It was my son's 18th birthday. I should've felt proud.

Instead, I was scrolling through social media out of habit, passing the time in this sterile rehabilitation suite, when I paused on a post from one of Blake's classmates' parents.

"Thanks to my kid, I got invited to his buddy's birthday party."

I couldn't help but smile.

It warmed me to see Blake making more friends and expanding his social circle. I'd been gone for so long, fighting through therapy and surgeries, always worried that the distance would affect him. But seeing this, even secondhand, made me feel like things were finally okay.

However, as I examined the photo more closely, a sense of unease crept into my chest.

The party was extravagant, held at our family’s villa, no doubt about it.

But the boy at the center of it all…

I didn’t recognize him.

He was smiling, confident, completely at ease, as if he belonged.

Yet what truly stopped me cold was the suit.

I froze.

It was the custom-made million-dollar suit I had personally designed for my son’s coming-of-age. The embroidery, the precise cut, and the golden thread woven through the lapel were unmistakable.

That suit was meant for my son.

So, who the hell was that wearing it?

A strange tension gripped my chest.

I opened the home surveillance feed immediately. My hands were steady, but my heart was hammering like a war drum.

And there, I saw a stranger standing proudly under crystal chandeliers, holding a mic, beaming as he introduced a man beside him.

"This is my dad, the chairman of Knightley Industries."

But I barely heard the rest. My eyes locked on the scene unfolding behind them.

My son...

Forced to his knees, he was shoved by a group of teenagers as the cake splattered onto the floor in front of him. To further degrade him, they forced him to lick the frosting off the marble tiles like an animal.

Something inside me snapped. Cold rage settled deep in my chest.

The boy called that impostor the 'Chairman of Knightley Industries?'

Then who the hell was I supposed to be?

——

At the rehabilitation center, my executive assistant handed me a bouquet and smiled as he congratulated me, "Chairman, I'm glad to see you're doing better. You should be able to leave the hospital in a few days."

I nodded, managing a polite smile. Eager to share the good news, I picked up my phone. But as I was scrolling, something caught my eye.

It was a post from Harold's dad, Luis, on my son's classmate's social feed. I had kept my identity hidden from the other parents, believing it would help my son fit in better.

And today, of all days, was his birthday.

The venue and the birthday boy's outfit in Luis's video looked oddly familiar.

A closer look confirmed it—it was my house.

What was even stranger was that the million-dollar suit I had bought for my son was now being worn by someone else.

I furrowed my brow.

This wasn't just any suit. I designed it as a coming-of-age gift for my son, Blake, with intricate gold thread embroidery that was worth a fortune. It costs more than some CEOs make in a year. I spared no expense because that's what fathers do for their sons.

A shadow crossed my eyes, and I grabbed my phone to call my butler, Elliot Hawke.

Elliot picked up immediately. "Sir?"

"Elliot," I said, trying to calm my voice, "where's my son right now? What's going on?"

"He's hosting a birthday party with his classmates," Elliot replied. "He said he likes the gifts you sent him. They're having cake now, and he said he'll call you back later."

I hesitated, my grip tightening on the phone.

"Where is the party being held?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

There was a pause in the line.

"At the estate, sir."

Of course.

My house. My son. My suit.

And yet, I had to learn about it from someone else's post, like some uninvited outsider.

Then, I ended the call without any further questions.

Maybe I was overthinking it, but the suspicion growing inside me couldn't be ignored. Unable to shake the feeling, I messaged Luis directly.

After a long pause, Luis replied:

[Gabriel, we parents don't usually get involved in the kids' business. Besides, we don't understand these things.]

I didn't even have time to finish forming a reply before the screen notified me:

[User has blocked you.]

'Coward.'

That was all the proof I needed. My suspicions weren't just some paranoid delusion.

With that, I called my son's homeroom teacher. "Hello, Mr. Charles, this is Blake's father. I wanted to ask about my son's recent situation…"

The man on the other end sounded irritated. "You're Blake's father? Why are you only calling now? I'm his new homeroom teacher. Mr. Charles has already left."

So much time had passed. After two years overseas fighting for my life, the world quietly moved on without me.

But what the teacher said next left no room for doubt. "Sir, I'm unsure if I should say this, but…"

He hesitated, then continued, his tone laced with judgment. “As the butler’s son, Blake was lucky the Chairman, Mr. Knightley, pulled strings to get him into this school. Honestly, I didn’t expect him to be so ungrateful. The boy has been skipping classes constantly! And his tuition for this semester still hasn’t been paid.”

He paused, then scoffed, “Why can’t he be more like the Chairman’s real son?”

With that, the teacher hung up, his contempt lingering in the silence.

I nearly crushed the phone in my hand.

This wasn't a misunderstanding. It was theft.

How could I not know that I had become the butler?

Someone had taken my son's and my identities, swapping us out for an impostor.

I let out a bitter laugh, my anger rising like a wave, and immediately booked a flight home.

I needed answers. I need to figure out what in the hell was going on. I didn't care how long I'd been gone or how much rehab I had left.

What I needed wasn't rest. It was answered.

By six in the evening, I was walking out of the airport, luggage in tow.

It was time to see who this 'Chairman' was—the one who had appeared out of nowhere and taken over everything.

..

Everyone was visibly shocked to see me when I arrived at the office.

Eyes widened. Whispers rippled through the halls like static.

"Sir Gabriel, what brings you back so suddenly?" someone stammered, clearly rattled.

I didn't bother replying.

Let them speculate. Because, in the end, they knew.

No matter how strict Roxanne acted, she was just a figurehead. The real chairman, the one who had built everything from the ground up, was me.

They could pretend otherwise in my absence, but now I was here. And pretending was over.

Right then, she appeared. Roxanne.

Her heels clicked too fast, and her posture was too stiff—her skirt, usually razor-pressed, creased at the sides.

She was rattled.

And that amused me more than it should have.

"Honey, why are you back so suddenly?" she asked, voice overly sweet, brittle at the edges.

I smiled faintly. Stepping closer, my fingers gently adjusted Roxanne's collar, almost affectionately.

"You changed your perfume?" I said coolly. "That's strange. This smells like men's cologne."

A flicker of panic crossed her eyes. Barely a second, but I caught it.

Devere. Their newest launch. Retailing at over ten grand bottles. It's not something the average man could afford or casually spill.

Her answer came quickly.

"It's because of our son," she said, a little too fast. "He's grown up and cares about his image now. I helped him pick out a fragrance. But on the way out, he dropped it, and it spilled on me."

She gave a soft, almost indulgent laugh.

"That child really is spoiled rotten," she added as if she were comforting me, her voice laced with a false sense of affection.

"Is that so?" I said, my voice cool and dripping with disbelief.

I stared at her, my smile gone. My eyes drifted back to my phone as I scrolled through his photos again.

That boy. The one in Blake's suit.

Wearing Blake's watch. Blake's tie clip. Every single gift I had brought back from overseas.

It was like watching someone wear my son's skin.

Showing my phone to her, I asked, "Roxanne. How did the things I personally bought for my son end up on Elliot's grandson?"

I paused, bitterness creeping in. "Cyrus, isn't it? Don't tell me it's a coincidence. Every item is custom. One-of-a-kind."

A hint of sarcasm flickered in my eyes.

My assistant, David Johnson, had already run the boy's background.

Cyrus was the grandson of our butler, Elliot Hawke.

I smirked. Elliot had raised him well. No wonder people had been mistaking him for the eldest son of the Knightley family.

Roxanne's eyes flickered with panic as she saw me pull out the photos. But she quickly composed herself, her gaze hardening with disapproval.

"It's like this," she said, tone overly casual. "Elliot's getting older. He asked Cyrus to help out. The boys are close like brothers. They've been living and eating together these past two years."

She even smiled. "Honey, isn't it normal for brothers to share things?"

I stared at her for a moment before letting out a bitter laugh.

Normal? Was this normal?

Just then, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, and her expression darkened.

She looked at me, her panic rising. "Honey, why did you freeze my bank card?"

Ignoring her question, I tilted slightly and asked, "Roxanne, where did you send our son's tuition money?"

Her mouth opened in protest. "It's Blake! He doesn't want to study. He's been fighting and causing trouble at school! If you don't believe me, ask him!"

I could feel my frustration rising, but I kept my voice calm. "I'll investigate this."

Then I turned and walked away. I didn't have to ask her another question. Everything was already clear.

Blake had always been quiet but focused and ambitious.

When he was younger, he always begged me to sign him up for various extracurricular classes, saying they were essential for socializing when he grew up.

Blake was in his final year of high school and was supposed to be preparing for the university of his dreams. It should've been a focused, decisive time in his life.

Instead, everything fell off.

The shift started a few years ago, subtly, like rot beneath polished wood.

It began when Elliot Hawke, our butler of twenty years, asked to move in with us. Blake liked his cooking, so I didn't object. In fact, I told him to stay, assist with chores, and manage the house.

I thought I was being considerate.

And then my illness returned. The doctors called it a flare-up. I called it a curse. Regardless, it pulled me away from Knightley Industries and Blake. So I entrusted both to Roxanne.

During that time, Roxanne reassured me that everything was fine with Blake. She even mentioned that he had made a good friend, none other than Elliot's grandson, Cyrus.

I should've come back sooner. Something about her words had always left a metallic aftertaste in my mouth. This time, I finally acted on the instinct I should have trusted.

...

When I returned home, I walked through the front door and found Blake sitting on the couch, motionless.

Blake's eyes were wide, hesitant, unsure how to greet me.

"Dad... you're back," he said softly, inching toward me like he was uncertain whether to approach.

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. But the moment I held him, he stiffened with a sharp gasp.

Alarm bells went off in my mind.

I gently pulled up his sleeve, and there were bruises all over his arms. Deep, angry blotches of purple and blue bloomed across his arm like a cruel watercolor.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the fire rising in my throat.

"Who did this to you?" I demanded, my voice like ice.

Blake buried his face in my chest, trembling. "Dad, I... I accidentally fell..."

"I'm sorry, it's my fault," he repeated, shaking uncontrollably as he apologized.

The sight of him so broken, so vulnerable, twisted something deep inside me.

My son had never been like this. Never afraid to look me in the eye. Never fragile

It was my fault. I'd left him defenseless. I should have been here. I shouldn't have let this happen. And someone had broken him.

At that moment, I vowed I wouldn't leave his side, no matter what. I just pulled him close, my hand on the back of his head.

"Tonight, you stay with me," I said quietly. "You're safe now."

...

I led him to my room and settled him on the bed. He clung to my sleeve like a child, the way he used to when he had nightmares. But I could tell that his nightmares didn't end when he woke up anymore.

He began to calm under my presence, though the tremble in his hands hadn't faded completely.

As I sat beside him, lost in thought, the door suddenly burst open.

Blake jolted awake, his eyes wide with fear.

A figure in silk pajamas barged in, pointing an accusing finger at my son. "You bastard, who told you to sleep here?"

He stormed in, but when he saw me, he stopped, frozen.

I turned slowly to the intruder, my voice dangerously low. "Who are you? And why did you open the door without permission?"

The boy hesitated, confusion written all over his face. "This is my parents' house. Why should I knock?"

The audacity. The arrogance.

My patience thinned to a razor's edge.

"Your father?" I echoed. "I don't have a son like you. Get out. Now. Before I lose my temper."

He started to protest, but then Elliot appeared, panic evident in his eyes. He rushed forward, covering the boy's mouth with his hand.

"Sir, this is my grandson. Sometimes, he sleepwalks. Please don't take it personally," Elliot explained, his tone calm and apologetic.

'Sleepwalks.' I chuckled bitterly.

That lie might've worked on someone else. But not me.

Elliot dragged the boy, Cyrus, out of the room.

When he returned a few minutes later, he carried a bowl of porridge in both hands, bowing slightly.

"Sir, Blake hasn't eaten tonight. I made some lean meat porridge for him."

I gave a curt nod. "Leave it. You may go."

He bowed again and retreated.

It was then that I noticed something.

But Blake didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the door like it might open again. His entire frame had gone rigid.

I noticed how he shrank in their presence and pulled inward like prey around a predator.

"Blake," I said gently. "Aren't you hungry?"

He shook his head violently. "Dad, I don't want to eat. Please, I don't want to eat. I hate how I look now."

My heart shattered as I looked at my son. He wasn't the lean, fit boy I used to know. He'd gained weight. His face was bloated. His skin was darkened, acne-scarred, and inflamed.

But that wasn't what hurt the most. It was the self-loathing in his eyes.

He looked physically ill when he stared at the porridge, once his favorite.

"I don't want to eat it," Blake repeated, staring at the bowl of porridge with disgust.

I reached for the bowl, placing it aside gently.

"Alright," I said. "You don't like this. Tomorrow, I'll make something else for you."

He let out a shaky sigh and slowly lay back down beside me. His breathing evened out, and soon, he was asleep.

I remained still, staring at the untouched bowl of porridge and then at the boy sleeping beside me. My son no longer trusted the food in his own home.

My expression darkened. Something was very wrong.

And I was going to find out what.

I reached for my phone and called my assistant, "Johnson, I need you to send something for testing."

Then I glanced back at the porridge and added, “Yes, right now.”