Chapter 3

Hazel POV:

In the car on the way home, a suffocating silence filled the space between us. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

"We need to talk about what happened tonight, Colton," I began, trying to keep my voice steady. "That kind of behavior is not-"

"Just drop it, okay?" he snapped, staring out the window.

Then, he turned to me. For a fleeting second, his expression softened, and he used a name he hadn't called me in years.

"Mommy..."

A flicker of hope ignited in my chest. Maybe my boy was still in there somewhere.

"...this is all your fault," he finished, and the hope died as quickly as it had been born.

I stared at him, my mouth agape. "My fault? Colton, you were arrested."

"If you were more like Campbell, maybe Dad wouldn't be so miserable all the time!" he spat out, his words a torrent of long-festering resentment. "Maybe our family wouldn't be such a joke!"

He didn't stop there. The cruelty poured out of him, a poison he had been storing up for years.

"What do you even do, huh? You drive me to school, you go to the grocery store, you plan Dad's stupid parties. Campbell runs a business! She has a million followers! She's cool. You... you're just... Mom."

The word "Mom," once a term of endearment, was now an insult. A dismissal. A verdict on my entire existence.

A strange, buzzing sound filled my ears. The world seemed to tilt, the streetlights blurring into streaks of gold. It felt like my heart was being squeezed by an invisible hand, the pressure so intense I could barely draw a breath.

Tears, hot and unstoppable, began to stream down my face. They weren't just for his words, but for the seventeen years of sacrifice, of love, of devotion that he had just rendered meaningless.

Tiffany, sitting in the back seat, let out a derisive snort. "Oh my god, she's crying."

"It's what she does," Colton said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "She cries. It's so dramatic."

"My mom says it's because she's insecure," Tiffany added, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Because your dad is so successful and she's... not."

"Stop crying," Colton ordered, not looking at me. "You're so old. Why are you crying like a baby? It's pathetic."

The tears stopped.

Just like that. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside me. The immense, crushing weight of my grief was suddenly replaced by a chilling, hollow calm.

I looked at my son, truly looked at him, and for the first time, I saw his father. The same arrogant tilt of his head. The same dismissive curl of his lip. The same cold, transactional view of love.

They didn't see me. They saw a function. A role. A thing that was supposed to serve them, and when it failed to meet their expectations, it was to be discarded.

I was so tired. A weariness that went bone-deep settled over me. I wanted to pull the car over, get out, and just walk away. Walk away from the sterile, loveless house, from the man who despised me, and from the boy who was a stranger.

When we pulled into the long, winding driveway of our estate, another car was already there. A sleek, white convertible.

Campbell Kirby got out. She was dressed in a cream-colored pantsuit, looking like she had just stepped out of a magazine shoot, even at one in the morning.

"Oh, Hazel, thank God!" she cried, rushing over, her face a mask of perfectly performed concern. "I was so worried when I heard. Jackson is on a conference call with Tokyo, but I told him I had to come."

Colton immediately got out of the car and went to her, his posture changing from sullen teenager to dutiful son.

"It's okay, Campbell," he said, his voice soft. "I'm fine."

"You poor thing," she cooed, stroking his hair. He leaned into her touch like a sunflower seeking the sun. A gesture he hadn't offered me in years.

I watched them, a perfect tableau of a loving family. The successful stepmother, the adoring son. And me, the inconvenient, embarrassing, biological mother, standing on the outside, looking in.