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.

"Chairman," David's voice came cautiously through the phone, "your wife has used part of the company's funds for other purposes. Are you sure you want to continue this investigation?"

He was hesitant. He knew the weight of what he was saying and what I was about to uncover.

"If I don't investigate, how will I know what's going on?" I responded. "Get all the accounts sorted out."

There was a beat of silence.

"Understood, sir," David finally said.

The call ended.

I sat there for a long moment, the silence heavier than anything he could've said.

Before I left for treatment in Germany, Roxanne had promised me, with all the sincerity in the world, that she would take care of everything so I could focus on getting better.

But thank God I hadn't handed over full control. I still had safeguards. Hidden signatories. Cloaked authorizations. And I understood why that instinct had whispered to me not to trust her completely.

If I pursued this and followed the trail of financial discrepancies and forged signatures, Roxanne would be finished. Not just publicly. Permanently blacklisted from every major financing firm in the country.

But even now, even after all this, a small part of me hesitated.

She was still Blake's mother.

I was about to call her to give her one last chance to explain when I heard a scuffle down the hall.

Heavy breathing. Raised voices.

Blake!

My heart leaped before my feet moved.

I rushed down the hallway and froze at the scene before me.

Blake was surrounded. There was a circle of boys sneering and jeering around him.

At the center stood a red-haired kid, yanking on Blake's arm, his voice laced with cruelty.

"Kneel and apologize! This is the latest release from the new Apple series! You, the butler's son, can't afford to pay for it! Hurry up and lick it clean!"

Another boy laughed. "If it weren't for Cyrus pitying you, who would even look at you? You actually thought you could steal his girl? Denise is his! You're just a piece of dirt."

The redhead continued, riling himself up. "Cyrus is the only son of the Knightleys. Everyone knows that! His mom, Roxanne, even said so at the last PTA meeting!"

My pulse roared in my ears as the truth unraveled.

The butler's son, Cyrus Boy, had taken Blake's place in my family, and Roxanne knew all about it.

I moved before I even knew I had. Shoving past the circle of boys, I pulled Blake into my arms.

And then I saw him.

Cyrus.

He leaned casually against the lockers, just watching as he smirked deviously.

Not lifting a damn finger.

His look was predatory. Entitled. As if he believed Blake belonged beneath his feet.

The slap cracked through the hallway like thunder.

Cyrus stumbled back, holding his cheek. "You hit me? You hit me?! You're just my mom's little toy! You think I can't have you kicked out of here in five minutes?!"

The words burned in my chest, but it only made sense now. He must've thought Roxanne had all the power in the company.

I didn't respond. I just stared at him, letting the fury simmer beneath my stillness.

"You're just a butler with a little charm! Do you even know that Cyrus is the heir to the Knightley Industries?" Cyrus's friend, the red-haired boy, defended.

Then, he paused as he looked around and added, "These buildings here? They were all donated by his father. Who the fuck you are, old man?"

I turned back to Cyrus, my voice dropping into a mocking tone. "Is that so?"

The boy didn't understand.

And then, another voice chimed in. "Even the principal shows respect to Cyrus. He's a VIP here!"

Clearly, Cyrus didn't realize I had funded and overseen the buildings he was boasting about.

I turned to the principal, Victor Spencer, who had been hiding in the background, sweating bullets.

"Is that so, Mr. Spencer?" I asked coolly.