which implies ceding ownership.

“We will transfer all the technology to our local partners.”

The moment he finished the sentence, Mr. Richter’s face turned red with fury. He slammed the table hard, causing a wine glass to spill onto the immaculate tablecloth.

“What? Transfer? That is a breach of contract! We discussed licensing the use, not transferring ownership. This is theft!”

The entire room fell into a deathly silence. The music stopped. Julian turned pale, his hands trembling. Even though he didn’t understand what was said, the fury was universally understood. He spun around and yelled at the interpreter.

“What did he say? What did you translate?”

The young interpreter, on the verge of tears, stammered.

“I translated what you told me. He says it’s theft and a breach of contract.”

“Breach of what? I do clean business!” Julian roared, sweating profusely. He looked around for help but found only looks of pity or concealed malice. Chloe was frozen, pale as a ghost, clutching her chair.