Chapter 2Don't Stay in the Winter for Me

Hudson’s love had always been a beautiful, suffocating thing. He was possessive, intense, and he wanted all of me.

But as an actress, my life didn't belong to me. My last project with Liam had featured a heavily publicized, intimate scene. When Hudson found out, he was livid. He demanded we go public with our relationship. He wanted to mark his territory, to tell the world I was his so that the rumors about me and Liam would die.

"Not now, Hudson," I had told him. "The show is at its peak. My contract has a 'single' clause for PR. Just wait until the finale airs."

His eyes had gone bloodshot with hurt. He didn't scream. He just looked at me as if I were a stranger. Then he walked out.

I got tied up with reshoots and press junkets. By the time I tried to call him a few days later, I was blocked on everything. He went off the grid.

The next time I heard from him was via a notification. He had posted a photo of us on Instagram—an old, private one from a trip to the Hamptons. The caption was simple: @ElenaRossi is mine.

The internet exploded. The servers nearly crashed.

But I didn't see the fallout until much later. Because on the day he posted that, I collapsed on set.

I woke up in a sterile white room twenty-four hours later. The doctor didn't offer a platitude. He just looked at me with that devastating professional pity and said, "Ms. Rossi, I’m so sorry. It’s Stage IV. It's aggressive."

I didn't cry. I just felt... hollow. Like the air had been sucked out of my lungs.

My phone started screaming. It was my manager, frantic. He hadn't dared call Hudson, so he rained fire on me. Why had Hudson posted that? We had to deny it. We had a brand to protect. Liam’s fans were revolting.

I sat on the edge of the hospital bed for thirty minutes, listening to him talk about "marketability" and "narrative control." I just kept saying "I’m sorry" and "I understand" until he finally hung up.

I stared at the sunset through the hospital window. I should have called Hudson. I should have explained that the Liam rumors were fake, that I loved him, that I was ready to tell the world I was his.

But what was the point now? Stage IV. Six months? A year?

I couldn't do that to him. I couldn't make him watch me wither away. I couldn't tie his vibrant, brilliant life to a sinking ship.

With trembling fingers, I found his post and typed out a reply.

Nice joke, Hudson. But you’re reaching. @HudsonStClaire.

The backlash was instantaneous. My fans swarmed his comments.

Stop trying to clout-chase off her success!

This is borderline harassment.

Elena would never be with someone so desperate.

St. Claire is a creep. Cancel him.

He became a national laughingstock overnight. There were rumors his family was so embarrassed they were cutting him off. And through it all, Hudson stayed silent. He didn't leak our texts. He didn't show the world the videos of us laughing in bed. He took the hit. He let the world believe he was a delusional stalker.

A few days later, he sent me a single voice note. His voice, usually so confident, was cracked and small.

"Elena... just tell me. Do you love me? Or was it all a script?"

I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest that had nothing to do with the tumors. I swallowed the bile in my throat and typed back:

I don't love you. I never did.

He never replied. Hudson St. Claire was many things, but he wasn't a beggar. We were over.