Chapter 1The Spoiled Heiress Redemption Path

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, high-maintenance 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 rain-slicked 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 limited-edition 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?"

* * *

Before Hudson Blackwood left for his business trip to London, I’d been my usual demanding self. I’d sent a high-res photo of a limited-edition 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 hyper-active 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 high-end 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."