Chapter 3

Dupont was as common in Francia as Smith was over here. But if this Mr. Dupont was Pierre Dupont, the art director at Givens Art Group, now that was a whole different story.

Sophia hung up, and she could barely hide how smug she was.

She flashed her phone, grinning at everyone. "A business partner, the art director at Givens Art Group, invited me to discuss a collab art exhibition next week."

"Givens Art Group?" someone at the table blurted out. "Sophia, that's insane. You're a total boss."

"Seriously, you just got back and already scored such a huge project," another one chimed in.

The table exploded with praise.

Charles looked as if he was basking in Sophia's glory, staring at her as if she were the center of his universe. "I knew it. You shine wherever you go," he said, genuinely impressed.

Sophia waved modestly, but her glance swept over me with a hint of challenge. "It's still early talks, nothing official. Mr. Dupont is into Amerish culture, and I've done some homework on it. Just playing to his tastes."

She lifted her wine glass and swirled it gently, her movements elegant. "Plus, Mr. Dupont and I are actually pretty tight. Back when I was in Riverton, he invited me to his private vineyard for a wine tasting at his place."

Everyone was wowed all over again.

To them, having a personal connection with someone high up at Givens Art Group was next-level networking and status.

Charles glanced at me, and I caught a flicker of something complicated in his eyes.

Maybe, in his mind, a woman like Sophia, someone who could shine in her career and had international connections, was the only one worthy of him.

And me? Just a washed-up housewife who couldn't catch a Francian joke, only good for slaving away in the kitchen.

I sneered inwardly, 'Private vineyard? I remember Pierre Dupont is allergic to alcohol. He never drinks, and he definitely doesn't own a vineyard.'

His real passion was spending time in his castle outside Riverton, obsessing over early Amerian silver.

I set down my fork, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, and said, "Miss White, are you talking about Pierre Dupont?" My voice was calm but clear enough for everyone to hear.

My words cut through the buzz of admiration, and the whole table went quiet, everyone turning to look at me.

Sophia looked taken aback, clearly not expecting me to know that name.

A flicker of panic flashed in her eyes, but she quickly covered it up, giving a poised nod with a hint of superiority. "Yes, do you know him, Ms. Lane?"

Her tone dripped with skepticism, as if she was saying, "Someone like you? No way you know Mr. Dupont."

I smiled, skipped her question, and threw out another one instead. "I heard Mr. Dupont is obsessed with early Amerian silver. So, Miss White, when you visited his place, did you get a peek at his treasures?

"Especially that Paul Revere punch bowl they say is one of only three in existence, and he has one. Is that actually true?"

My words were slow and sharp, each syllable landing with purpose.

Everyone else looked totally confused, but Sophia's face drained of color, second by second. She knew I was calling her bluff.

If she'd been to Pierre's place, there was no way she wouldn't know he was a total silver fanatic.

If she had a personal connection with Pierre, she'd know he never touched alcohol and definitely didn't have a vineyard.

All her so-called connections and personal ties were a bunch of made-up stories to hype herself up.

With a few casual words, I totally burst her bubble.

The room went dead silent, as if all the air had vanished.

Sophia's hand shook as she gripped her wine glass. She tried to speak, but not a single word escaped.

All the things she'd been so proud of were reduced to a complete joke in an instant.

Charles finally sensed something was off. He frowned, glancing between Sophia and me, his face written all over with confusion and disbelief.

"Victoria, what are you talking about? What punch bowl?" he hissed, trying to defend Sophia.

I didn't glance at him, keeping my eyes fixed on Sophia's pale face as I smiled. "Oh, maybe I got it wrong.

"Mr. Dupont is pretty low-key, never one to show off his collection. But since you're so close with him, Miss White, you must know his plans for next week, right?"

I kept pushing, not giving her a moment to catch her breath. "I heard he's coming to Ameria next week for a major cultural exchange event. Is that where you'll announce the joint art exhibition you mentioned?"

Sophia's lips were completely drained of color. Of course, she had no idea because that so-called collaboration call was totally made up.

And the reason why I knew was that I was the one who arranged Pierre's visit to Ameria the following week.

And for that top-tier cultural exchange forum he was attending, I was the lead interpreter.

Charles had no clue about any of this.

For three years of marriage, he'd always thought I was a regular housewife, who was scraping by with some half-assed foreign language from college and picking up random translation gigs to make ends meet.

He had no idea that my Francian was top-tier. I was one of the best in the country for simultaneous interpretation.

And he had no clue that the "small-time company" he never bothered to notice was actually a long-term language service provider for the Department of State and the Department of Commerce.