PASCAL
The projector light washed across my office wall, casting Mr. Chan’s stern face in sharp, bluish tones. His brows were drawn tight, his expression unreadable. Three months of negotiations, three months of circling the same sticking points, and I still couldn’t crack whatever wall he had up.
“My concern remains the same, Mr. Anderson,” he said in clipped English. “Your projected timelines do not align with what my board finds acceptable. We cannot risk delays. Not again.”
Behind me, Nora shifted nervously in her seat. I didn’t blame her. Even through a screen, Mr. Chan’s presence filled the room like a pressurized seal. I was used to difficult clients, but this was something else entirely.
I kept my tone steady. “We’ve accelerated our internal processes to meet the April deadline
