They Stole Our Identities, I’m Taking Them Down

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.