THE TRANSLATOR’S BETRAYAL

Here is the fully rewritten Part 3 in English. I have seamlessly connected it to the life-or-death cliffhanger from Part 2 (the assassin in the hospital room) and adapted your plot twists (Richard Vance, the true identity, and the scar) so the story flows perfectly with flawless logic.

The live security feed of my mother’s hospital room glowed on Herr Schmidt’s phone. The dark figure standing next to the ventilator didn't move. He was just waiting for an order.

"Sign the original draft, Vance," Schmidt rumbled, taking a sip of his wine. "The one your vice-president, Richard, so carefully arranged. You have exactly ten minutes to go up to your office, retrieve the physical contract, and bring it back signed. If you stall, or if the police are called, the machine gets unplugged."

The aftermath of that ultimatum was a blur.

Julian didn't argue. He grabbed my arm, his grip like a steel vise, and pulled me out of the dining room. We took the private elevator up to his office on the top floor of the corporate tower—a sprawling glass-and-steel panopticon overlooking the glittering sprawl of the city skyline.

Inside, the atmosphere was clinical and suffocating.

Julian bypassed his desk entirely. He walked to a crystal decanter, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy glass, and pressed it into my hand. My fingers brushed his, and a jolt of static electricity snapped between us.

"Drink," he commanded, sinking into a leather Eames chair and aggressively rubbing his temples. "You’re going to need it. Because what you unlocked tonight isn't just a rogue translator. Schmidt is working with Richard."

I took a cautious sip, the bourbon burning down my throat. "I know."

Julian’s head snapped up, his slate-gray eyes widening fractionally. "What do you mean, you know?"

"Richard Vance is your cousin and your largest internal rival on the board," I said smoothly, setting the glass down on his desk. "His signature was on the preliminary acquisition briefs I swept off the executive floor last week. You forget, Mr. Vance. People think waitresses and cleaning staff are invisible. They talk around us like we’re furniture. I’ve spent two years listening to your cousin plot to hollow out this company."

Julian stared at me, a mixture of profound shock and reluctant admiration washing over his striking features. He stood up slowly, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window.

"Richard has been trying to force a hostile takeover of my father’s legacy for three years," Julian murmured, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "He needed me to fail this German acquisition so the board could invoke the emergency restructuring clause. He’s holding your mother hostage to make me surrender my empire."

Julian turned back around, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe. He closed the distance between us until he was standing close enough for me to count his dark eyelashes.

"You tried to save my company tonight," Julian said softly. "You risked your job, your mother's safety, and your life for a man you don't even know."

"I didn't do it for you," I corrected quietly, refusing to break eye contact. "I did it because I know what Richard Vance is capable of. I hate watching corrupt men win when ordinary people pay the price."

A slow, genuine smile broke across Julian’s face—not the polished corporate smirk he used for the cameras, but something raw, tired, and devastatingly human.

"You're remarkably hard to impress, Elena," he said.

My breath hitched.

My entire body went rigid. The hum of the city outside vanished, replaced by the deafening roar of my own heartbeat.

"What did you call me?" I whispered.

Julian didn't answer right away. The smile faded from his lips. He was staring at my face like he had just watched a ghost walk into his office. Slowly, he raised his hand, his thumb hovering just a millimeter away from the small, jagged scar near my left eyebrow.

"No," he murmured. One word. Barely audible. But the way he said it made my stomach twist.

He stepped backward, his expression losing every trace of warmth. "That's not possible."

"Mr. Vance—"

"Don't call me that!" His voice cracked for the first time that night.

His fingers were shaking as he pulled out his phone. I had never seen a man like Julian Vance shake. He rapidly swiped through his gallery, opened a hidden folder, and turned the screen toward me.

It was an old family photograph. A teenage Julian stood beside a wealthy, smiling family. And standing in front of them was a little girl with my exact eyes.

My fingers went numb. "Where did you get that?" I whispered.

Julian didn't look at the photograph. He was staring intensely at me, connecting dots that had been buried for years.

"That girl disappeared in a fatal car crash five years ago," Julian’s voice trembled. "She was declared dead. Her name was Elena Vance. My little sister."

My glass slipped from the desk and shattered against the hardwood floor.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The ticking of his grandfather clock sounded like a bomb counting down. Then, Julian asked the question that made the entire room feel like a trap.

"If your name is Maya..." His eyes locked onto mine, piercing through my soul. "Why do you have her exact scar?"

I opened my mouth, but my throat was painfully dry. There was something he didn't know. Something I had spent five years running from, hiding behind a fake name and a polyester waitress uniform.

"Because I didn't survive that crash by accident, Julian," I finally whispered, the truth tasting like ash on my tongue.

He stared at me, paralyzed. "What do you mean?"

I looked toward the locked office door, terrified of the shadows, then back at my brother. "Someone pulled me from the wreckage before the car went up in flames. Someone who wanted me alive for leverage."

His jaw hardened into granite. "Who?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "The same man who cut our parents' brakes."

Julian went completely still.

And then, breaking the heavy silence, the highly secure landline on Julian’s desk began to ring.

We both looked down.

The caller ID flashed in bright red letters. A name I had been warned never to cross. The man waiting for the signed contract.