The Runaway Fiancée: Claimed By The Rival

Eliana Carter POV

New York City was loud, dirty, and undeniably beautiful.

It didn't care who my father was.

It didn't care who I was supposed to marry.

Here, I was just another face in the crush of bodies on the subway, invisible and insignificant.

I had rented a small studio apartment in the Village under the alias Eliana Vance.

It had a leaky faucet that dripped in a steady, maddening rhythm and a view of a grimy brick wall, but it was mine.

I breathed differently here.

The air wasn't thick with the suffocating weight of expectation.

I walked through Washington Square Park, clutching the strap of my bag tight against my chest.

The NYU Club Fair was in full swing, a chaotic sea of energy.

Tables were set up along the winding paths, students shouting over each other in a desperate bid to recruit members.

I stopped in front of a booth draped in heavy black velvet.

Underground Dance Collective.

A guy was sitting behind the table.

He was leaning back in a metal folding chair, watching the crowd with a stillness that didn't belong on a college campus.

It was a predator's stillness.

He had dark hair that fell messily over his eyes and sleeves rolled up to reveal ink that disappeared under his black shirt.

I knew that ink.

I recognized the specific geometric patterns of the dragons crashing against stylized waves.

The Tran Syndicate.

He was Made.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs, the sound deafening in my ears.

I turned to leave, my instinct to run kicking in with primal urgency.

"Eliana Carter," he said.

His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise of the park like a serrated knife.

I froze.

I turned back slowly, fighting the tremor in my limbs.

He hadn't moved.

He was looking at me with dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to see right through my disguise.

"I'm not her," I lied.

My voice was steady—a survival skill I had honed at Jax's dinner table.

He smiled, just a slight, knowing quirk of his lips.

"You walk like a Carter," he said softly.

"Shoulders back. Chin up. Like you're waiting for someone to shoot at you."

I took a sharp step back.

"Are you going to call Chicago?" I asked, the pretense dropping.

He stood up.

He was tall, moving with the fluid grace of lean muscle under a black t-shirt.

It reminded me of a panther stalking its prey.

"Why would I do that?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Chicago is a messy town."

He extended a hand across the table.

"I'm Daryl."

And then, he gestured to the dance studio space behind him.

"And this... this is neutral ground."

He paused, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Sanctuary."

I looked at his hand.

Then I looked at the tattoo on his inner wrist—a small, intricate blue lotus.

*Sanctuary.*

It was a sacred word in our world, a binding oath that superseded blood feuds and territory lines.

It meant untouchable.

It meant if he broke it, he would lose his honor and his life.

I took his hand.

His grip was firm, warm, and dry.

"I'm Eliana," I whispered, the name feeling heavy on my tongue.

"Just Eliana."