Jason yawned and dragged himself out of bed. The morning sun bled through the curtains, casting streaks of gold across the floor. He rubbed his face, walked to the sink, brushed his teeth, and took a hot shower to clear the grogginess from his mind.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of toasted bread and brewed tea. The chef had already laid out his breakfast: three hard-boiled eggs sliced in half, two golden waffles stacked neatly, avocado slices fanned out beside them, and a cup of steaming green tea.
Jason nodded in appreciation. "Thanks, Chef."
He picked up his phone, which had been buzzing nonstop since earlier. Notifications stacked the screen like falling dominoes.
#ManagerPark
#CorporateCoverUp
#CEOApology
Jason tapped on one headline. A video began loading.
A morning news anchor smiled into the camera, her voice crisp and rehearsed. "Good morning. In a stunning turn of events, CEO Langston and Manager Park of LAVISH Design Group have publicly apologized after a whistleblower revealed doctored surveillance footage and internal smear campaigns against a former employee, Hendricks Sang. The footage in question was used to blacklist the designer, nearly ending his career. Both executives are now under internal investigation, and charges may soon follow."
The screen shifted to the pre-recorded apology. Langston stood behind a podium, looking like he hadn't slept in days.
"We… deeply regret the role we played in spreading false information. We were misled," Langston began, voice tight. "In light of recent revelations, we are working with legal counsel and will pursue those responsible for manipulating evidence. We extend our sincerest apologies to Mr. Sang and the design community at large."
Jason sipped his tea. The performance was decent—clearly written by lawyers, but the public wouldn't know that.
A new message popped up on his phone from Lawyer Hanson:
"Still going forward with the case?"
Jason replied with a simple ✅.
Daisy entered the kitchen, still in her modest silk pajamas. She gave him a nod of acknowledgment and moved to pour herself some tea. The air between them still felt a little off, lingering tension from that steamy bathroom encounter neither of them had properly addressed.
Jason glanced at her.
"Morning."
She sat down across from him. "Morning."
She hesitated, eyes dropping to what he was wearing—simple jeans, a navy crewneck, sneakers. No tie. No jacket. No gold watch. Just Jason.
"You're not going to the office?"
"Nope," he said, popping a piece of egg into his mouth. "You are."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I need you to hold it down today. Just for the morning. Tell the finance team to keep processing the revised salary plan. And if the bar files come in, review them but wait for me to sign off."
"And what exactly are you doing?" she asked, arms folded.
"I'm going to find Hendricks."
Daisy raised an eyebrow, clearly concerned. "Is that a good idea? Given your status, you—"
Jason passed her his phone and hit play.
She watched the apology video, her face unreadable. As it ended, she handed the phone back, eyes narrowed.
"And how exactly did you get them to apologize?"
"If you really wanted to know," Jason said with a smirk, "maybe you shouldn't have skipped work yesterday."
She stared at him. Hard.
Jason chuckled, hands up. "Okay, okay. Sorry. That was uncalled for."
He leaned back, more serious now. "I had evidence. Enough to bury them. Sexual assault. Manslaughter. Cover-up. All of it tied back to Vanessa Clark's death."
Daisy's lips parted slightly. She looked sick.
"So… you gave that up for an apology?"
Jason shook his head. "Of course not. Hanson's filing the real case now. They think I gave them everything, but I kept the admissible files. Their freedom is temporary. Soon as Hendricks is publicly cleared, I'm finishing what I started."
Daisy stared at him for a moment longer before nodding, satisfied.
After breakfast, she left with the security team in tow. They were reluctant to leave Jason alone, but he waved them off.
Jason walked to the garage himself. It was the first time he truly took in the collection—lined up like sleeping beasts under the dim lights. Ferraris. Benzes. An Aston Martin. A matte black Porsche 911 GT3 RS 4.0 (997) sat in the corner, almost casually.
Jason whistled low. "You might've been a spoiled idiot," he muttered to the old Jason in his head. "But damn, you had good taste."
He approached the car, admiring the wide fenders, the carbon fiber trim, the minimalist interior. He opened the door, slid in, and let the engine roar to life.
He rolled down the windows as he pulled out. The air rushed in and so did the sound—raw and guttural. The Porsche snarled as it tore down the street. Jason didn't floor it—he wasn't trying to get arrested—but he wanted to feel the car breathe.
He stopped at a roadside food stall near the old bridge and bought a hot sweet bun. Then he drove a little further until he saw the tent nestled under the bridge.
Hendricks was outside, sketching something on a scrap of cardboard with a dull pencil.
Jason stood for a moment, watching Hendricks scribble on scrap cardboard. His hands were calloused, movements focused. This wasn't some bum wasting talent—this was a man surviving. Jason exhaled, then stepped forward, bun in hand.
Jason parked, walked up, and handed him the bun.
"You?" Hendricks muttered, barely looking up.
"I want to hire you," Jason said.
"…How?"
"Let's just say I have friends in strange places," Jason replied.
Hendricks sat back, processing. "Alright. What's the project?"
"I own a bar. Terrible location. God awful design. I want to make it into something better."
"Bar into what?"
Jason grinned. "A hybrid beauty salon and café."
Hendricks blinked, then slowly smiled. "That's insane."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "You in?"
Hendricks turned, reached into his tent, and pulled out a thick sketchbook. He flipped through it until he landed on a spread of sketches—mirrors, salon chairs, espresso machines, velvet lounges, indoor plants.
"This is exactly what I've been toying with for a week."
"Then it's fate."
Hendricks paused. "I want to see the location."
"We'll go," Jason said. "But first, we clean you up."
Hendricks walked to the neighboring tent and tapped on it. An old man emerged, rubbing his eyes.
"You were right," Hendricks said with a grin. "Told me fortune was comin'. I'm leaving the stuff to you."
The old man laughed. "Finally, kid. About time."
Jason reached into his pocket and handed the old man some bills. "Thanks for looking out for him."
The old man nodded gratefully.
As Jason and Hendricks walked back to the Porsche, the old man looked down at the sketchbook Hendricks had left behind. His brow furrowed.
"Wait a minute… I thought his lucky day wasn't for another two weeks…" He scratched his head. "Either my readings are off or this kid's about to shake things up earlier than expected."
He glanced toward the city skyline.
"Guess I better find a successor soon ."
"I guess that one boy could do."
Then he turned, the crinkle of plastic bags and old canvas echoing behind him, disappearing slowly into his tent like smoke in the wind.
Hendricks chuckled. "Can't. I'm blackballed."
Jason handed him the phone and hit play.
The apology video played. Hendricks stared at it, unmoving, until the end.