"Tokyo has scheduled an extraordinary board vote," Tanaka said in English. "Eight o'clock Wednesday morning, Japan time. They intend to decide whether this negotiation should continue at all."
Elena checked the clock and the time difference. In Chicago, where daylight saving time had not yet ended, that meant six that very evening. The Japanese board's vote would come in less than eight hours. It would not wait for a week of redlines, new financial models, and a comfortable communications campaign. The revised principles on the table were suddenly working against a deadline none of Bennett's advisers had expected.
"Send everything immediately," Grant said. "The attorneys can circulate a summary and the revised provisions by lunch."
"We should send the revisions," Daniel agreed. "But not as though changing words automatically repairs trust. The concern is not whether Bennett can rewrite a clause. It's whether the company understands why it had to be rewritten."
"We have a board vote hanging over an eight-hundred-million-dollar partnership," Grant said. "This isn't the time for philosophical distinctions."
"Then ask what the distinction costs if you ignore it," Daniel replied. "We spent three months responding to the wrong problem. How much time did that save?"
Grant opened his mouth, then stopped. Evan Bell was looking at the draft again, as if reconsidering the hidden expense of insisting on unilateral authority. Victoria put one hand on the table. "What do you recommend, Daniel?"
"Ask Chairman Watanabe whether his board would accept a direct conversation with you before it votes. Not a prepared presentation. An acknowledgment from the person who can authorize change, followed by the specific commitments your legal team can actually deliver."
"They've spoken to me before," Victoria said.
"You've explained the company's position before. This time you would be responding to theirs."
Watanabe watched her. "Our board would listen," he said. "I cannot promise the outcome."
"I wouldn't ask you to," Daniel replied.
Victoria considered the distance between her carefully rehearsed corporate presentations and the much smaller, more uncomfortable act Daniel was asking her to attempt. She could deliver a speech about cooperation without notes. She had attended dozens of public events honoring international partnership. What she had seldom done before a foreign board was admit plainly that her company had misunderstood them, without following the admission with five paragraphs of justification.
"I should open in Japanese," she said. "Even if the rest is in English."
Daniel nodded. "Three sentences would be enough. They should be your sentences, not something written to sound impressive."
"I don't speak Japanese."
"We have time to learn three sentences."
"We have seven and a half hours."
"Then you're in much better shape than someone with seven and a half minutes."
Watanabe laughed, not loudly, but enough for the tension to ease around the table. Victoria moved her chair closer to Daniel and asked him to help her formulate the introduction. He wrote the English meaning first: Thank you for giving us another chance to listen. We confused authority with partnership, and that was our mistake. I am not asking for your trust today, only the opportunity to earn it. He translated the thoughts carefully, explaining where literal versions would sound stiff or where an overly elaborate apology might distract from the real commitment. Yumi checked the language independently, and Watanabe offered a correction to one honorific construction.