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.
