Mistaken for Mommy

Hazel turned her head toward the doorway following the sudden sound. A little boy stood there, gripping the doorframe. He looked about five years old, swamped in a standard-issue hospital gown that mirrored her own. His face was a striking portrait of innocence, framed by a halo of soft, dark curls. Those big, bright eyes locked onto hers with a startling intensity.

A strange jolt struck her chest. It felt like an invisible string pulling taut right at the center of her ribs. She possessed no way to articulate the sudden rush of warmth flooding her veins.

The boy did not wait for an invitation. His bare feet padded rapidly across the linoleum floor. He scrambled up the side of her hospital bed with practiced agility. Before Hazel could register his movements or put up a hand to stop him, a tiny, warm body pressed against her side. Two little arms wrapped tight around her waist in a fierce hug.

"Were you bullied, Mommy?"

He leaned back and reached up. A pair of stubby hands carefully wiped away the lingering moisture under her eyelashes.

Hazel froze in place. The frustration and lingering grief from her argument with her toxic family had left her emotionally raw. The sheer, unadulterated comfort radiating from this tiny stranger felt like a balm against a fresh wound. Her heart softened immediately under his touch. However, the rational part of her brain remained sharp. She knew for a fact she had never birthed or raised this child.

She lightly tousled his smooth curls and offered a gentle smile. "You have the wrong person, kid. I am not your mommy."

"No, you are my mommy. Daddy and I will protect you from now on." The boy shook his head with fierce determination, his voice bubbling with excitement. "Daddy has a bad temper. He always pulls a long face and refuses to talk. He comes home late, gets stomach aches because he skips meals, and smokes. But he is rich and handsome. Please do not leave us ever again, Mommy."

Hazel let out a helpless laugh. The boy's earnest pitch for his father washed away the lingering gloom in the sterile room, leaving her momentarily speechless.

She tapped his button nose lightly. "You are adorable. But I am still not your mommy."

"Eddie."

A voice cut through the quiet air of the hospital room. It was deep, frigid, and carried an innate magnetism that commanded instant obedience.

Hazel flinched at the unexpected sound. She turned her head toward the door, her gaze following the boy’s sudden movement.

A man stood in the doorway. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing a sliver of taut skin. He carried a striking aura of abstinence and authority. His flawless facial features seemed sculpted from solid marble, projecting wit and absolute composure. He stood towering and upright, exuding a noble but nonchalant air.

Hazel had brushed shoulders with countless affluent men in Alden City, but none held a candle to those bewitching looks.

"Daddy!" Eddie scrambled to the edge of the mattress, greeting the man with bright enthusiasm.

Looking between the two, Hazel instantly understood the source of the boy's stunning features. The resemblance was undeniable.

"Back to your room, now." The man spoke sternly, his posture straight and his expression unreadable.

Eddie pouted, his lower lip jutting out in a clear display of reluctance. Yet, the boy nodded tamely. The discipline instilled in him at home showed through his immediate compliance.

Eddie looked back over his small shoulder. "I have to go, Mommy. But my room is just next door. Can you visit me later?"

Those wide eyes filled with an unbearable yearning. Hazel found it impossible to reject him.

She nodded her head. "Okay."

She figured a proper visit would give her a quiet moment to explain the truth without breaking his heart right away.

"Oh! My name is Edward Caldwell. Everyone calls me Eddie. You should too, Mommy." A bright smile broke across the boy's face.

Edward dragged his feet as he crossed the room, reluctantly taking his place beside his father. Standing next to the man's towering frame—he was easily over six feet tall—the child looked impossibly small and cute.

The man reached down and clasped Edward's small hand. He pivoted on his heel and walked away. He never spared Hazel a single glance.

Usually, such blatant dismissal would register as severe arrogance. Hazel, however, found it refreshing. She did not enjoy making small talk with strangers. The aloof demeanor signaled clear boundaries, leaving her feeling perfectly comfortable in the silence.

Hazel pushed the thin hospital blanket aside. Her right foot was heavily plastered, making every movement a monumental chore. She grabbed the metal crutches leaning against the nightstand, wedging them firmly beneath her arms. Her muscles strained as she forced herself upward off the mattress.

Self-reliance was her oldest habit. During her three-year relationship with Wyatt, she had never leaned on him for anything substantial. She preferred to shoulder her own burdens. The harsh reality of her past taught her that depending on others only led to devastation.

Right now, that fierce independence felt like her last remaining shield in a world preparing to drag her through a brutal scandal.

She hobbled out of the adjoining washroom a few minutes later, gritting her teeth against the dull throb in her leg. As she stepped past the doorframe, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Edward's father had returned.

Hazel gasped, her grip tightening on the rubber handles of her crutches. The blood drained from her cheeks in surprise.

"Do I look that scary?" The man tilted his head slightly, his deep, magnetic voice rippling through the space.

Hazel shook her head, forcing her breathing to even out. "No. I just didn't expect someone else to be standing in my room."

Her earlier relief about his distant nature vanished instantly. His sudden, unannounced return felt invasive, triggering a flare of defensive energy in her chest.

The man caught the subtle shift in her gaze and pursed his lips. "The name is Clayton Caldwell. The venue where you held your wedding yesterday happened to belong to me, Ms. Winslow."

The revelation hit Hazel with force. Clayton cut straight to the core of the issue without any pleasantries. As the owner of the hotel, he carried a heavy liability for the catastrophic fire that nearly claimed her life.

"I am sorry you were caught in the fire on my premises and suffered a fracture." Clayton continued, his tone shifting into something strictly professional and solemn. "I am here to offer full compensation. I will cover all your expenditures during your stay at this hospital. That includes treatment fees, hospitality, rehabilitation, and any subsequent medical care. You may also seek damages for labor injury, emotional distress, and the cancellation of your wedding."

"No. Just covering the medical fees will be enough." Hazel spoke flatly, refusing to act like a victim looking for a massive payout.

Clayton gave her a strange look. Few people in the city would turn down a blank check from the owner of a luxury venue.

Meanwhile, a creeping numbness spread upward from Hazel's good foot. Holding her weight on one leg and two metal poles was taking a rapid toll on her exhausted body.

Clayton noticed her slight sway and stepped forward. "Would you like my help?"

"No— Oh!"

The moment the rejection left her lips, the rubber tip of her right crutch snagged on the linoleum. The metal rod violently twitched and shot out from under her arm. Physics took over, sending her falling face-first toward the hard floor.

Clayton surged forward in a blur. His arms wrapped firmly around her waist, catching her squarely against his solid chest before she could hit the ground.

A crisp, minty scent flooded her senses. Beneath her ear, his heart drummed against his ribs—loud and noticeably accelerated.

Panic spiked in Hazel's blood. The sudden, overwhelming physical proximity to a man triggered a visceral reaction. Her skin crawled, her chest tightened, and a wave of raw discomfort clawed at her throat. This intense aversion to male touch was a lingering, ugly scar from her past trauma.

Even with Wyatt, the man she almost married, their physical contact stopped at simple hand-holding. Wyatt had learned early on about her trauma. He used to promise he respected her boundaries and cared for her soul.

Look how that turned out. He abandoned her for her sister the moment the flames spread. Men's promises were fickle, useless illusions.

Hazel shoved her hands flat against Clayton's chest, desperate to put space between them.

Clayton steadied her frame and let her pull back. Her crutches lay discarded on the floor out of reach. Bereft of support, Hazel forced all her weight onto her left foot.

The precarious balance snapped immediately. Without anything to lean against, she tilted dangerously to the side.

Instinct overrode her panic. She threw her arms up, hooking them tightly around Clayton's neck to stop herself from collapsing onto her broken leg.

The moment she stabilized, the reality of her position crashed down on her. Her chest was pressed against his shirt, her face inches from his neck. The sheer intimacy of the hold sent a shock of revulsion and embarrassment through her system.

She yanked her arms away like she had touched an open flame. Her cheeks, drained of color just moments ago, flushed a deep, embarrassed red.

Clayton stood motionless. His dark eyes tracked every micro-expression flitting across her face—the terror, the revulsion, the fierce, unyielding pride. He read her stubborn refusal to let him touch her again.

The hospital bed was only a few paces away. She clearly intended to suffer through the pain and hop back on her own rather than accept his assistance for another second.

Clayton pressed his lips together. He bent down, scooped her up into his arms, and lifted her completely off the floor.

"What are you doing?!"

A furious shout shattered the tense atmosphere of the ward.

Hazel felt her heart skip a beat. She bit down hard on her lower lip and looked past Clayton's shoulder toward the door.

Clayton ignored the voice entirely. He acted deaf to the intrusion, keeping his focus forward as he carried Hazel with steady, unhurried steps. He gently lowered her onto the center of the mattress.

Wyatt stormed into the hospital room, his face twisted in a mask of ugly rage. He strode directly toward the bed, eyes burning with accusation.

"Hazel! You have never changed, have you?!"