You Forgot I Was A Morgan

For a year, I played the part of the perfect, long-suffering wife, enduring my husband' s public affair. I did it all for one reason: to win full custody of our son, Colton.

But when Colton was arrested, he didn't turn to me for help. He looked at me with disgust and spat that our family's problems were all my fault.

Later that night, my husband, Jackson, demanded I apologize to his mistress. When I refused, he shoved me into the freezing lake.

As I drowned, I saw him and my son comforting her on the dock, a perfect family silhouetted against the moonlight. They were watching me die.

The last of my love for them turned to ash.

They forgot one thing. I wasn't just a housewife. I was a Morgan.

My fingers found the emergency beacon my billionaire father gave me. And I pressed it.

Chapter 1

Hazel POV:

In our circle, the wives had a saying: you can forgive a man for cheating, but you can' t forgive him for being sloppy about it.

It was a bitter little piece of wisdom, usually whispered over glasses of Chardonnay that cost more than most people' s weekly groceries.

For the past year, I had become the living embodiment of that sloppiness. Hazel Morgan, the woman whose husband, tech titan Jackson McKee, wasn' t just having an affair-he was broadcasting it.

I was the subject of their pity. At charity galas, they' d look at me, their eyes lingering on my simple sheath dress and the faint weariness I couldn't seem to hide. They saw a woman left behind, a relic of a past Jackson had outgrown. A quiet, elegant, but worn-down suburban mother. A ghost at the feast of his success.

"Poor Hazel," their sympathetic glances said. "She sacrificed everything for him, and this is her reward."

The men in our circle, the tech bros and venture capitalists who idolized Jackson, saw it differently. They didn't pity me; they held me in a kind of contempt. In their eyes, I was a fool. A doormat.

They saw Jackson with his mistress, Campbell Kirby-a social media influencer whose every breath was a curated image of effortless perfection-and they saw a conqueror. He had it all: the empire, the trophy wife at home, and the shiny new model on his arm. I was just a domestic accessory, a testament to his ability to have his cake and eat it too.

But they were all wrong.

My patience wasn't weakness. It was a strategy. My silence wasn't acceptance. It was a weapon I was sharpening in the dark.

I had endured the public humiliation, the private neglect, and the slow, soul-crushing erasure of my own identity for one reason and one reason only.

Colton.

Our son.

I wanted him. All of him. Not just weekend visits and holidays, but full, unconditional custody. And in our world of cutthroat lawyers and vicious PR battles, a scorned wife fighting a beloved public figure