The thugs who had already been thrown to the ground by Jason could barely breathe. And when the convoy of more than a dozen luxury off-roaders pulled up, their fear only grew.
They themselves had a few vehicles—some beat-up Wranglers and an old F-150—but the most expensive among them might have been worth forty or fifty grand.
But what stood lined up on the opposite side? A Jeep Wrangler worth fifty grand, a Land Rover Defender priced at over a hundred, a Toyota Land Cruiser pushing nearly a hundred as well. Then came the heavyweights: a Lexus LX570 worth one-seventy, a Hummer H1 nearly two-fifty, a Mercedes-Benz G63 at over three hundred, and towering above them all, the Mercedes Unimog—a half-million-dollar beast of machinery.
And those were just sticker prices. Taxes, import duties, luxury fees—these cars weren't just transportation, they were statements.
For these street punks, off-roading was a hobby. But this—this was the first time they had seen so many top-tier vehicles in one place. It was like watching a private auto show unfold right before their eyes.
One by one, men stepped out of the convoy. Each of them carried themselves with quiet power. Designer suits, tailored coats, limited-edition watches gleaming under the fading sunlight—every detail screamed wealth.
The thugs froze in place, drenched in cold sweat. Their minds raced. Helicopter. A watch worth millions. Now a convoy of wealthy men. Who had they provoked?
The girl crying in his arms—it had to be his woman. And they had just put hands on her.
The realization hit like thunder. Their heads buzzed with panic, but their bodies refused to move. They should have apologized, begged, groveled—but right now their minds were blank, completely at a loss.
One of the men glanced nervously at the crowd of elites who had arrived. His eyes stopped on one particular figure, and his face went pale.
He tugged at his buddy's sleeve, whispering harshly: "Hey—look over there. Isn't that Mr. Peterson?"
"What?" the other man hissed. "The real estate guy? Peterson? No way…"
"I've seen him before," the first man insisted. "When I followed my boss to a property auction. That's definitely him."
The group stiffened further.
"Wait… and isn't that Lewis, the CEO of New Vision Media? The guy's worth over two hundred million!"
Another one squinted and almost choked on his words. "And that—no way—that's Han from Skyline Developments. He's a heavyweight in the construction game."
Faces blanched one after another.
These weren't small-time entrepreneurs. These were men with power, influence, and money—people their own bosses had to bow to. And yet, here they were, treating Jason with respect that bordered on reverence.
"Do you still not get it?" one muttered in terror. "If they are bowing, it means Jason's status blows theirs out of the water."
"You're talking about rich guys," another whispered back, "but you don't understand. Wearing a two-hundread thousend-dollar watch means you're easily worth hundreds of millions. But wearing a two-million-dollar watch…" He shuddered. "That's not just wealth. That's another level entirely."
"What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
Before anyone could answer, a sharp gasp cut through the silence.
It was Jack, the only one among them with a bit of real knowledge. His eyes bulged, his skin pale as chalk.
Everyone followed his trembling gaze.
There, a bald, middle-aged man had stepped out from the Unimog. He was smiling politely as he approached Jason, lowering his head slightly in greeting.
Jack's heart sank like a stone. Peterson, Lewis—those were big names. But this man… this man was someone even they deferred to.
The others felt the air tighten with dread. One finally whispered, "Jack… who is he? Do you… do you know him?"
Jack swallowed hard. His throat was dry, but the words clawed their way out.
"If I'm not wrong… that's Daniel Ross."
The name alone made their stomachs flip.
Daniel Ross. The Millionaire venture capitalist who held stakes in half the major tech companies on the West Coast.
And he was bowing—to Jason.
Jack's voice twisted into a whisper that barely reached anyone: "That man over there — Mason King, chairman of International Freight & Express — he's worth millions. Our boss… he's tried to curry favor with him a dozen times and never got a look."
Mason King was exactly the Unimog owner who'd just rolled in. The revelation hit the thugs like a physical blow. Faces that had been pale went even paler. They were already outclassed and now they realized the other side's people weren't just wealthy — they were a different world.
The men around Jason weren't small-time either: investors, developers, media bosses — names the thugs had maybe heard in passing but never dreamed of encountering in person. And every single one of them had bowed to Jason with respect bordering on worship. The implication was obvious: whoever this "young man" was, his class and clout towered over theirs.
Jason didn't rush anything. He kept Holly sheltered at his side, as calm as if they were back at some members-only club, exchanging effortless pleasantries with the arrivals while the thugs wilted in place.
Jack was the first to break. He stepped forward on shaky knees and dropped into a near-profound bow. "Mr Jason—" he choked out, voice breaking, "we didn't know. We were wrong. Please forgive us. This young lady has every right to… to hit us. We deserve whatever comes."
One after another the others followed, collapsing into humbling bows.
Jason let the blowout of formalities play out. He listened to their excuses, then fixed his gaze on the handful of men who'd started the trouble. "You said you were in the right because of the scrape on the road?" he asked quietly. "You admitted responsibility for the collision — so why did you beat her?"
Jack's face glistened with sweat. "No—no, Mr Jason. The accident was on us. We'll pay for damages. It was our fault entirely." He was practically sobbing.
Jason's voice stayed level. "Then why beat a woman? Do you think she's easy to bully?"
No answer came. Their arrogance had been a pure choice; they had no plausible defense.
Jason released his hold and stepped back. Jack — the man who'd been pinned earlier — tried to stand, but his legs shook. He dropped back to his knees and began to beat his chest with theatrical desperation, tears streaking his face. "I deserve it! I deserve it! Mr Jason, we're sorry, we're sorry!" He slapped himself again and again until the smacks echoed.
Aly, Holly, and the others — watching from behind Jason — felt relief and a little ashamed satisfaction. The braggarts who'd bullied Holly were now groveling like children. The scene was surreal: the crowd that had swaggered minutes ago were now reduced to belly-crawling apologies.
One of the women from the thug side — the heavyset woman who'd started the fight — rushed forward, indignation painting her features. "Enough! This is too much. Don't humiliate him like this, Mr Jason—" she protested, trying to pull him up. "We were attacked, too. This isn't fair."
Jack, still kneeling, grabbed her wrist and shoved her down. "Shut up! Don't talk back. If Mr Jason doesn't calm down, we deserve ten times more!" He barked, dragging her down to kneel beside him, forcing the apology to continue.
The woman's lip curled. She spat back with venom: "Why should I apologize? She hit me. She was asking for it with that outfit — flaunting herself. Who taught her to dress like that?"
"Hell no," another thug muttered, anger flaring anew. "What are we supposed to be afraid of? Even if he's rich, what can he really do? This is a fight, a street thing. Let the cops sort it out or we fight it out."
The words landed like acid. Jack's expression snapped from embarrassment to cold fury in a heartbeat. These people — who'd begged for mercy a minute ago — were now trying to spin the narrative, blaming the victim for dressing and daring. That baited fury in Jack and his crew; the shame of being made to grovel, and then the insult of being dismissed, churned into a dangerous mix.
They had been humiliated. They were furious. And worst of all for them, the room was full of people who could make their lives very uncomfortable with a single phone call. The thugs' bravado started to feel like a live wire — vibrating toward something ugly.
Jason's hand tightened around Holly's shoulders for half a beat, not in anger but in quiet protection. He didn't shout. He didn't tear them apart theatrically — he let their own disgrace and the weight of the crowd's judgment do the work. The message had landed: actions have consequences, and when you pick on the wrong person, the world can respond in a way you never imagined.
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