The Runaway Fiancée: Claimed By The Rival

Eliana Carter POV

The guards at the Little Estate let me in because they didn't realize I was already a ghost.

To them, I was still the future Don's wife, a fixture of this world.

I walked through the marble foyer, my sodden dress clinging to my skin, leaving dark, watery accusations on the pristine floor.

Jax's mother, Karen, emerged from the sitting room. She took in my state—shivering, dripping, broken—and sighed.

But it wasn't a sigh of sympathy.

It was the sigh of a woman calculating the cost of water damage to her antique Persian rugs.

"Go get changed, Eliana," she said, her voice clipped. "Jax will be home soon."

I didn't answer her.

I walked past her, ascending the grand staircase toward Jax's penthouse suite. My footsteps were heavy, wet squelches against the plush runner.

I didn't knock.

I pushed the double doors open.

Jax was there.

He was dry now, dressed in fresh clothes, looking every bit the untouchable king.

And Catalina was there, too.

She was wearing his football jersey, the oversized fabric swallowing her small frame. It wasn't just clothing; it was a flag planted on conquered soil. She was marking her territory in what was supposed to be my future home.

They stopped talking the moment they saw me.

I didn't say a word. I walked straight to the mahogany table near the door, my hands trembling not from cold, but from adrenaline.

I reached into my purse and pulled out the small velvet box I had carried with me for three years. It held every memento, every note, every small token of the alliance that had bound our families together.

I dumped it upside down on the table.

The engagement ring hit the wood with a heavy, final thud. It spun wildly before settling, the massive diamond catching the light with a cold, mocking glint.

"What are you doing?" Jax asked.

His voice was low—a warning rumble that usually made rooms fall silent.

"Pick it up."

I looked at him, meeting his gaze.

"No."

His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. He wasn't used to the word *no*.

He took a step toward me, his presence looming. "I said pick it up, Eliana. You don't get to throw tantrums."

"I'm not throwing a tantrum," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I'm returning your property."

Catalina laughed.

It was a sharp, grating sound that scraped against my nerves. Emboldened by his silence, she walked toward me.

"You heard him," she sneered. "Pick it up and get out."

She reached out and shoved my shoulder.

I was still weak from the cold, my limbs heavy and slow. I wasn't ready for it.

I stumbled back.

My heel caught on the edge of the top step. I reached for the railing, desperate, but my hands were slick with rain.

I missed.

I fell.

The world tumbled violently.

My shoulder slammed into the wall, a sickening crunch echoing in my ears. My head cracked against the hard wood of the steps.

I landed at the bottom of the landing, a heap of wet silk and blinding pain. A sharp, throbbing agony radiated from my ankle, stealing the air from my lungs.

I gasped, choking on a sob.

Jax appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable.

Then, he looked at Catalina.

She was feigning shock, her hand pressed theatrically over her mouth.

"Are you okay, Cat?" he asked her, his voice laced with concern. "Did she hurt you?"

I lay there on the floor, blinking back the black spots dancing in my vision. The realization hit me harder than the fall.

He wasn't coming down.

He wasn't checking to see if I had broken my neck.

He was comforting the woman who had pushed me.

"Get out, Eliana," Jax called down, his voice cold and distant. "Before you actually hurt someone."

I dragged myself up, gritting my teeth against the scream threatening to tear from my throat. My ankle shrieked in protest with every movement.

I limped to the door, using the wall for support, leaving a smear of dampness on the wallpaper.

I didn't look back.

I walked out into the biting night air, the physical pain nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

It was an Instagram notification.

Catalina had just posted a photo.

It was a selfie in his jersey, taken in his bedroom—*our* future bedroom.

The caption read: The Queen stays Queen.