Jason stood in the heart of the formulation suite, the quiet hum of air filtration systems and the occasional clink of glass the only sounds in the room. Bright, surgical lighting gleamed off metal trays filled with cream samples—each one slightly different in hue, thickness, and scent.
This was the twenty-third iteration of the product.
He scooped a dab from the latest jar and spread it over the back of his hand. Smooth texture. Immediate absorption. No oily sheen. The herbal base left behind a clean, natural scent that was subtle but present.
A small smile tugged at his mouth.
Close.
"Test group feedback?" he asked without looking up.
Daisy, ever calm, stood nearby with a digital tablet. "Batch 23A showed a 96% satisfaction rate. No allergic reactions reported. Five testers noted smoother skin after four hours. One said it reminded her of luxury spa-grade product lines."
Jason nodded. "Tell the lab to log this one as a control. Have them prep long-term stability tests—heat, light, and time."
"Already in motion," Daisy replied. "Also, the packaging mockups arrived this morning. Would you like to review them now?"
"In a minute," he said, setting the jar down with care. "What about the delivery confirmation from Bellpharma?"
There was a pause.
"…They've withdrawn."
Jason turned. "What?"
Daisy flipped the screen toward him. "Their regional branch issued a notice early this morning—due to sudden 'conflicts of interest,' they'll be suspending all joint development trials with Yun-affiliated projects not under their direct agreement with Yun Wellness Holdings."
Jason's jaw tightened.
It was obvious who was behind this ploy
"Jessy," he muttered.
Daisy nodded once. "She made contact with Bellpharma's VP last night. Told him that associating with your brand could damage their credibility, citing your 'lack of formal experience' in biochemical development."
Jason stepped back from the table, arms folded, expression unreadable. He paced once—slow, deliberate—eyes still fixed on the inactive jar of cream.
"She's still sore about the slap," he muttered. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised.
humiliation doesn't sit well with someone who thrives on image."
Daisy stayed quiet, recognizing the tone. Jason wasn't ranting. He was profiling.
"She didn't just pull Bellpharma because of the project," he continued. "She's making a statement.
"Pulling Bellpharma wasn't about stopping the cream. She knows I've got backups. This was about sending a message."
Daisy nodded slowly. "She wants you to know she hasn't forgotten."
Jason tapped his thumb once against the edge of the table. "She didn't go to the media. Didn't speak to grandfather. Didn't even try to undercut the formulation team directly."
"She just made one phone call," Daisy added. "Quiet. Clean."
Jason's jaw shifted ever so slightly.
"She's reminding me she still knows where to hit," he said. "And that she's not done."
He pulled out his phone, opened the divine app, and navigated to the older software version—the prototype interface. The one with the glitchy archive and raw data logs.
There it was.
Daily Info: Unsorted Image – 3:14 a.m.
The photo again.
He tapped it.
The photo filled the screen again. Grainy. Time-stamped years ago. No caption. No context.
Three toddlers, no older than one or two, sprawled across a pale blue carpet.
Jane, nestled against a cushion, a silver spoon tucked neatly in her mouth—tiny fingers still curled like she was born to clutch wealth.
Jason, half-leaning against her, mouth half-open in a soft, mid-yawn expression—like he hadn't even noticed the moment being captured.
And Jessy.
Sitting upright.
Small. Still in diapers. Her dress wrinkled. No expression on her face. Not smiling. Not crying.
In her hand, a kitchen knife. Not a toy. Not plastic. A real one—small enough to be held, sharp enough to draw blood. No one was looking at the camera. No one even seemed to notice she had it.
Not even her.
But she held it perfectly. Like her hand knew what to do before her mind ever could.
Jason stared at the image, thumb hovering just over the edge of the screen.
"Born with a spoon," he muttered, glancing at Jane.
"Born without a clue," he added, glancing at himself.
Then his eyes settled on Jessy.
"…And born with a blade."
He closed the file and slipped the phone into his coat pocket.
"She doesn't forget," he said under his breath. "Even as a toddler, she never did."
He turned back to Daisy. "Get Chengdu on the line. Quiet channel. Contract starts tonight."
Daisy nodded without hesitation.
Jason exhaled, slow.
"Let her think this was a message," he said. "Because it was. I got it loud and clear."
Then, eyes darkening just slightly:
"And she can consider this my reply."
Later That Evening.
Jason stepped into his private garage, the motion-activated lights flickering on overhead. Rows of luxury vehicles gleamed under the LED glow—sleek, polished, untouched.
But tonight wasn't about display.
Tonight needed something personal.
He stopped in front of a jet-black Porsche, its curves gleaming like obsidian. He didn't wait for a valet or driver. Tonight was too important.
He wanted control.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he ran a hand over the leather interior, then started the engine. The low purr echoed through the garage like a heartbeat.
Twenty minutes later, Jason sat in the chair of a quiet, upscale barbershop tucked into a private building he owned under a shell company. The air smelled of talc, warm shaving cream, and cedar oil. Jazz played low in the background—smooth, unobtrusive.
His longtime barber, Mr. Hank, worked with practiced precision, edging Jason's lineup with a straight razor.
"Big night?" Mr. Hank asked, not looking away from his work.
Jason gave a soft hum. "Something like that."
"You always drive yourself when it matters," the barber said, a faint smile at the edge of his lips. "That's how I know it's not just another event."
Jason smirked faintly. "Needed a clear head."
"Hmm. And a clean fade," Mr. Hank added, brushing the final bits of hair from Jason's neck. "Can't walk into a war half-groomed."
Jason glanced at him in the mirror. "I wouldn't call it a war. At least not yet."
Mr. Hank gave a low hum as he capped the blade and wiped down his tools. "No? What would you call it then?"
Jason leaned forward slightly, brushing a stray hair from his collar.
"Preparation."
Mr. Hank chuckled under his breath. "Even more dangerous."
Jason gave a nod, stood, and left without needing a word more.
By the time he returned home, the staff had already prepared everything. His suit—custom-fitted, dark charcoal silk with a muted shimmer—was laid out on a mannequin in his room. Every fold pristine. His shoes polished. His watch reset.
Jason stripped down, stepped into the shower, and let the hot water wash over him. It wasn't about relaxing—it was about centering.
When he stepped out, the steam clung to the glass as he reached for his cologne.
The most expensive bottle he owned. Reserved for a night like this.
He applied it lightly, then faced the mirror.
The suit slid on effortlessly, hugging his frame in all the right places. The collar framed his jaw. The fabric caught the light just enough. It wasn't loud—but it commanded attention.
His red eyes stared back at him in the glass, and for once, even he had to admit:
He looked sharp. Dangerous.
Jason allowed himself a faint smile.
He picked up his keys.
Time to collect her.
The Son family's mansion stood tall at the edge of the district, surrounded by tall gates and silent guards. Elegant. Imposing.
Jason pulled up, parked just in front of the main entrance, and killed the engine.
He didn't step out.
He waited.
The night air was cool and still.
A minute passed. Then another.
Finally, the doors opened.
A small group of uniformed servants stepped out first, forming two clean rows on either side of the grand entrance path.
Then came Son Liying.
And beside her, an older man in a dark hanfu robe with a silver clasp at the collar—her grandfather.
Jason's breath caught for a second.
Liying had always been beautiful, but tonight…
Tonight, she looked unreal.
Her dress was sleek, cut to fit her frame like it had been made around her. Her hair flowed down in polished waves. Everything about her was effortless, radiant—elevated. If she'd been a ten before, she was a hundred now.
They descended the steps slowly, Liying's heels clicking lightly on the stone.
At the final step, her grandfather stopped and looked Jason directly in the eyes.
"If anything happens to her tonight," he said, his voice low but steady, "you'll answer to me."
Jason gave a slight bow of respect. "Understood."
Then he turned, opened the car door for her, and waited.