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.”

"Restore the deleted surveillance footage, no matter what it costs," I said coldly into the phone.

David Johnson wasted no time, and the technicians sent over the results within minutes. But a heavyweight settled in my chest when I saw what was in the footage.

Rage began to simmer, and my heart started pounding in anger.

There, in our home, during what should've been my son's coming-of-age ceremony, a boy stood wearing a million-dollar suit tailored for my son.

Then the voices started.

"Such expensive clothes, and yet it's wasted on you!" the boy mocked.

Another boy insulted, "You're trash and fit only to crawl with dogs. Maybe you were lucky in your past life, but some things aren't for you. They'll never mean anything in your hands."

Then a ripple of laughter came.

"Happy birthday," the boy sneered before smashing a slice of cake onto the marble floor. "Go on, enjoy it."

My breath caught as I continued watching the footage.

"Lick it clean. Don't waste it, okay? After all, you're just the butler's son. It's an honor to serve the young master."

Laughter erupted again.

And then I saw Blake trembling, trying to stand. One of them grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the cake.

"Denise..." he whimpered.

Before I could process what was happening, Cyrus was there.

The boy I allowed under my roof.

The child I thought was harmless.

He stepped forward and crushed Blake's hand under his heel.

"You bastard," he snapped. "Know your place!"

My son cried out, his voice cracking. "Denise is my girlfriend!"

Yet Denise Harrison, Blake's childhood friend who had always supported him, remained distant and unsympathetic, watching him suffer while allowing Cyrus to humiliate him.

A burning fury ignited in me, but my phone buzzed just as I was about to move.

It was David's message:

[Chairman, the food sample you asked me to test came back. It contains an abnormal level of hormones, which is dangerously high.]

My hand tightened around the phone.

I looked again at the image I had saved earlier: Blake's bruised arms, bloated frame, and acne-ridden face.

So this was what they'd done to him. They broke him from the inside out.

Even Cyrus, barely out of boyhood, had become a poisonous little tyrant.

I clenched my jaw, eyes narrowing.

Good...

Let them laugh while they can because this wasn't over.

I would make sure the boy pays for what he did to my son.

...

The next morning, a knock came at my bedroom door.

It was Elliot.

"Sir, breakfast," he said politely.

I didn't answer him. Instead, I turned to my son, curled under the sheets.

"Blake," I said softly. "Time to get up for school."

The moment the words left my mouth, his entire body tensed.

"Dad," he began, his voice cracking, "Please, can I not go today? I don't want to go to school anymore…"

I exhaled slowly, sitting beside him. "Alright. I'll take care of it."

But just then, a housemaid knocked, breathless. "Chairman, the driver has already left with Cyrus."

My expression darkened as I replied, "Cyrus and Blake go to the same school. Why would the driver leave without Blake?"

Elliot stepped forward, wiping his hands nervously on his apron. "Sir, Blake said he didn't want to go, so the driver assumed… he thought, well, he's getting old, his eyesight may have been mistaken..."

"I see," I interrupted sharply, giving him a cold glance.

His excuses meant nothing. I didn't wait.

Right then, I stormed out to the garage, started the car myself, and helped Blake into the passenger seat.

...

When Blake and I arrived at the school, the stares were instant. Eyes locked onto us, sharp and cutting, like daggers aimed straight at Blake.

Blake hunched forward, his shoulders tight. I could see him trying to shrink out of view.

"Is that the mutt raised by the Knightleys?" someone muttered.

"I heard he's here to drop out," another one whispered, glancing over.

"Does he think he can act like he's better than us? He's just a butler's son. What a joke!"

Another boy commented, "He thinks he's some kind of heir? Ridiculous!"

"Trash like him belongs in the gutter. Guess the lesson we gave him last time wasn't enough," a voice chuckled cruelly.

A voice behind us laughed.

"Who's the guy with him? Could he be Roxanne's sugar daddy?"

"Looks like the old man brought his bastard," someone snickered, eyes narrowing.

"Pathetic. They're both trash," another one muttered, shaking their head. "So low..."

Each word landed like a punch. Not to me, though.

I'd been insulted by better men.

But Blake trembled beside me, his fists clenched at his sides. His eyes were wide with panic, his breathing shallow.

I could feel the weight of their mockery crushing him.

My hands curled into fists.

I was two seconds away from publicly destroying every child, every parent, every system that allowed this abuse to fester.

And then, my phone rang. It was David.