John had been furious when Jack stepped forward to dump dirty water on Queenie's name—yet he said nothing.
He endured it.
He wanted to see how many of them would come out. How many faces would show themselves. How many ways they'd try to humiliate his sister.
Herman.
Sam.
Tim.
Karl.
Gary.
And finally—
Amy.
One after another, they emerged like cockroaches from the dark, slandering, smearing, and spitting venom at Queenie.
The media, like wolves scenting blood, didn't hesitate. Without facts. Without evidence. They condemned her—judged her guilty based on one-sided lies.
Inside John, rage built layer by layer. It seethed like lava beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment.
And then Jack opened his mouth.
"There! It's him!" Jack suddenly pointed, his face twisted in triumph. "He's Queenie's toy boy!"
Whoosh!
The next moment, John was in front of Jack—face to face.
"You've really been itching for a lesson, haven't you?"
Without waiting for an answer, John grabbed Jack by the hair and slammed his head into the table beside them.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Blood spattered across the polished surface. Jack's forehead split open, crimson gushing.
"You... you barbarian! How dare you hit me?!"
Chaos erupted. The surrounding journalists snapped out of their stupor, their cameras flashing as they began shouting.
Jack, dazed and bloodied, howled, "As you can see! This thug—this toy boy—he attacked me! Film it! I'll make sure he ends up behind bars!"
But even without his cue, the reporters were already frantically pressing their shutters, capturing every frame of the scene.
John's eyes glinted with cold fury.
"You won't cry until you see the coffin, huh?"
With that, he lifted Jack like a sack of flour and threw him onto the stage.
"Turn on the projector! Play the files from my USB drive!" he roared toward the stunned staff backstage.
Slap!
The screen flickered on.
A recording played.
"Allen, I've arranged for my brother Kent to be Queenie's driver. Just give it a bit more time. Soon, we'll have nude photos of that bitch."
"Good. Make sure those photos are released before Queenie Group goes public. I want them ruined."
"You'll pay us as promised, right?"
"Don't worry. After it's done, you'll get your cut."
The audio was damning. Jack's voice was unmistakable.
When the audio stopped, two images appeared on screen.
One was a family portrait—Jack, grinning with his wife and child.
The second was a bed photo. A sordid tangle of limbs—Jack, Sam, and a woman.
A closer look confirmed the worst: the woman was Jack's wife.
Bang!
The press room exploded with outrage.
"The real scumbags are you two!"
"You bastards! You tricked us! May you rot!"
"I recognize that voice—Allen Thomas, CEO of Beauty Group! I can't believe they'd stoop so low just to destroy a competitor!"
"Expose them! Publish everything! We'll boycott Beauty Group!"
Jack stood frozen. His pain forgotten. His mind shattered.
How?
How did this happen?
That recording—he'd made it as insurance, just in case Allen double-crossed him. He had hidden it well. So how did John get it?
And those private photos…?
He was ruined.
While the reporters were still shouting, John raised his voice above the chaos.
"Shut up."
A thunderous silence fell.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
John's gaze swept across the crowd like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.
"Before you rush to condemn others, ask yourselves: are you even qualified?"
These so-called journalists. They didn't care about truth. Only spectacle. Even when they were wrong, they faced no consequences. But the people they smeared? They bled.
"You all owe Queenie an apology." His voice was ice. "Kneel."
Dead silence. No one moved.
They knew they were wrong. But kneel? That demand was too domineering. Too humiliating.
"Humph! Still so arrogant!"
Karl scoffed, stepping forward. "So what if you exposed Jack? That doesn't change the fact Queenie is ungrateful—and you're still her toy boy!"
He hadn't expected John to have evidence. But it didn't matter. He thought he still had control.
"Karl is right," one reporter echoed. "Jack may be trash, but Queenie's no saint."
A flicker of deadly cold danced in John's eyes. Karl had just signed his own sentence.
"Queenie," John said calmly, "I respect you. That's all."
"And do you have proof of your relationship?" the instigating female reporter challenged again, tone mocking.
"I don't owe you proof," John replied, voice like steel. "And even if I were involved with Queenie, what does it matter to you, bitch?"
"You... Sir, you just personally insulted me—"
"Personal attack?" he cut her off with a snort.
A killing intent surged from him like a wave, crashing into her soul.
"If you say one more word, I'll kill you. Believe it or not."
Plop!
Her legs buckled. She collapsed on the spot. Beneath her white skirt, a dark stain spread across the floor.
She had peed herself.
She wasn't imagining it—just now, she had truly stared into the eyes of death.
John turned away from her.
His gaze fell on Gary.
Whoosh!
Gary's face drained of color.
"You claimed Queenie bullied you as a child?"
"You claimed she refused to help with your grandfather's treatment?"
"You claimed she was ungrateful?"
Each step John took forward, Gary took one back.
His body shook like a leaf in a storm.
Words caught in his throat. His heart pounded.
It was as if death itself was walking toward him.
"I... I admit it. I lied…"
Gary couldn't take it anymore. His nerves snapped.
But before he could confess—
Slap!
Karl suddenly stepped forward and interrupted.
"What else can you do besides scare people?" he sneered.
Smack!
John slapped him. The blow cracked like thunder.
Three bloody teeth flew from Karl's mouth, landing with a sickening clink.
"You useless dog," John said coldly. "Keep interrupting, and I'll shut your mouth for good."