Before long, the car pulled up in front of Jing Haiping’s villa. Jing Hong put away the two documents he had just finished reviewing, and the driver opened the door.

Stepping out, Jing Hong said to the driver, “You can head back first.”

The driver asked, “Shall I leave the car with you, then?”

“No need,” Jing Hong said. “Drive it back. Just pick me up at Zhuxiang Qingyun tomorrow morning as usual.” This meant he would return to his own home tonight—a flat of over 300 square meters located in the “Zhuxiang Qingyun” neighborhood. However, to make things easier for the driver, he wouldn’t keep the car with him.

“Understood.” The driver had already reverted to his usual polite demeanor, making his earlier road rage seem like a mere illusion. “Have a good evening, President Jing.”

Walking through the front door, Jing Hong was greeted by his father, Jing Haiping, and his mother, Jiang Mei.

Jing Haiping was over 60 years old with salt-and-pepper hair. He was in excellent spirits, possessing a lean face, elegant features, and gold-rimmed glasses. His title as a “Confucian businessman” stemmed from his slender build, gentle features, and scholarly, unhurried aura. Furthermore, he was the only graduate of Peking University or Tsinghua University among the founders of the “Big Four” internet giants.

After graduating from Tsinghua University, he worked at a research institute under the Chinese Academy of Sciences before resigning to start his own business in 1997.

Jing Hong’s mother, Jiang Mei, was entirely different from the typical image of a beautiful, gentle housewife; she was an early employee of Panhai. While Jing Haiping was Employee No. 0, Jiang Mei was Employee No. 3—meaning that, excluding his father, she was the third person to join the company. In the 1990s, it was no small feat for a woman to abandon a stable institutional job to join a newly established startup consisting of only three people. At the time, Jiang Mei wanted to help Jing Haiping, but she also recognized the massive potential of the internet in China. This occurred just over a year after the Ministry of Post and Telecommunications established a 64K leased line via the American company Sprint to provide internet access to Chinese society. Later, Panhai launched its personal homepages and email services, causing user numbers to skyrocket, with the public affectionately referring to email as “Yi Mei’er” (e-mail). Until her retirement, Jiang Mei served as the Chief Operating Officer (COO) of Panhai Group, and her decision to step down was similarly driven by a desire to support Jing Haiping. When Jing Hong was very young, veterans at Panhai used to tell him, “Your mother has always been a iron lady. At her previous company, she was still working in the office the day you were born!”

Entering the living room, Jing Hong found that the chef had already laid out dinner. Jing Haiping placed great emphasis on health and longevity, employing a dedicated culinary team and a nutritionist to design his menus.

“Change your clothes, and let’s eat?” Jiang Mei asked.

“Sure, I’ll be right down.” Jing Hong unbuttoned his shirt as he headed upstairs. Today, he wore a dark blue button-down. Since Panhai was an internet company, the CEO didn’t need to wear a full suit from morning till night; business casual was perfectly acceptable.

When he returned to the dining room, Jing Haiping and Jiang Mei were already seated.

Jing Haiping asked about a few recent developments at Panhai, and Jing Hong answered them one by one. In truth, since stepping down as CEO, Jing Haiping—in his role as Chairman of the Board—still frequently inquired about the company’s current status. Initially, Jing Hong had a great deal to learn from his father. Gradually, however, he became fully capable of handling everything with ease. “Current events” were now merely conversational tidbits shared at the dinner table, and Jing Haiping rarely offered any further directives.

After discussing company business, Jing Hong brought up the standoff at the entrance as a piece of casual gossip.

Predictably, Jing Haiping expressed his distaste: “Zhou Chang is exactly like his father. That car belongs to Zhou Buqun. After Zhou Buqun stepped down, his son took it over.”

Jing Hong: “…Yeah.” It was just a car, after all; it didn’t amount to much.

In reality, Jing Hong had never seen Zhou Chang himself do anything that crossed ethical lines.

Jing Haiping added, “You mentioned earlier that the two of you are locking horns again over the Kunpeng and Huawei contract, sigh…” At this point, Jing Haiping let out a deep sigh. “After that drunken gaffe, when he first took over, that Zhou Chang kid kept a low profile for a while. I thought he was a lightweight back then, but lately, he’s grown increasingly aggressive.”

“I can actually understand that.” Jing Hong took a bite of roast duck. “It’s been a year and a half since that incident, and nothing came of it. If he doesn’t push aggressively now and simply yields the market to us, Qinghui will certainly be finished in the future. He can’t abandon the competition over a negligible risk. He has indeed made things very difficult for us these past six months.”

Hearing this, Jiang Mei smiled and said, “You sound like you have a mutual respect for each other.”

Speechless, Jing Hong asked, “Where did you get that idea?”

Jing Haiping took a small sip of wine and suddenly remarked, “Seeing this wine reminds me of something Zhou Buqun did during his early startup days.”

Jing Hong immediately played along, asking, “What was it?”

“Have I told you this before?” Jing Haiping wasn’t entirely sure. “I think it was in ’99, or around then. Qinghui held its corporate annual gala and invited all the city leadership.”

Jing Hong replied, “No, you haven’t. Go on.” Jing Haiping had shared plenty of stories about Zhou Buqun’s unsavory behavior, but he had definitely never mentioned this one. Given his excellent memory, Jing Hong was certain.

“Alright, let me continue.” Jing Haiping took another sip. “So, the grand finale of the evening was a solo performance by Zhou Buqun himself! There he was, just like this, holding a glass of wine, singing as he walked across the stage.” Jing Haiping narrated colorfully, fully immersing himself in the memory.

Jing Hong asked, “And then?”

“And then, as he sang, Zhou Buqun walked off the stage,” Jing Haiping continued. “Holding his wine glass, he sang his way right up to the city leaders… When he reached the final line, Zhou Buqun dropped to one knee, raised his glass, and presented it to the leader…! Can you guess what song he sang that night?”

“I have no idea,” Jing Hong gave up immediately. “I’m not familiar with songs from the ’90s.”

“It’s a very famous song,” Jing Haiping said, tapping his finger on the table rhythmically as he articulated each word. “三、杯、美、酒、敬、親、人 (Three Cups of Fine Wine Dedicated to Our Loved Ones)!!!”

After finishing the story, Jing Haiping even used a trendy piece of internet slang: “I am absolutely floored!”

Upon hearing this, Jing Hong actually burst out laughing.

He said, “While I would never do something like that, I must admit it’s quite hilarious.”

Jing Haiping shook his head and said, “To think Zhou Buqun is a university graduate, yet he was capable of doing such a thing.”

However, from the older generation at Panhai, Jing Haiping had long known that his son’s ethical baseline was far lower than his own, and his tactics were much more ruthless. Yet, he couldn’t interfere, because today’s business landscape was far more brutal than it was in his time. Back in the 1990s, opportunities were everywhere; as long as you had a solid idea and a good product, success was practically guaranteed. He knew very well that as long as his son didn’t veer off course on major strategic decisions, everything would be fine.

As for the “Three Cups of Fine Wine” incident, Jing Hong genuinely found it amusing. Flattery and brown-nosed behavior were trivial compared to some of the other things Zhou Buqun’s father had pulled. Nonetheless, Jing Hong understood his father’s disgust. His father was a Tsinghua graduate born in the 1960s who possessed ideals and aspirations. Having always been viewed as a “Confucian businessman,” it was natural for him to dislike undignified, opportunistic merchants. Of course, his father’s animosity toward Zhou Buqun was primarily driven by other matters—such as plagiarizing the product ideas of startups or attempting to imprison journalists who criticized him. Because he had operated an intrusive advertising network, Zhou Buqun was even dubbed the “Father of Rogue Adware.” Jing Haiping was a businessman, after all; he wasn’t so naive as to hold a grudge against someone solely because of sycophancy.

Reflecting on it, Jing Hong asked, “So, what happened in the end? Did the leader drink it?”

Jing Haiping said resentfully, “He drank it. Drained it in one gulp. That era was different from now. For certain people, that tactic worked perfectly.”

Jing Hong chuckled again. It wasn’t the conclusion of the story that was funny, but rather his father’s disgruntled expression.

“Zhou Buqun started out looking like a lapdog.” True to his status as a Tsinghua intellectual, Jing Haiping successfully brought the conversation back to the main point despite the long digression. He waved his hand and said, “Later, as his business grew, he began to think highly of himself. He started putting on grand displays, driving a Maybach, and surrounding himself with an entourage as if he thought no one remembered his lapdog days.”

Impressive, Jing Hong thought silently, amused by how the conversation had circled back to the Maybach.

At that moment, Jiang Mei spoke up from across the table, “Did Zhou Chang recently launch an acquisition bid for ‘Yueguan’?”

Jing Hong nodded, “Yes.”

Both Jing Hong and Jing Haiping thoroughly enjoyed this dynamic—the fact that his mother/wife could actively participate in business discussions. In the households of most entrepreneurs, the female head of the house was often relegated to discussing domestic chores.

“Strangely,” Jiang Mei inquired further, “doesn’t the owner of ‘Yueguan’ constantly insult Zhou Chang? Why would Zhou Chang still want to acquire them?”

“Yes,” Jing Hong answered. “The owner of Yueguan literally just called Zhou Chang a intellectually disabled child.”

Yueguan was one of China’s earliest social networking platforms. In contrast, Qinghui had started as a search engine and was once on the verge of falling out of the “Big Four” internet giants. However, a few years ago, Qinghui surged back to the top tier by leveraging web services, cloud computing, and video-based social networking, allowing them to stand on equal footing with Panhai. Qinghui’s primary growth engines were currently cloud computing and video-based social media. Consequently, the owner of Yueguan constantly insulted Zhou Chang, given the direct conflict of interest.

To everyone’s surprise, Zhou Chang suddenly launched a full-cash acquisition bid for Yueguan last month, issuing a conditional tender offer① with a price that proved incredibly enticing to shareholders. Because Yueguan was incorporated and publicly traded in the United States, its owner initially scrambled frantically to organize an anti-takeover defense, urging shareholders not to sell their stock to Zhou Chang. However, one evening, the owner had a sudden epiphany: Wait a minute, if Zhou Chang is willing to pay this much money, why shouldn’t I sell? Let alone the other shareholders wanting to sell, I really want to sell my own shares too! Consequently, Yueguan’s board reversed its stance and accepted Qinghui’s offer.

Jiang Mei asked, perplexed, “Despite being insulted constantly, Zhou Chang is still paying a premium to acquire Yueguan? Is he personally handing that owner a fortune?” Acquiring an opponent out of spite after being insulted was the stuff of novels. In reality, there was nothing dominant about it; the person being acquired would simply end up counting their cash with a massive grin.

“I don’t know.” Jing Hong finished his meal, deliberately wiping his mouth with a napkin before speaking unhurriedly. “However, I don’t believe Zhou Chang would truly do that just out of charity.”

“Then…?”

Jing Hong tossed his napkin aside, his speech remaining deliberate and slow: “From where I stand, Zhou Chang must be up to no good.”

Jiang Mei let out a sudden laugh.

Yet Jing Hong remained convinced: Zhou Chang was definitely planning something sinister.

Yueguan was in for a rough ride.

After dinner, Jing Hong accompanied Jing Haiping in watching a health program for a short while. Jiang Mei walked out again and said to Jing Hong, “Son, you love sweets the most. Knowing you were coming back, Auntie Fu made a few small pastries.”

“Oh?” Jing Hong looked toward the family’s helper. “Thank you, Auntie Fu.”

Auntie Fu was up in years and had worked for Jing Haiping’s family for 23 years, essentially watching Jing Hong grow up. Back when Jing Haiping and Jiang Mei were consumed by work and returned home late, Auntie Fu had looked after Jing Hong throughout his entire time in middle and high school. Even after becoming wealthy, Jing Haiping never hired a formal estate management team, as he wasn’t accustomed to living like a grand capitalist. A few years ago, as Auntie Fu aged and he began prioritizing his health, he simply hired a nutritionist, a culinary team, and a deep-cleaning crew who arrived and departed at set hours, leaving Auntie Fu with only light, supplementary duties.

Jing Haiping had once expressed intense disdain for the ridiculous displays at Zhou Buqun’s house—napkins folded into swans, chopsticks arranged in precise formations, and British butlers who had to hold trays from the bottom using four fingers without letting their thumbs touch the rim, ensuring the tray never wobbled. Zhou Buqun had even boasted that the butlers trained using ping-pong balls—placing a ball on the tray and walking around without letting it roll. Furthermore, wine glasses had to be steamed to ensure the glass retained no water spots after wiping… Jing Haiping’s take: entirely insufferable. Jing Hong understood this “insufferable” sentiment as his father’s general annoyance with pretentious behavior.

Jing Hong possessed a fondness for sweets. He hadn’t cared for them in the past, but over the last few years, a natural craving had emerged. However, his palate remained traditionally Chinese—anything overly sweet wouldn’t do. For a 32-year-old CEO, this preference seemed slightly boyish, but fortunately, he still had a home, a family, and individuals who felt like family.

The “small pastries” were actually cream puffs, though Jiang Mei invariably referred to them as small cakes.

Lifting the thin paper covering the large platter revealed six cream puffs. Auntie Fu said, “I made two sea salt cheese ones, two tiramisu ones, and two cream strawberry ones. Take a look?”

Jing Hong repeated, “Thank you, Auntie Fu,” as he picked up his favorite flavor: sea salt cheese. Although she no longer prepared the main dinners, Auntie Fu still occasionally took it upon herself to make something special for Jing Hong. She always maintained that he would inevitably prefer her creations above all else.

Holding the cream puff, Jing Hong leaned his head forward and took a bite. The crisp outer pastry and savory cheese filling instantly delighted his taste buds.

Excellent.

“Jing Hong!” Jiang Mei suddenly came rushing over holding a small bin. “Use this to catch the crumbs! Don’t make a mess everywhere!”

Jing Hong: “?????”

Jiang Mei promptly wedged the bin right between Jing Hong’s knees. “Hold onto it! Pastry crumbs are a nightmare to clean up. Don’t get them all over the sofa. Your Auntie Fu is already in her sixties!” Both Jing Haiping and Jiang Mei had emerged from modest backgrounds in the 1960s and were old-school intellectuals; they didn’t put on the airs of the wealthy. In fact, their daily meals and household items were largely indistinguishable from those of ordinary people.

“Chief Operating Officer Jiang,” Jing Hong said as he obediently held the bin, teasing his retired mother. “I’m 32 years old. People out there certainly wouldn’t believe that the CEO of Panhai has to hold a bin just to eat a snack at home.”

Jiang Mei smiled. “Getting crumbs all over the floor is far more embarrassing than holding a bin to eat a pastry.”

Jing Hong considered this for a moment. “Surely it’s not that extreme? I feel like—”

“It is,” Jiang Mei interrupted him directly, displaying the competitive spirit of an iron lady. “Let’s put it this way: would you rather be seen by your rival, Zhou Chang, getting crumbs all over yourself, or would you rather be seen holding a bin while eating a pastry? Which scenario is more acceptable to you?”

Jing Hong was completely dumbfounded.

What a ridiculous analogy.

He turned his characteristically sharp, formidably intense gaze toward his mother, asking helplessly, “Can I choose neither?”

__

Author’s Notes:

And the reality is that both scenarios will end up being witnessed by the opponent. Light a candle for him.

As expected of the former COO of Panhai Group, her debating skills are exceptionally powerful.

• ① Tender Offer: A public offer made by an acquirer to all shareholders of a publicly traded company to purchase all or a portion of their shares in the corporation. The offer can specify a minimum percentage of shares to be acquired (the minimum is 5% in China) or leave it open-ended to acquire as many as possible. Generally, the target company’s board of directors evaluates every tender offer and provides a “recommend” or “do not recommend” advisory to shareholders. Launching an offer directly to shareholders without going through the target company’s board constitutes a hostile takeover, which is relatively rare, especially in China.