Chapter 9: Psychological Analysis

Liu Family Estate.

Liu Wangjiang twirled a gold-stamped invitation between his fingers. Its red silk border framed the words “Lu Family Birthday Party” in ostentatious elegance.

His eyes dropped to Lu Qingqi’s name at the bottom, the bold handwriting mirroring his brash demeanor.

“A birthday invitation?”

“Unusual.”

His brow lifted slightly.

Second-generation rich kids often attended each other’s birthday parties, but he and Lu Qingqi had been at odds since that high school incident.

In past years, when it was Lu Qingqi’s birthday, Liu Wangjiang sent gifts via proxy. Each time, Lu Qingqi tossed the unopened gift box out the door in front of everyone, as if they were sworn enemies.

And now, an invitation from him?

He’s up to something.

That was Liu Wangjiang’s first thought.

But since Qiqi sent it, there’s no reason not to go.

Liu Wangjiang pocketed the invitation and turned his attention to the little boy in a blue-and-white striped robe, sitting on the living room sofa, engrossed in a tablet.

He’d sent the kid and Zhang Junfang away last time, yet here they were again.

“Kid, why’re you and your teacher back?” Liu Wangjiang half-squatted, flicking Yan Qing’s forehead.

Yan Qing clutched his head, brows knotting, and whined in a childish voice, “We were at the airport, but after a call, Teacher brought us back.”

“Oh?”

“It was your parents. They moved Teacher with their ‘sincerity.’ We were already at the airport, but one call turned us around. He’s looking for a place to stay now—says he won’t leave till he cures you.”

“How sincere?”

“Dunno, but Teacher said it’s a big deal.”

Liu Wangjiang’s eyes darkened.

His deadbeat parents caring about him?

Or was his father, the psychology professor, running another family experiment?

As he pondered, keys jingled at the door. Yan Qing’s eyes lit up, and he slid off the sofa. “Teacher’s back!”

Liu Wangjiang stood, looking toward the entrance. Zhang Junfang walked in, white coat pristine, gold-rimmed glasses glinting, his demeanor as refined as ever.

Liu Wangjiang’s gaze settled on him, knowing his father’s involvement meant shaking him off wouldn’t be easy.

“You know my father,” he said.

Zhang Junfang adjusted his glasses and nodded. “Professor Liu Siwei, a titan in human psychology. I’ve read his works—‘On the Behavioral Connection Between Humans and Animals,’ ‘Domestication and Trust-Building,’ ‘Transformations and Connections Between Male and Female Thinking.’ Brilliant insights.”

“Since you know he’s my father, you know I studied psychology under him for years. If I were truly ill, why go to you? Are your skills better than his?”

“Professor Liu specializes in personality analysis and deep psychological restructuring,” Zhang Junfang replied evenly. “I focus on counseling and problem-solving. Different approaches, not a matter of superiority.”

His eyes swept the living room, landing back on Liu Wangjiang, sharp as a scalpel. “Psychologically, humans are fascinating. Their habits, even daily movements, reveal personality and thought.”

“Take you, Mr. Liu. This villa’s lighting is excellent, yet the curtains are always half-drawn, dimming the space. That suggests a reserved nature, hiding something unshareable. Your meticulous decor and pristine clothes show you’re skilled at masking your true thoughts.”

He paused, staring at Liu Wangjiang’s face. “But micro-expressions don’t lie—you were just happy.”

Liu Wangjiang’s fingers tightened on the invitation.

“Because of that invitation,” Zhang Junfang noted, catching the subtle movement. “The sender matters to you. A friend? Close friend? Someone you like?”

“You avoid confronting them directly. You hide secrets. Your elegance and nobility are a facade. Deep down, you’re utilitarian, possessive.”

“What’s your goal? What do you plan for them? Or have you been scheming—”

“Enough!” Liu Wangjiang cut him off, eyes cold. “You’re just like my father—too good at picking people apart.”

Zhang Junfang bowed slightly, voice modest. “Just part of the job.”

Liu Wangjiang inhaled deeply, quelling the irritation bubbling inside. “Butler Meng,” he called loudly.

A silver-haired man emerged from the corridor, posture straight, eyes sharp despite his gray temples.

“Young Master.” Butler Meng bowed.

Liu Wangjiang glanced at Zhang Junfang and the curious Yan Qing. “Get the key to the Third Ring Road apartment. They can stay there temporarily.”

He fixed his gaze on Zhang Junfang, tone firm. “Outside biweekly consultations, I don’t want to see you.”

Zhang Junfang adjusted his glasses, silent—agreement enough.

Butler Meng returned with the key, handed it over, and asked, “Young Master, anything else?”

“That’s all. Go.” Liu Wangjiang waved him off, turning away.

Only when the door closed did he speak again. “Check Zhang Junfang’s background and my parents’ recent movements. Report anything immediately.”

“Yes,” Butler Meng replied, a knowing glint in his eyes. The young master never trusted sudden intruders, especially those tied to his father.

After Butler Meng left, the living room fell silent. Liu Wangjiang climbed the stairs, pushed open his bedroom door, and let the hardness in his expression soften as it closed.

At the window, he gazed at the darkening sky, his parents’ faces flickering in his mind: a psychology professor who never acted like a father, and a mother “tamed” by him… a mother who never fulfilled her role.

They thought he was the sick one, hiring a psychiatrist.

Liu Wangjiang sneered. Absurd.

His eyes fell on the bedside photo frame. He picked it up, fingers tracing the youthful, lively face in the picture.

“Changes always disrupt plans,” he murmured, stroking the photo’s edge. “But the direction holds.”