On my daughter’s eighteenth birthday, I happened to come across her classmate’s parent's post on social media.

[Thanks to my daughter, I got to attend her best friend’s birthday party!]

I smiled warmly. It was nice to know my daughter was making more friends.

However, when I looked closely at the photo, a strange sense of unease began to creep in.

The party was clearly being held inside our own villa—a lavish celebration with dazzling lights and elegant decor. Yet the girl at the center of it all, surrounded by admiration and applause... was a complete stranger.

And the dress she was wearing—it looked exactly like the custom-designed gown I had commissioned for my daughter. The very one that had cost over two million dollars.

The more I looked, the more something felt off. I decided to check the security footage from our home.

On screen, the unfamiliar girl was smiling graciously as she helped a woman onto the stage. She proudly introduced her to the guests.

"This is my mother, the chairwoman of Wilson Holdings."

In the background, I spotted my own daughter—on her knees.

A group of people were holding her down, forcing her to lick the spilled cream off the floor like a dog.

Rage made my hands tremble. She was claiming to be the chairwoman of Wilson Holdings?

Then who was I?

——

The head of the wellness center came in with a bouquet of flowers, smiling as she spoke. “Congratulations, Ms. Wilson. Your recovery is going well. You’ll be discharged in a few days!”

I smiled faintly and picked up my phone, ready to share the good news with my daughter.

But the moment I opened my feed, I saw another post—this time from Fiona's mom, one of the other parents in my daughter’s class.

I had deliberately kept my identity private so my daughter could better fit in at school.

Today was her birthday.

But in the video posted by Fiona's mom, both the location and the birthday girl’s dress looked uncannily familiar.

Wait a minute—wasn’t that my home?

And that dress... wasn’t that the one I’d spent a fortune on? The one I’d helped design myself as a gift for my daughter’s coming-of-age?

The embroidery in gold thread, the pearls on the neckline—they alone were worth millions!

My eyes darkened, and I immediately called Emma, our housekeeper.

“Young Miss is hosting a birthday party with her classmates!” she answered cheerfully.

“She said she loved the gifts you sent back!”

“She’s eating cake right now with everyone—she’ll call you later.”

But something still didn’t feel right.

Was I overthinking this? Unable to hold back, I sent a private message to Fiona's mom. She took a long time to reply.

“We don’t really get involved in the kids’ business,” she said vaguely, dodging the question.

“We’re just parents—we don’t understand much of what goes on.”

Moments later, I checked her profile again, but she blocked me from viewing her posts.

That’s when I decided to call my daughter’s homeroom teacher.

“Hello, is this Mr. Smith? I’m Frances’s mother. I’d like to ask about how my daughter has been doing lately—”

“Oh, you’re her mom?” The voice on the other end snapped impatiently. “Took you long enough to call.”

“I’m her new teacher. Mr. Smith already left the school.”

Guilt washed over me. I’d been abroad for health reasons these past two years and hadn’t even known her teacher had changed.

But then, the next words made me jump to my feet.

“Ms. Rachel, I hope you don’t mind me being blunt.”

“Your daughter is just the child of a housekeeper. The fact that Wilson Holdings let her enroll here at all is already a huge favor.”

“But she clearly doesn’t appreciate it—always asking for leave, never taking school seriously.”

“And this semester’s tuition still hasn’t been paid! You better take care of that soon.”

“I really don’t understand why she can’t be more like Miss Demi, the real heiress.”

With that, she hung up without another word.

I nearly crushed my phone in my hand.

Me? A housekeeper?

Someone had dared to replace both me and my daughter!

Furious, I let out a bitter laugh and immediately booked a flight back to America.

I needed to see for myself—what the hell had happened to my home?

By six in the evening, I stepped out of the airport, with a suitcase in hand.

Let’s see just who this so-called “President Wilson” was.

When I arrived at the company, everyone stared at me in shock.

“President Wilson... why are you back so suddenly?”

They all knew the truth—the real power behind Wilson Holdings wasn’t Bennett, no matter how commanding he pretended to be.

It was me—the iron-blooded woman who had built the company from the ground up.

No one dared forget that.

“Darling, what brings you back so suddenly?” Bennett rushed over, his expression full of guilt.

It looked like he had just come from somewhere in a hurry. His usual polished appearance was off—his shirt was wrinkled, and he reeked of discomfort.

I smiled sweetly and reached up to straighten his collar, pretending not to see the faint red lipstick stain on it.

“New perfume?” I asked, my tone laced with irony.

Panic flickered in his eyes. Ralph Lauren's latest fragrance—it was the top-selling women's scent this season.

He chuckled awkwardly. “It’s our daughter. She’s grown up and cares about how she looks now. Dropped her perfume on her way out and it spilled all over me. That girl’s been so spoiled.”

He smiled dotingly, putting on the act of a devoted father.

“Oh really?” I gave a mocking laugh as I casually scrolled through Demi's social media page.

Every single piece of limited-edition jewelry I had bought for my daughter overseas—she was wearing all of them.

“Bennett,” I said coldly, “would you care to explain how the things I personally picked out for our daughter ended up on Emma's granddaughter instead?”

“Don’t bother telling me it’s a coincidence. Every one of those pieces is one-of-a-kind.”

The sarcasm in my voice cut like a blade.

My assistant had just confirmed the girl’s identity—Emma's granddaughter, Demi.

What a good job Emma had done raising her. No wonder everyone just assumed she was the Wilson family heiress.

When I showed Bennett the photos, panic returned to his eyes—but he quickly forced calm over his expression and spoke disapprovingly, as if I were overreacting.

“Well, Emma is getting older and has trouble with housework. Demi came to help out. She and Frances hit it off—they’re like sisters. They’ve been living and eating together these past two years.”

“Sharing between girls is normal, isn’t it?”

I let out a cold, mirthless laugh.

Normal?

Just then, his phone rang. He stepped aside to answer, and as the call ended, his face turned pale.

He looked at me with disbelief in his eyes.

“You froze my bank cards?”

I stared him down, hiding my true thoughts behind a calm expression.

“Bennett, where exactly did my daughter’s tuition money go?”

“She’s the one who didn’t want to study! She was constantly breaking school rules. If you don’t believe me, ask her yourself!”

“I will,” I said, turning to leave. “And I’ll get to the bottom of all of it.”

I knew my daughter better than anyone else. Her character, her dreams, her determination.

When she was little, she’d begged me to sign her up for piano, dance, painting—she said those were musts for a princess.

Now, in her final year of high school, she was just steps away from getting into the university of her dreams.

A few years ago, our housekeeper, Emma, moved into our home.

Her cooking won over my daughter immediately, so I decided to keep her on to help care for her.

But not long after, my old illness flared up again, and I had no choice but to step away from the company and let Bennett take over temporarily.

During my recovery, Bennett reassured me repeatedly—our daughter was doing well.

He even said she had made good friends with Emma's granddaughter.

Now, frowning deeply, I returned home.

My daughter was curled up on the sofa, her eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Mom... you’re back,” she whispered.

She moved toward me hesitantly, trying to hug me.

I pulled her into my arms—but she let out a soft cry of pain.

Alarmed, I gently rolled up her sleeve, and froze.

Bruises. Ugly, dark ones. Purple and green.

A cold sharpness flashed through my eyes. My voice dropped into a dangerous tone. “Who did this to you?”

But my daughter buried herself in my arms, trembling. “M-Mom... I fell. It was my fault...”

“I’m sorry... I really didn’t mean to...”

She kept apologizing, her body shaking with fear.

My heart ached.

This wasn’t how she used to be.

It was my fault for leaving her alone for so long.

Now that I knew she wasn't doing well, I wouldn't leave her side again.

Gently, I led her to my bedroom.

“Tonight, Mommy’s staying with you.”

With me there, she finally relaxed and drifted off to sleep.

Looking at my daughter, I clenched my fist in anger. I needed to get to the bottom of this.

Just as I was deep in thought, the bedroom door was suddenly kicked open.

My daughter jolted awake in terror, her whole body trembling.

A girl in silk pajamas burst into the room, eyes blazing with fury, and jabbed a finger at my daughter as she shouted, “You filthy thing! Who said you could sleep here?!”

She stormed toward us—but froze the moment she saw me.

“Who are you?” I asked coldly, my gaze sharp as ice.

“And why did you open the door to the master bedroom without permission?”

The girl blinked, confused. “Why would I need permission? This is my parents’ house.”

I let out a soft, cold laugh. “Your parents? I don’t recall having a daughter like you.”

“Now get out, before I lose my temper.”

The girl opened her mouth to argue—but before she could get a word out, Emma came rushing in and clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Madam, this is my granddaughter. Please don’t mind her—she has a habit of sleepwalking,” she said hastily, dragging the girl away.

Before leaving, she plastered on a smile and handed me a bowl of apple and soup.

“Madam, Miss Frances hasn’t eaten anything tonight. I made this for her.”

I nodded slightly. “You may go now.”

Once they left, I noticed it—my daughter seemed deeply uncomfortable around the two of them.

“Frances, are you hungry?” I asked gently.

“Come on, have a little something.”

She shook her head quickly. “No, Mommy... I don’t want to eat.”

“Please, don’t make me eat. I hate what I’ve become...”

I looked at her and felt another sharp pang in my chest.

Her once slender figure was gone—she was now bloated, her skin dull and rough.

Her face was covered with pimples, something she never used to have.

“I don’t want it...” she repeated, staring at the bowl of soup with terror in her eyes.

But this had always been her favorite food.

“...Alright,” I said softly, stroking her hair. “If you don’t like it, Mommy will make you something else tomorrow.”

She finally relaxed, curling up beside me and falling asleep.

I glanced down at the untouched bowl of soup. A dark glint passed through my eyes.

Quietly, I picked up my phone and dialed my assistant.

“Assistant Jones,” I began, keeping my voice calm, “I need a favor. Send someone to test something for me.”

“Yes... right now.”