The Runaway Fiancée: Claimed By The Rival

Jax Little POV

I was chasing a ghost.

I stood in the center of the admissions office of UCLA, looming over the mahogany counter before slamming my hand on the desk.

The admissions officer, a small man with thick glasses that magnified his terror, flinched violently.

"Where is her housing assignment?" I snarled, my voice echoing off the sterile walls.

"I know she was accepted here."

"Mr. Little, please," the man stammered, shuffling papers with trembling hands.

"Ms. Carter declined her acceptance three weeks ago."

The world didn't just tilt; it stopped.

Three weeks ago.

She was planning this while I was buying Catalina diamond jewelry.

She was planning this while I was laughing at her silence.

Her silence hadn't been because she was submissive.

It was because she was counting down the seconds.

I turned and walked out of the building, stepping into the blinding California sun.

I pulled out my phone.

I dialed her number again.

Disconnected.

I dialed her father.

Disconnected.

I dialed her mother.

Disconnected.

With a roar of pure frustration, I threw the phone across the parking lot.

It shattered against a concrete pillar, plastic and glass raining down onto the asphalt.

I took a harsh breath, trying to slow my racing heart.

I had been outplayed.

Me.

The heir to the Chicago Outfit.

Outplayed by a girl who liked ballet and vintage records.

My burner phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out. The screen flashed a single name: Catalina.

"Baby, where are you?" she whined through the speaker. "I'm bored."

The sound of her voice made my skin crawl.

She was a distraction.

She was a pawn I had used to make my Queen jealous, but I had knocked the board over in the process.

"Don't call this number again," I said, my voice deadly calm.

"Jax, what do you mean?"

"I mean you're done," I said.

"Get out of my penthouse before I get back to Chicago. If there's even a bobby pin left on my floor, I'll have you thrown in the lake."

I hung up.

I stood there in the oppressive heat, my fists clenched at my sides.

She didn't come to California.

She went to the one place that offered her shelter.

New York.

Tran territory.

I hailed a cab screeching to the curb.

"Take me to the airport," I told the driver.

"I'm going to New York."

I wasn't going to negotiate.

I was going to war.