1 For five years, Hudson Montgomery and I were a disaster written in expensive ink. We were a cycle of breaking up and making up, a toxic dance fueled by old money and new wounds.

He had his rotation of "interns" and aspiring models; I had my flings with younger, prettier men who didn't come with his baggage.

We lived by a single, unspoken rule: don’t bring the mess home. We stayed out of each other's way until we didn’t.

Then came the night he filled the sky with fireworks and promised me a real life. A quiet life. I fell for it.

I cleared my slate, walked away from the distractions, and six months into our marriage, I was finally carrying the child I’d always wanted. But Hudson’s "quiet life" was a lie.

To save the daughter of his CEO—his precious "golden girl"—he stood by as they performed a forced, barbaric procedure on me to harvest the umbilical cord blood.

I died on that cold table, bleeding out while he looked at me with the same chilling indifference he’d shown for half a decade. "It was always a transaction, Gwen," he’d said, his voice devoid of a soul. "You’re damaged goods.

You didn't actually think I loved you, did you?" Then, the world went black. When I opened my eyes, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder. I was back.

I looked at the handwritten "commitment letter" in my hand—the one Hudson had written six months ago.

I slowly tore it into pieces and turned toward the young man standing in the corner of the room.

Hudson didn’t know that the CEO’s daughter he was so desperate to save was nothing but a secret, illegitimate mistake.

And he certainly didn't know that the "boy toy" I’d been seeing—the one currently watching me with a smirk—was Everett Prescott, the sole heir to the Prescott empire.

The rooftop was a spectacle of vanity. Above us, five thousand drones shifted into a glowing script: I Love You, Sierra Prescott.

As fireworks bloomed over the Manhattan skyline, my husband—no, the man who was supposed to be my husband—Hudson Montgomery, dropped to one knee.

Not before me, but before his "Muse," Sierra. "Sierra, I’ve loved you for six years," he declared, his voice projected through the sound system. "Will you marry me?" Below us, the crowd on the street erupted in cheers.

I could almost hear their envious whispers. Look at that. True love. A reallife fairytale. In my memory, I was still lying in that pool of blood, watching Hudson walk away.

I could still feel the phantom pain in my abdomen, the sensation of being hollowed out. “It’s just business, Gwen.” “You’re used up.

Did you really think you were the one?” “Sierra needs the cord blood.

And besides, you shouldn’t be raising a child anyway.” I reached into my pocket and felt the crinkle of the letter he’d given me. The promise of a fresh start. "Gwen?

Snap out of it. Let’s stop playing games and actually settle down." The voice hit me like a physical blow. I blinked, and the rooftop blurred back into focus. I wasn’t dead.

I was standing in the VIP lounge of the Pierre Hotel, and Hudson was looking at me, waiting for my cue.

This was the night of the "reconciliation party" before his public stunt for Sierra. My friends nudged me, grinning. "Gwen, come on!

The great Hudson Montgomery is actually making a commitment. Say yes!" "They’re the power couple of the year," someone else whispered. "It’s destiny." In my past life, I’d smiled.

I’d played the part. I’d walked straight into the slaughterhouse. I looked at Hudson. Really looked at him. The expensive suit, the calculated charm, the darkness behind his eyes.

I felt a wave of pure, unadulterated loathing. "No," I said.

The drones began their ascent behind the glass, the preprogrammed light show meant to celebrate our "engagement," but the word hung in the air like a funeral bell. Hudson froze.

He grabbed my shoulder, his grip a fraction too tight. "Gwen, we know each other better than anyone. We’re the only ones who fit.

Are you really doing this right now?" He sounded so sincere. It was sickening.

I brushed his hand off like it was a piece of filth. "You’re finished playing the field, Hudson," I said, my voice cold and clear. "But I’m just getting started." He opened his mouth to argue, but his eyes instinctively flickered toward the corner of the room.

I followed his gaze. There she was. Sierra Prescott, watching us with a mask of concerned innocence. 2 My rejection was a slap in the face to his ego.

Sierra, ever the martyr, stepped forward.

She put a delicate hand on my arm, her eyes wide. "Gwen, listen," she whispered, loud enough for others to hear. "Hudson hasn't been perfect, but he’s trying to do right by you now.

What more do you want? Don't be difficult." She was good.

She framed his years of infidelity as a "mistake" and my selfrespect as "being difficult." Hudson stepped in front of her, shielding her from me.

He looked at me with a sneer of pure annoyance. "Fine. If you want to be ungrateful, that’s on you. I spent a fortune on this night. You always were blind to what’s good for you.

Don't come crawling back when you realize what you threw away." "He's right, Gwen," Sierra chimed in, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "You’ve gone back and forth for so long.

You did all that just to get him to love you, didn't you? If you walk away now, you lose everything.

Just take the win." The room was silent, the guests looking at me with judgmental eyes.

To them, I was the desperate socialite who had finally pushed her luck too far. "I don't love him anymore, Sierra," I said, leaning in. "And since you’re so worried about his happiness, why don't you take him?

You’ve been auditioning for the role for years. Go ahead. He’s yours." Hudson’s face turned a violent shade of red. He lunged forward and his hand connected with my cheek. Crack.

The sound echoed through the lounge. My head snapped to the side, my ear ringing. The room went deathly quiet.

Hudson shook out his hand, his eyes dark with malice. "Don't you dare talk about Sierra like that. You think every woman is a transactional mess like you? She has class.

She has dignity." I held my burning cheek, tears pricking my eyes—not from sadness, but from the sheer, vibrating force of my rage. "Sierra is a saint," Hudson hissed. "If you ever disrespect her again, a slap will be the least of your problems." I looked at him, and for the first time, I didn't see the man I’d wasted my youth on.

I saw a ghost. A dead man walking. I realized then that the universe had given me a gift—the chance to hit back. I didn't hesitate.

I swung my arm with everything I had and caught him square across the jaw. "Gwen! Have you lost your mind?" he roared.

I wiped my mouth, mirroring his arrogant stance. "If one slap doesn't solve it, I guess we’ll just have to keep going until it does." 3 The room erupted in hushed gasps.

No one hit Hudson Montgomery. Sierra rushed to his side, letting out a performative sob. "Gwen! Even if you’re hurt, you can’t just turn to violence!

Hudson was only trying to help you!" Hudson unbuttoned his top collar, his chest heaving. "How long are you going to keep up this spoiled brat routine, Gwen?

I give you an inch, and you try to take the whole damn city." In my last life, I would have spent the next three hours apologizing.

I would have begged for his forgiveness because I was terrified of losing the "family" I thought we were building.

I would have endured any humiliation for the sake of the baby in my womb. But there was no baby this time. Just me.

And I was light as air. "It seems to me," I said, smoothing down my dress, "that someone just got his ego bruised after a rejected proposal.

Are we really calling 'having a spine' a 'tantrum' now?" I looked around the room, making eye contact with the socialites who were already starting to whisper. "Or maybe you just can't stand the fact that you can't have your cake and eat it too?

It’s a bit pathetic, Hudson.

You look like a clown standing here in front of all these drones, begging for a woman who doesn't want you." "Gwen!" he shouted, stepping into my space to intimidate me. "Get on your knees and apologize to Sierra and me right now, or we are done.

Permanently. I will never take you back. Not ever." I shrugged. "Promise?

Because honestly, Hudson, the idea of being tied to a man who’s constantly looking over his shoulder for his next fix sounds like a prison sentence.

You’re embarrassing." The tide in the room began to shift.

People weren't stupid; they saw the way he was hovering over Sierra. "Wait, is he actually with Sierra?" someone whispered. "I mean, he’s defending her more than his own girlfriend." "The drones were for her all along, weren't they?

That’s cold." Hudson’s face paled.

He grabbed Sierra’s hand, trying to pull her away, but he couldn't help throwing one last threat over his shoulder. "You're dead in this town, Gwen! Sierra is a Prescott!

You have no idea the kind of bridge you just burned!" I laughed. I didn't even look at him.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I’d memorized in another lifetime. "Hey, stranger," a deep, smooth voice answered on the first ring. "Is that my favorite girl calling?

Did you finally realize you missed me?" "I’m craving a drink, Everett," I said, putting the phone on speaker. "Are you busy, or can you come pick me up?" "For you?

I’m already in the car. Give me two minutes." The flirtatious tone in Everett’s voice was unmistakable. Hudson’s head whipped around, his jaw tightening.

He marched back and grabbed my wrist. "Gwen! You’re lecturing me about Sierra while you’re keeping a boy toy on speed dial? You’re a hypocrite!" I didn't answer with words.

I brought my heel down hard on his foot and followed up with a sharp knee to his groin.

Hudson doubled over, gasping, as Sierra shrieked and tried to catch him. "I never asked for your proposal, Hudson," I said, looking down at him. "You did this to yourself.

Don't expect me to pay for your mistakes." I saw the headlights of a black Maybach pull up to the curb through the floortoceiling windows.

Without a backward glance, I walked out. 4 "Over here, Gwen!" In my previous life, Everett Prescott had told me he loved me a dozen times.

Every single time, I’d turned him down, tethered to the sinking ship that was Hudson Montgomery.

Now, looking at him—blonde, athletic, with a smile that actually reached his eyes—I wondered how I’d been so blind. I walked up and took his hand. "You look incredible, Everett.

Even better than I remembered." "Gwen! Stop!" Hudson’s voice cracked as he stumbled out of the hotel lobby. "What the hell is this?

You’re going to run off with some... some trustfund kid?

You’re that desperate for money?" I turned around, leaning against the open door of the Maybach. "I’m not looking for money, Hudson. I’m looking for an upgrade.

Maybe you should take notes on how to actually treat a woman." The hatred I felt for him was a physical weight.

Even if he hadn't killed our child yet in this timeline, he was the man who would. Hudson’s expression softened into something pleading.

He grabbed my hand again, his voice dropping. "Gwen, please. Let’s just go home and talk. Get away from this... this person." I wrenched my hand away.

It was the same way he’d wrenched his hand away from me three years ago, leaving me shivering with a fever in the Hamptons while he went to "check on" Sierra in the city. "You’re a joke, Hudson.

You have no right to tell me who to stand next to." "Why are you doing this?" he demanded, his voice rising in desperation. "You loved me! You forgave me for everything!

I’m offering you the life you wanted!" The memory of the staircase—the blood, the cold, the screaming—flashed before my eyes.

A shiver of pure terror raced down my spine. "The life I wanted died a long time ago, Hudson. I’m done waiting for you to grow up." "I told you I’d change!" he yelled.

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket—the "contract" of his promises. He held it out like a shield.

Just then, Sierra came running out of the lobby in her fourinch heels, calling his name. She was moving too fast, desperate to regain center stage. She tripped.

It was a clumsy, pathetic stumble, but she let out a piercing wail as she hit the pavement. Hudson didn't even blink.

He dropped the hand he was using to plead with me and sprinted to her side, gathering her in his arms with a look of frantic agony.

At that exact moment, a delivery cyclist swerved onto the sidewalk, hurtling toward me. Hudson didn't even look up. He was too busy stroking Sierra’s hair. It was Everett who moved.

He lunged forward, throwing his body between me and the bike. The metal handle scraped across his back, tearing through his expensive jacket and leaving a jagged, bloody gash.

I gasped, reaching for him, but Hudson’s voice cut through the air, sharp and accusing. "Gwen! Don't just stand there! Call 911! Sierra’s hurt!

If anything happens to her, I swear to God, you’ll pay for it!" I looked at Hudson, then at the girl who had barely scraped her knee, and then at Everett, who was bleeding because of me.

A bitter, jagged laugh escaped my throat. Everett reached up and gently wiped a stray tear from my cheek. "Hey," he whispered, his voice steady. "It’s okay. Just a scratch.

I’m not going anywhere." "I'm so sorry," I whispered. "Don't be. I’ll always be behind you, Gwen. No matter what." I turned back to Hudson.

He was looking at us, eyes wide with a strange, dawning realization.

I took the "commitment letter" from his hand, looked him dead in the eye, and ripped it into tiny, white flakes. "You think you’re saving a princess, Hudson," I said, letting the paper drift into the gutter. "But you’re just holding onto a shadow.

Good luck with the fallout." I got into the car with Everett, and we drove away into the neon glow of the city.