My Bully Mocked Me in Front of the CEO So I Destroyed Her in Seven Languages Chapter 17

My Bully Mocked Me in Front of the CEO So I Destroyed Her in Seven Languages Chapter 17

Caleb stood behind me, staying quiet.

After a long time, he handed me a handkerchief.

“Your father was a hell of a man.”

I took it.

“I know.”

“Then maybe it’s time you became a hell of a woman, too.”

I looked up at him.

“Instead of hiding in an eighty-thousand-dollar-a-year cubicle.”

That night, I called Mr. Langley.

“Mr. Langley, regarding the estate-I’m ready to handle it.”

“Ms. Levis! Finally-”

“The Zurich accounts and the properties-donate them like we planned. But the porcelain in Berlin? I’m keeping that.”

“Understood! That’s great, I’ll get on it immediately-”

“And one more thing.”

“Shoot.”

“Did my dad leave a letter? Something private, not legal.”

Mr. Langley was silent for a second.

“Yeah. A letter. He noted it should be ‘given to my daughter when she comes for the porcelain.”

My grip on the phone tightened.

“Send it over.”

He couriered it to my hotel in Berlin.

A plain white envelope with “For Hazel’s Eyes Only” in his handwriting.

I sat there for ten minutes before I could even tear it open.

It was short.

“Hazel:

If you’re reading this, it means you’re finally ready to face what I left behind.

I know you’ve been running.

After your mother and I passed, I figured you’d seal those languages away with us. Because every tongue is tied to a

memory-a word in German brings back Berlin ice cream, a phrase in Arabic brings back Cairo stars.

But Hazel, language isn’t a shackle. It’s a pair of wings.

Your mother spent her life building bridges, I spent mine planting seeds. You are the bridge, and you are the seed.

Don’t shrink into the dark.

Shine.

And then, go do what you were born to do.

Love you always, Dad.”

There was a water spot on the paper.

I couldn’t tell if it was from him or me.

The shoot kept rolling.

Berlin to Paris, Paris to Madrid.

In Paris, I interviewed three people in French.

A bookseller by the Seine, a curator at the Louvre, and a merchant who started with nothing.

Mr. Duncan was in his sixties, been in Paris for thirty years selling small goods.

His story hit me the hardest.

“I came to Paris at twenty-five without a word of French. My first day, some guy screamed at me to ‘go back home’. I didn’t understand, so I just smiled at him.”

“What happened then?”

“Then I spent ten years learning the language and another ten making sure everyone on that street called me ‘Mr. Duncan. Language… it’s not just for translating. It’s for making people respect you.”

I translated that for Zane.

“Keep that. Original audio with subs. Hazel, your French translation… it brought a tear to my eye.”

In Madrid, I interviewed a flamenco dancer in Spanish.

She said something I put in my notes: “Every language is a rhythm. Once your body remembers the beat, you’ll never forget it.”

Final stop was Moscow.

I knocked out the last three interviews in Russian.

Zane took the whole crew out for a wrap dinner.

“Hazel, you did the work of five translation teams solo. I’ve been doing this for thirty years, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I’m not. Without you, this doc would’ve cost at least two million more just for the translation crew.”

Rowan raised her glass.

“To Hazel.”

Everyone raised their glasses.

I took a sip of my drink.

Dubai to Moscow-two months, five countries, eight languages.

My dad was right.

Language isn’t a shackle.

It’s a pair of wings.