Chapter 1Don't Stay in the Winter for Me

We were filming a high-stakes reality special—the kind where celebrities are forced into "vulnerable" moments for the sake of ratings.

The host, a man with a smile as polished as his veneers, leaned forward. "Imagine this is the end. If you could only leave one letter before you died, what would you write?"

My hand trembled slightly as I gripped the pen. I stared at the blank stationery, the studio lights hot against my neck, and wrote down three wishes.

When it was my turn to share, I stood up, my voice a brittle thread. "First... I wish for everyone to forget me."

Before the words had even settled, a sharp, cold sneer sliced through the silence.

"Still as narcissistic as ever, Elena?"

Hudson St. Claire sat across from me, his face a mask of frosted glass. He didn't even look up from his own paper as he twisted the knife. "You really think you're that important? Trust me, the world isn't going to stop spinning because you’re gone. No one is going to spend their lives mourning a ghost."

I offered him a small, weary smile. I didn't fight back. I didn't have the energy anymore.

He didn't know. He couldn't possibly know.

That letter wasn't a hypothetical exercise. It was my actual will.

* * *

We were halfway through the filming schedule, and the crew had already grown used to Hudson’s relentless hostility toward me. Every time he went for my throat, the host would jump in with a practiced, nervous laugh to smooth things over.

"Hudson has such a... sharp wit, doesn't he?" the host stammered, sweating under the LEDs. He turned to me, his eyes pleading for a transition. "Elena, darling, why don't you finish the rest of your list for us?"

I kept my expression neutral, my "red carpet" mask firmly in place. "The second wish is to find a new home for Barnaby. And the last... is to donate my entire estate to the foster care foundations I’ve worked with over the years."

Seeing the confusion on the other guests' faces, I added, "Barnaby is my cat. A little tuxedo stray I picked up years ago."

The others nodded, their expressions softening into that shallow celebrity sympathy.

But Barnaby wasn't just my cat. He was our cat.

I remembered the night we found him. It was a torrential downpour in Manhattan, the kind of rain that feels like the sky is collapsing. The kitten had followed me for three blocks, meowing at my heels. I’d scooped him up, my heart breaking for the shivering thing.

Hudson had hated it at first. He wasn’t an "animal person." He’d complain every time he had to change the litter, holding his nose and grumbling about the mess. But he was the one who spent hours researching the best organic kibble. He was the one who filled our penthouse with enough cat trees and automated toys to start a sanctuary.

Then came the blowout. The end of us. And when I left, Hudson made sure I took Barnaby with me.

Predictably, Hudson couldn't let my answer sit.

"How touching," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "So detailed, Elena. You better actually be dying, otherwise, this whole 'saintly' routine is just pathetic."

The air in the studio turned to ice. The other guests had given vague, poetic answers about "love" and "legacy." My specific, practical list made me look like I was seeking attention—or like I was morbidly obsessed. The host stood there, frozen, unsure of how to salvage the segment.

Then, Liam Crawford, my co-star from my last series, spoke up. He reached over and placed a steadying hand on my arm. "Hudson, maybe try keeping it professional? We're on camera."

Liam unscrewed a bottle of water and handed it to me. I took it, my fingers brushing his.

Liam and I had just finished a massive romantic drama that was currently tearing up the streaming charts. The fans were obsessed with our "chemistry," and the studio had encouraged us to lean into the "showmance" for PR. Facing Hudson’s unexplained rage, I welcomed Liam’s protection.

Hudson’s eyes locked onto my hand gripping the water bottle. His jaw tightened so hard I thought I heard a crack. Just when I expected him to unleash another insult, he looked down, his voice dropping to a strange, hollow tone.

"I’m thirsty."

I blinked, confused by the sudden shift. I held out the water Liam had just given me.

Hudson took it. He didn't drink. He just twirled the bottle between his fingers, staring at it with a dark, indecipherable intensity. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the full bottle into the trash can beside his chair.

He looked Liam dead in the eye, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Sorry. I don't drink that brand."

It was a display of pure, unadulterated arrogance. But Hudson was the scion of the St. Claire empire; he was untouchable. Nobody dared to call him out.

The host wiped his brow, his voice trembling. "Well! Hudson, would you like to share what you wrote in your letter?"

Hudson smiled. For a moment, he looked like the man I had once loved—charming, effortless, breathtaking. "Sure."

The camera panned to his stationery. The audience gasped. Across the big screen, Hudson’s elegant, aggressive handwriting was impossible to miss.

He had written: Before I die, I’m taking Elena Rossi down with me.

He read it aloud, his voice lingering on my name like a threat. The other guests looked at me with pity. I just sat there, my face a blank slate.

I couldn't blame him for hating me. The way I ended things... it was messy. It was cruel. It was designed to make him walk away.