39. Evangeline

  The car glides through the winding arteries of Beverly Hills, past manicured hedges and wrought-iron gates that guard secrets behind glass. I sit back, watching the world scroll past my window as the driver murmurs names—producers, heiresses, influencers—each house a monument to curated perfection.

  Sera’s residence crowns the hill, naturally. Nestled among the very celebrities who fuel the beauty industry, her presence here isn’t just strategic—it’s symbolic. Power, proximity, prestige. It’s all part of the brand.

  In less than three years, she’s transformed herself into a celebrity in her own right. Aethsera—her all-natural beauty line—is now whispered in the same breath as legacy labels. The secret? CRISPR.

  The Hightower Group’s mastery of gene-editing allowed her to engineer botanical ingredients and micro-organisms that perform miracles on skin. Anti-aging. Blemish concealment. Elasticity restoration. The results are undeniable.

  The product line is still small. The science controversial. Safety concerns loom large. But the following? Devoted. Feverish.

  Her home appears like a mirage—stone and glass rising beside a private botanical garden. A living testament to her creations. What better way to say CRISPRed botanicals are safe than to live among them?

  The garden spills gently into view—a curated wilderness of rare blooms and climbing vines. At first glance, it looks ordinary: lush, fragrant, serene. But the longer I stare, the more I notice the precision. The orchids bloom in perfect symmetry, each petal identical in size and hue. The vines coil with deliberate grace, never tangled, never wild. Every flower, every bush, every blade of grass feels like a watercolor rendered by a steady, obsessive hand. Every stroke—just right.

  The air is rich with scent. Not overpowering, not artificial. Just floral enough to seduce, just sterile enough to warn. Beneath the sweetness, something cooler lingers—clinical, composed.

  A little deeper into the garden, visible from the street like a whispered promise, stands a slogan sculpted in living blossoms:

  “Beauty. Not Made-up. Become.”

  The house itself is tranquil, serene. But here in Beverly Hills, silence isn’t peace. It’s power.

  I step out, heels clicking against the stone. A turtle dove coos softly from the trellis above—low, melodic, almost mournful. A breeze stirs the air, carrying a trace of jasmine, subtle and fleeting, chased by something colder—marble and memory.

  I tell myself I’m ready.

  Grandpa promised full support from the family. But I know better.

  Nothing is freely given by Sera.

  And nothing is ever simple.

  The front door opens with a whisper of hydraulics, and Sera steps into the light.

  She’s taller than I remember. Or maybe it’s just the way she fills the doorway—hips sculpted beneath cream silk, auburn hair catching fire in the sun. Her beauty is cinematic, curated. The kind that makes people forget to blink.

  “Eva,” she says, descending the steps like a queen who’s mastered the art of smiling without surrender. “You’ve changed.”

  I meet her gaze. “So have you, Sera. Even prettier. No—divine.”

  She laughs, low and sharp. “The Ruby Republic has put flattery in my straight-shooting little sister’s mouth.”

  She circles me slowly, eyes scanning my skin with clinical precision. “Is the pollution in Beijing that bad? I have exactly the masks you need. I’ll send them over tomorrow.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  The caring sister act—comes with a product pitch.

  “That’s fantastic,” I reply. “I’ve been dying to try AethSera. I hear it’s nearly impossible to get now.”

  She sighs, a flicker of pride and frustration. “Some of our botanicals are difficult to cultivate. We’re still refining the sequence.”

  She gestures toward the garden gate. “Tea’s ready. I thought we’d sit outside. The roses are blooming, and I’ve had the scent adjusted—less cloying, more persuasive.”

  I follow her through the archway, past the blooming slogan: Beauty. Not Made-up. Become. The garden is immaculate. Every petal placed like a chess piece. A table waits beneath the pergola, set with porcelain and glass. Pear slices glisten like polished bone.

  She pours the tea herself. No staff. Just us.

  “So,” she says, voice smooth but edged, “what do you need, Eva? Grandpa says—whatever you need.”

  The air tightens.

  I lift the cup. A swirl of floral steam rises, buttery and soft. I sip. “Lovely tea, Sera. I brought some of my own. Want to try it? You know, the Ruby Republic is where tea originally comes from.”

  Her eyes spark with curiosity. She whistles, and a housekeeper appears with cups and hot water.

  I retrieve a small metal caddy from my purse, open the lid, and release a breath of pure, concentrated fragrance.

  Sera inhales, eyes widening. “What is that?”

  The aroma transcends "tea"—a complex tapestry of scents, at once sweet like a sun-dried apricot, smoky like a wisp of distant campfire, and floral like a hidden garden after a spring rain.

  I drop a pinch into the cup. Each leaf is a translucent blade, coated in silvery down. As the steaming water meets them, they don’t just unfurl—they come alive, standing vertically to form a miniature, verdant forest, their silver tips sparkling.

  The air filled with a new, vibrant aroma—this time, less of a tapestry and more of a single, powerful chord of scent, bright and intoxicating.

  Sera watches, mesmerized, as the small green blades slowly stretch and expand into full, delicate shapes, each with five petals, blooming like vibrant olive-green flowers. The transformation completes as the liquid takes on a pale, luminous veil, as if sunlight has kissed a mountain spring at dawn, then whispers its warmth into the cup.

  I sip first. The flavor is both familiar and entirely new. A delicate sweetness washes over my tongue, followed by a fleeting hint of toasted nuttiness. Just as I think the experience is complete, a bright, tart fruit note dances across my palate—a final, unexpected flourish.

  There is no bitterness or sharpness—only a perfect, velvety smoothness that coats the mouth. The taste lingers long after I set down the cup, a gentle echo of its complexity leaving me in a state of tranquil, complete satisfaction.

  When Sera takes her sip, her eyes widen and she freezes, transfixed.

  “Can you taste it?” I ask.

  “Longjing,” she murmurs. “Junshan silver needle... apricot?”

  “With added CsMYB5 and R-genes. Boosted production. Pathogen resistance. Three harvests a year. Three hundred kilos per acre.”

  She stares at me. “Get out. No way.”

  I nod, smiling.

  “How?” she demands, like she used to beg Dad to reveal a magic trick.

  “Two words,” I say. “Foreign genes.”

  In the States, introducing foreign genes—genetic material from other species—requires a multi-year, rigorous approval process before commercial use. That's just for plants. For animals, any gene-editing faces the same intense scrutiny as a new drug from the FDA.

  But in the Ruby Republic, the Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry holds sweeping discretion. Regulations exist—but enforcement is... negotiable.

  They turn a blind eye—until they don’t. Unless you feed their appetite.

  Once Sanguine Institute gets Jianhua Xiao and Bao Fang as shareholders, DAF will leave us alone.

  Sera leans in, voice low. “Even animals?”

  I meet her gaze. “Anything you want. Even humans.”

  She's speechless. Her breath catches—just slightly.

  "That's what Grandpa wants the family to support—progress, not me," I say softly. "And I need you with me."

  Silence stretches between us, taut as wire.

  She studies me, eyes flicking across my face like she’s searching for the girl I used to be. But she doesn’t find her.

  Finally, she exhales. “You’ll supply me with whatever I specify?”

  I nod. “Not just supply. Market. A nation of 1.4 billion—desperate to stay young, desperate to survive their own air. We’ll give them what they’re dying for.”

  Her voice sharpens. “What do you need?”

  “A reserve of U.S. dollars,” I say. “And your help pushing Hightower Coins to the celebrity circuit. Influence is currency. I need both.”

  She pauses. A flicker of calculation behind her eyes. Then she nods.

  “Deal.”

  I raise my pinky.

  She hesitates—just for a breath—then hooks hers around mine.

  Just like we did when we were girls.

  But this time, the promise isn’t innocence.

  It’s empire.

  /*

  Creating this tea demands a precise blend of genetic engineering, innovative processing, and artistic design.

  The process starts with CRISPR modification of a base cultivar using Longjing 43 genes to create the distinctive spear-shaped flat leaves. This is followed by enhancing the silvery down (trichomes) through Junshan Silver Needle gene upregulation. The final genetic step introduces β-ionone and damascenone genes to impart the signature fruity apricot notes.

  The preservation method combines two techniques: gentle low-temperature steaming to maintain the trichomes and leaf translucency, followed by a quick pan-firing that seals in both the unique shape and aroma compounds.

  */