Chapter 1

I’d just wrapped up a cross-continental meeting when my phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number.

"Are you Dennis Miller's mother? Please come to the school. Your son led a bullying incident today, and the other parent is demanding compensation!"

The voice on the line was sharp, accusatory.

My fingers paused, and I instinctively straightened my posture.

"Excuse me, I think you have the wrong number. My son attends middle school in Canada; he's not in school here."

There was a moment of silence, then the voice grew colder.

"Our records show you as the guardian, Sarah Miller, an employee of Radiant Group, and this is your cell number. So, is your son named Dennis Miller?"

My mind went blank. My name is Sarah Miller, I'm a director at Radiant Group, and my son is indeed named Dennis.

After my husband passed away, my son went to live with my parents in Canada. How could he possibly be enrolled in a school here?

I didn’t get a chance to explain further before the caller hung up.

Half an hour later, I rushed to the Dean’s office at that private middle school.

Pushing open the door, a heavy, stifling atmosphere hit me.

Several teachers were huddled around a middle-aged woman, speaking in hushed, comforting tones.

The woman's eyes were red and swollen as she clutched a thin, trembling boy beside her. The child had a bandage on his forehead and was still quietly sobbing.

On a nearby chair sat a boy with a bowl-cut.

Two buttons on his school uniform were undone, his pant legs rolled up to his knees, and he was picking at his fingers.

There wasn’t a shred of remorse on his face; instead, he radiated an almost arrogant defiance.

At the sound of the door opening, everyone’s eyes snapped toward me.

The bowl-cut boy’s eyes lit up. He shot up from his seat, rushed over, and grabbed my wrist, his voice loud and demanding:

"Mom! You're finally here! You have to back me up!"

I froze, instinctively shaking off his hand. "You've got the wrong person. I'm not your mom."

He paused, then burst into ear-piercing wails.

"Mom, why are you pretending not to know me?! They started it; I just pushed him! It's his fault for not letting me copy his homework!"

Owen’s mother immediately turned red with fury, pointing at me.

"Is that how you teach your child? He assaulted someone and now you won't even acknowledge it, you won't even acknowledge him?"

A woman in her early thirties with a frown on her face walked over. "Hello, Ms. Miller, I'm Brenda Collins, from the school.

"I just checked our records, and they do show you as Dennis Miller's guardian. Your child pushed a classmate into a bookshelf, and he needed three stitches on his forehead. The other parents are demanding $7,000 for medical expenses and emotional damages."

I swallowed my surprise and explained,

"I came to your school to ask why you have my information in the first place?

"My son has always been in Canada; he's never attended school here!"

Then I pointed at the boy. "And he is not my son. I don't even know him!"

The boy's crying stopped for a second, his eyes darting around before he jutted out his chin and yelled,

"You are my mom! Your name is Sarah Miller! You work at Radiant Group! I'm not wrong!"

My heart plummeted at his words.

How could he possibly know all that information?

I instantly calmed myself, staring directly at him. "Shut up, I'm not your mom!"

Then I turned to the bullied child. "Little one, did he hit you first?"

The child timidly nodded.

"He always bullies me. Today, when I wouldn't let him copy my homework, he pushed me down and said he'd make me regret it."

Seeing this, the bowl-cut boy suddenly lunged to hit him again, shouting, "You're lying! I'll rip your mouth off!"

I quickly grabbed him, only to find he was surprisingly strong.

He struggled, trying to kick, and kept spewing curses.

"Let go of me! You're all bad people! My mom has money; she'll get you all fired!"

The teachers rushed to help hold him down, their faces etched with helplessness.

"This boy often bullies classmates, stealing things and yelling at people. We never expected him to be this violent."

Owen’s mother trembled with rage.

"You need to give us a clear explanation today! Either pay up, or I'm calling the police!"

I looked at this unfamiliar, aggressive boy, my mind swirling with doubt.

Why was he using my son's name to attend school? And why was he pretending I was his mother? Something was definitely wrong here.

"Call the police then."

I pulled out my phone. "Let the police investigate who his guardian really is and why he's using my son's identity to enroll."