I was the quintessential "difficult" woman—spoiled, demanding, and treating my fiancé like a personal valet I’d forgotten to tip.

I made life a beautiful, highmaintenance hell for everyone around me. Until the dream. In that nightmare, I wasn't the heroine of my own life.

I was the "villainous second lead" in a twisted romance novel. My fate?

To be dumped, disowned by my family, and eventually tossed aside like yesterday’s fashion, ending my days in a tragic accident on a rainslicked New York street.

I woke up in a cold sweat and decided then and there: the "Bitch of the Upper East Side" was retiring.

The first test came when my fiancé failed to secure the limitededition designer handbag I’d demanded from his London trip. "It’s fine," I said, my voice uncharacteristically soft. "Really.

Don't worry about it." Instead of relief, his face darkened.

His jaw tightened as he loomed over me. "What do you mean, 'it’s fine'?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I just...

I don't need it," I stammered. "You don't want the things I buy for you anymore?" He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. "Or did some other man already buy it for you?" I blinked, stunned. "Wait, what?" 1 Before Hudson Blackwood left for his business trip to London, I’d been my usual demanding self.

I’d sent a highres photo of a limitededition Dior bag to his phone, accompanied by a text that was more of a royal decree than a request: Hudson, I sent the picture.

Make sure you get it. Don’t even think about coming home without it.

It was a piece that hadn't even hit the boutiques in the States yet. "Understood," he’d replied, his voice flat, barely looking up from his tablet.

His indifference sparked my usual fire. "Are you even listening to me?

This is important!" "I heard you, Sloane," Hudson sighed, a weary, resigned sound. "I’ll get the bag." "Good boy," I’d purred, finally satisfied. "Hurry back." He was scheduled to be gone for two weeks, and I spent those fourteen days in a state of hyperactive anticipation.

I bombarded him with messages. [Sloane]: Hudson, when are you landing?! [Sloane]: I really, really miss you coming home— [Sloane]: (And I really miss my bag. Mostly the bag.

Lol.) When thirty minutes passed without a reply, I’d spam him with angry emojis. [Sloane]: Why are you taking so long to text back? [Sloane]: Did you find some British socialite to distract you?

Ten minutes later, his reply came, dripping with exhaustion. [Hudson]: Sloane, it’s 4:00 AM in London. Right. Time zones. A minor detail.

I pivoted instantly, moving from offense to a better offense. [Sloane]: Well, why are you awake then? [Hudson]: Your notifications woke me up. [Sloane]: That’s on you!

Why isn't your phone on silent? Put it on Do Not Disturb right now! [Sloane]: I’m going to keep texting, so you better silence it! [Hudson]: Fine.

As I sat there aggressively typing, my best friend leaned over, eyeing the screen with a mix of horror and admiration. "God, Sloane.

I don’t know how Hudson puts up with you." I flipped my hair, radiating unearned confidence. "Please. There was a literal line of men waiting to marry into the Whitaker fortune.

Hudson won the lottery.

He should be thanking his lucky stars every morning." I was Sloane Whitaker—heiress to a real estate empire, blessed with a face that could stop traffic and a bank account that could buy the street.

My only flaw, if you asked the tabloids, was my temper. But even with my "difficult" reputation, the suitors never stopped coming.

My parents used to show me profiles of eligible bachelors on an iPad like they were browsing a highend catalog. "Look at this one, Sloane. Any interest?" my dad would ask.

I’d scrolled past Harvard grads and Olympic athletes until I hit Hudson’s photo. "I like Hudson," my mom chimed in, her eyes lighting up. "The Blackwoods are solid.

Hudson is steady, reliable, and—let’s be honest—devastatingly handsome. What do you think?" He was. He was the most striking man in the deck, and also the wealthiest.

But more than that, I remembered him from the galas—quiet, brooding, and always acting like I was a mild headache he was trying to ignore. Something about that annoyed me.

And challenged me. "Fine," I’d said, tapping his face on the screen. "He’ll do." 2 If there was a victim in the merger of the Whitaker and Blackwood families, it was Hudson.

He’d stepped into this engagement for the sake of his family's legacy, which meant enduring me. I was the storm; he was the anchor.

I barked orders, threw tantrums, and acted like the world revolved around my mood swings. And he just... took it. Sometimes, even I was impressed by his stoicism.

It was no wonder Blackwood Industries had thrived since he took over. He had the patience of a saint and the tactical mind of a general.

But a man like that always attracts hangerson. Once, an anonymous number sent me a text: Sloane, look at yourself.

How long do you really think a man like Hudson is going to tolerate your bullshit? I saw red.

I stormed into Hudson’s home office, slamming his laptop shut right in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation. "Hudson!" I shoved my phone into his face. "Tell me right now.

How long are you planning on 'tolerating' me?" Hudson looked at the text, his brow furrowing into a deep, icy line. He didn't get angry at me.

He just noted the number. "I’ll handle this." "Handle it fast!" I barked. "Because if you're struggling, let’s just call the whole thing off!

Save us both the trouble!" His frown deepened. "Don't say things you don't mean." I didn't stay to listen.

I turned on my heel and slammed the door so hard the framed art on the walls rattled. The next evening, Hudson handed me a manila folder.

It was a literal dossier. "The girl is the daughter of one of my father’s old associates," Hudson reported, his tone professional but firm. "He asked for a favor—an internship at the firm.

I gave her a position. She’s been fired as of this morning, and her father has been informed that her behavior was unacceptable.

He’s cutting off her allowance for three months." He sent a video file to my phone. "She recorded an apology. Watch it if you want.

If it’s not enough, I’ll make her redo it." I looked at the thumbnail—a girl sobbing her eyes out. I didn't even bother clicking play.

I deleted it and looked at Hudson. "Why was the video sent to you?

Do you have her on Snapchat or something?" "No," Hudson said, showing me his clean chat history. "I had her father send it to me." I nodded, satisfied. "Fine.

This time." I leaned in, my voice dropping to a warning whisper. "But don't let there be a next time. Or the engagement is over." "It won't happen again," he replied instantly.

Back then, I was untouchable. I didn't care how long he could "tolerate" me. If he didn't like it, he could leave. Until the dream changed everything. 3 It wasn't just a dream.

It was a premonition of my own extinction.

In the dream, my life was a script, and I was the "Evil Fiancée." I was the girl who ignored her perfect partner to obsess over a man who hated me—the "Male Lead." I spent the story sabotaging a girl who had nothing but a "pure heart," driving everyone I loved away until I was utterly alone.

The dream ended with me standing on a street corner, seeing Hudson’s cold, disappointed eyes one last time before a truck barreled into me. I woke up gasping for air.

The AC was humming at a cool 68 degrees, but I was drenched in sweat. I sat in the dark for hours, the feeling of the truck’s impact still vibrating in my bones. It felt too real.

The crushing weight of the loneliness, the physical pain of the crash... it was a warning. My subconscious was screaming at me to wake up before the "plot" took over.

I refused to go out like that. The "Male Lead"? He could go to hell. But Hudson...

In the dream, right before the end, Hudson had looked at me with a gaze so frozen, so devoid of affection, that it hurt worse than the accident. “Sloane, I’m done being disappointed in you,” he’d said.

My heart ached just thinking about it. I realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that I couldn't handle him looking at me like that. I had to change. I had to be... better.

I started the next day. Usually, I’d wake up and send Hudson ten texts before he’d even had his coffee—meaningless, demanding nonsense.

I’d pick a fight if he didn't answer within five minutes. Today, I put my phone face down on the nightstand. I whiteknuckled my way through the afternoon. It’s fine, I told myself.

He’s busy. He’s in London. He’ll be back in a few days. By sunset, I was vibrating with the need to reach out. Just five texts, I bargained. Five texts isn't 'difficult,' right?

Just as I was about to crack, my phone buzzed. It was Hudson. This was rare.

Usually, I was the one chasing him with a digital blowtorch. [Hudson]: Is your phone broken? [Sloane]: ? [Sloane]: No. Why? He didn't reply.

I felt the old Sloane rising up, ready to demand an explanation, but I forced her back down. Breathe, Sloane. Be the cool girl. The chill girl.

I ended up sending a few more messages anyway—old habits die hard—and immediately regretted it when I saw I’d filled the whole screen again. Dammit, Sloane! Control yourself!

Twenty minutes later, he responded. [Hudson]: Sorry, got pulled into an emergency meeting. Didn't mean to leave you hanging.

Normally, this would be my cue to launch an inquisition into who was at the meeting. Instead, I channeled a saint. [Sloane]: Oh, no worries at all!

Just reply whenever you have a free second! Silence. My "chill girl" persona evaporated instantly. What the hell, Hudson? Another emergency meeting?

As soon as I’m being nice, you disappear? Then, my phone started vibrating. A FaceTime request.

I smoothed my hair, tried to wipe the scowl off my face, and answered. "What?" Hudson was on the screen, looking at me with an intensity that made my breath hitch.

He seemed to be scanning the room behind me. "Are you alone?" "Yeah? Why wouldn't I be?" He kept watching me, his eyes searching mine as if looking for a fever or a hidden intruder.

Once he satisfied himself that I was indeed alone, he spoke. "I just wanted to say... if I see a message from you, I will always reply as soon as I humanly can.

Unless I'm in the middle of something lifeordeath." "Right. Very heroic," I said, my voice dripping with the old sarcasm. "I’m tired.

You’re dismissed." I hung up before he could say another word. Then I buried my face in my pillow and groaned. Sloane, you idiot! You were supposed to be nice!

Why did you snap at him? 4 Hudson and I had known each other since we were kids—social circles that small tend to overlap—but we were never "friends." Not really.

The shift happened our senior year of high school. Our school’s Winter Gala was coming up. There was this girl, Sienna, who lived to compete with me.

Whatever I wore, she tried to outshine. Whoever I liked, she tried to flirt with. The Gala was our annual battlefield.

I needed a date who would end the conversation before it started.

I cornered Hudson after his AP Calc class. "Hudson," I said, cutting straight to the chase. "You’re taking me to the Gala." "Me?" He looked genuinely baffled. "Why?" "Simple logic," I said, leaning against the lockers. "I’m the most beautiful girl in this school, and you’re the most handsome guy.

It’s basically a law of nature that we go together." Hudson stared at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable. "I don’t dance, Sloane." I ignored the rejection. "Then you better start practicing." He looked at me, really looked at me, and then a small, almost imperceptible shadow of a smile touched his lips. "Fine." "Great," I said, but then I remembered the stakes. "Also, if Sienna asks you—and she will—you have to turn her down instantly.

And tell her it’s because you’ve already secured the most stunning date in the building." "I can't do that," he said. "Why not?!" "Because I already turned her down yesterday.

I doubt she’ll ask again." I blinked. "She already asked you?" He nodded. "Good. Excellent taste," I said, giving him a literal thumbsup. I thought I had it in the bag.

But our first rehearsal for the waltz was a disaster.

Hudson was stiff, his movements were mechanical, and he stepped on my custommade heels twice. "You’re a straightA student, Hudson!

How are you this bad at counting to three?" "I’m sorry.

I’ll buy you new shoes," he said quietly. "I just need more practice." By the second rehearsal, he stopped crushing my toes, but he was still a statue. "Hudson, we’re supposed to own the room!

If you don't loosen up, I’m finding a new partner." "I’ll get it right next time," he promised. And he did.

By the third rehearsal, he moved with a fluid, quiet grace that actually made me forget to yell at him. "Wow," I whispered as we finished a turn. "You're actually good." "So are you," he replied.

I didn't argue. "Obviously." But three days before the Gala, I was rushing down the grand staircase at home, missed a step, and heard a sickening pop. 5 Sienna sent me a mocking text the second the news hit the grapevine.

I was so furious I locked myself in my room and refused to eat. When someone knocked on the door, I assumed it was my mother. "Go away!

I’m not hungry!" "Sloane, it’s Hudson." I hobbled to the door but didn't open it. "What do you want? I sent you the text. My ankle is the size of a grapefruit. I can’t dance.

Go find someone else." "Is that what you want?" Hudson asked through the wood. "Should I go find another date?" My heart did a painful little flip. You jerk!

How could you agree so fast? "Yes!" I yelled. "Go! Take Sienna! See if I care!" "Fine.

I’ll go call her." I ripped the door open so fast I almost fell over. "Don't you dare!" "I won't," he said, stepping into the room before I could change my mind.

He looked at my bandaged foot. "You’re really not going? I thought you wanted to 'own the room.'" "Look at me," I said, pointing to my ankle. "I’ll be limping.

Everyone will pity me or laugh at me.

I’m not going if I can’t be perfect." Hudson looked at me, his gaze soft but steady. "They won't laugh." "How do you know?" "Because of what you said," he reminded me. "You’re the most beautiful girl in the school.

I’m the most handsome guy. As long as we show up together, the rest of the room doesn't matter." My brain felt like it was shortcircuiting.

My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. "You're right," I whispered. On the night of the Gala, he didn't just take me; he supported me.

I leaned on his arm, limping slightly, but the way he held me—like I was made of gold—made every head in the room turn.

When I saw Sienna’s face turn a shade of green that matched her dress, I knew I’d won. After that, we were... something. Not quite a couple, but more than acquaintances.

I’d make him drive thirty minutes to get me a specific pastry; I’d force him to spend his precious study time beating levels on my phone games that I was too frustrated to finish.

He never said no. He never seemed happy about it, but he was always there.

I used to watch his profile while he concentrated on my phone screen—his sharp jawline, his focused eyes—and think, Whoever marries this boring guy is going to be so bored.

I never guessed it would be me. Because I knew Hudson was reliable, I tried to stay "good" while he was in London. I didn't nag him. I didn't mention the bag.

I told myself: He’s Hudson. He’s smart. He doesn't need a reminder. I was wrong. He came home emptyhanded. 6 The day Hudson was due back, I was practically vibrating.

I wanted to text him every ten minutes, but I held back. When I heard the front door open, I was upstairs. I didn't even put on shoes.

I sprinted down the stairs like a madwoman. "Hudson!" I yelled as he rolled his suitcase into the foyer. "You’re back!" "Sloane." He looked down at my feet. "Where are your shoes?" "Forgot 'em," I said, breathless. "I heard your voice and just ran." He sighed, walked to the closet, and pulled out my slippers.

He actually knelt down to slip them onto my feet. "The floor is cold. You’ll get sick." "Fine, fine," I said, then I held out my hands, palms up, with a giant, expectant grin.

He’s brilliant. He had to know what I wanted. But Hudson’s expression turned... rigid. I frowned, looking at his luggage.

He had a few small shopping bags—probably airport chocolates or dutyfree perfumes—but nothing that could hold a Dior box. The bag had to be in the suitcase.

I moved past him, reaching for the handle of his Tumi bag. "Sloane, wait," Hudson said, his voice sounding strained. "Listen to me..." I ignored him, punched in my birthday—the code to his suitcase—and flipped it open.

Nothing. Just suits, shirts, and a toiletry kit. I stared at the empty space where my prize should have been.

I looked up at him, my heart sinking. "Where is it?" For the first time in my life, I saw Hudson Blackwood look guilty.

He reached out to grab my arm, pulling me up from the floor. "Get up first. The floor is freezing." He sat me down on the velvet sofa.

I crossed my arms, giving him my best 'judge and jury' stare. "The last few days were a nightmare," he said, halfkneeling so he was at eye level with me. "I couldn't get away from the office.

By the time I got to the boutique on my last day, they’d sold the last one that morning. I’ve already contacted the Paris flagship to have one diverted.

It should be here in two days..." He bit his lip, watching me, waiting for the explosion. I was crushed. I’d built this bag up in my head as a symbol of his devotion.

In the old days, this would have been a fortyeighthour war. But then I thought of the dream. The truck. The coldness in his eyes. I took a deep breath.

I felt the scream in my throat and forced myself to swallow it. Don't be the villain, Sloane. Don't be the villain.

I forced a smile—a fake, plastic thing that probably looked terrifying. "Oh! No big deal," I chirped, my voice an octave too high. "It’s fine! Don't worry about it!" Hudson froze.

I waved my hand dismissively. "Seriously! It’s totally fine! I don't even want it anymore!" I was dying inside. I’d just find a personal shopper on Instagram to get it for me.

I stood up to go upstairs before I burst into tears. I didn't get two steps before Hudson’s hand clamped around my wrist. His grip was firm—almost too firm.

His brow was knitted in a dark, fierce scowl. "Why don't you want it anymore?" "I just told you—" "You don't want the things I buy for you?" he interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous pitch. "Or... has some other guy already bought it for you?" I stared at him. "Excuse me?"