You Forgot I Was A Morgan

Hazel POV:

The cold smile on Jackson's face vanished, replaced by a mask of pure fury.

But before he could speak, Campbell snatched the divorce papers from my hand. Her performance began instantly.

"Oh, Hazel!" she wailed, her shoulders shaking with manufactured sobs. "This is all my fault. I knew I shouldn't have come into your lives."

She turned to Jackson, her eyes shimmering with tears. "I love you, Jackson! I love you and I love Colton like he's my own son!"

She then spun back to me, her face a tragic mask. "Please, don't leave him. I'll go. I'll disappear. I'll do anything, just don't break up this family!"

It was a masterful performance, worthy of an Oscar.

"Campbell, stop it," Jackson said, trying to pull her into his arms, but she theatrically shrugged him off.

Then, she did something so audacious, so shamelessly manipulative, that it almost took my breath away.

She dropped to her knees on the cold, damp asphalt of the driveway, right at my feet.

"Please, Hazel," she begged, her voice choked with fake emotion. "Hit me. Slap me. Do whatever you need to do to feel better. I deserve it. Just don't take Colton away from his father."

She reached out, grabbing the hem of my pants, her grip surprisingly strong.

"He needs his dad, Hazel. A boy needs his father."

I was frozen, trapped in her absurd, humiliating tableau. Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking, but as she looked up at me, her face hidden from Jackson and Colton, her expression changed. The tears vanished. Her eyes were cold, hard, and filled with a triumphant hatred.

Her lips formed a silent word. Leave.

My patience snapped. The years of quiet endurance, of swallowed pride, of gritted teeth, all evaporated in a single, searing flash of rage.

"Get off me," I said, my voice a low growl. I tried to pull my leg away, to break free from her grasp.

She clung to me, and then, with a sharp cry, she let go, stumbling backward and landing hard on the ground. "Ow!"

I hadn't even touched her.

A sharp, stinging pain exploded across my cheek. Jackson had slapped me. Hard.

The force of it sent my head whipping to the side. Red and black spots danced in my vision. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard my son's voice.

"Dad!"

But it wasn't a cry of protest. It was a cry of alarm for Campbell.

When my vision cleared, the first thing I saw was Jackson and Colton, their faces contorted with identical expressions of hatred and disgust. Not for what Jackson had done to me, but for what they thought I had done to Campbell.

A laugh escaped my lips. A broken, hollow sound. It was all so pathetic. So predictable. Their loyalty, their love, it was all for her.

Colton was already at Campbell's side, kneeling beside her, his face a mask of frantic concern. "Campbell, are you okay? Did she hurt you?"

He gently took her arm, his fingers probing her wrist. "Does it hurt here? I know how to check for a sprain. Mom taught me."

The irony was a physical blow. The knowledge I had given him, the care I had taught him, was now being used to tend to my rival, the woman who had helped destroy my life.

"I'll protect you, Campbell," Colton vowed, his voice thick with emotion as he helped her to her feet. "I won't let her hurt you again."

I thought of the day Colton was born. Two months premature, a tiny, fragile thing weighing less than three pounds. The doctors had given him a 50/50 chance. Jackson's family, the McKees, with their cold, pragmatic view of the world, had told me to "be realistic."

But I refused. I sat by his incubator for weeks, reading to him, singing to him, willing him to live. I promised the universe, God, anyone who was listening, that if he survived, I would dedicate my life to him. I would give up anything.

And I had. I gave up my career as a brilliant analyst at a top firm. I gave up my friends, my hobbies, my very self. I endured Jackson's growing contempt, his affairs, his cruelty, all for the sake of the boy I had fought so hard to bring into this world.

And now, that boy was looking at me as if I were a monster.

"You're a vicious bitch, Hazel," he spat, his eyes burning with a hatred that seared my soul.

"You are not my mother," he declared, his voice ringing with the finality of a death sentence.

"And you are not his wife," he added, gesturing to his father.

I remembered a time, not so long ago, when he would run to me, his little arms wrapped around my neck, whispering, "You're the best mommy in the whole world." I remembered him standing up to a bully in kindergarten who had made fun of my worn-out sneakers, yelling, "Don't you talk about my mom like that!"

That boy was gone.