"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.
