Sold as a Substitute Bride, Claimed by the Ruthless CEO

The glass of milk was warm in Eliana Moon's hands.

Eleven o'clock. A hush had fallen over the Stevenson manor, a sprawling house on Long Island that had never once felt like home.

She moved silently up the grand staircase. This was her routine. Her stepfather, Lawrence Stevenson, worked late in his study, and she was the one tasked with bringing him a glass of warm milk to help him sleep.

She reached the heavy oak door of the study. Her knuckles were inches from the wood when she noticed it was ajar, just a crack.

Melinda's voice, her stepmother's, slipped through the opening. It was low, but sharp with an excitement that made the fine hairs on Eliana's arms stand up.

Then she heard a name that froze the blood in her veins.

"Eliana."

Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. She pressed her body flat against the cold wall, her ear close to the crack in the door.

Inside, her stepsister Annabell was admiring her freshly manicured nails. Her voice was pure disgust. "Mom, I refuse to marry that notorious third son of the Holloway family! I've heard he's old, ugly, and abusive!"

Eliana's vision swam. The glass in her hands trembled.

This was just a summer break. She was a student at Columbia Law. This wasn't her world, this web of arranged marriages and cruel gossip. She had never belonged here.

Melinda's voice was a poisonous balm. "Silly girl, why would I give such a marriage to you? Of course, Eliana will marry him in your place."

Annabell turned, her face a mask of undisguised scorn and triumph. "That country bumpkin from upstate? Is she even worthy?"

A cold laugh from Melinda. "Of course she isn't. But the Holloways only asked for a daughter from the Stevenson family. They never specified which one. Once she's married, our business deal with the Holloways is secure. And you, my dear Annabell, your target should be Branson Holloway, the real power in that family!"

The world tilted. The floor felt like it was falling away beneath her. Eliana bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, stifling the gasp that threatened to betray her.

The puzzle pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. The family's sudden warmth over the past few months, the invitations to join them from her small apartment near campus—it was all a lie. A carefully constructed trap.

She backed away from the door, each step silent, each movement a scream of protest. She fled the suffocating opulence of the main house.

She didn't go to the guest room they'd given her. She ran up the narrow stairs to the attic room, the small, forgotten space she'd first stayed in. It was the easiest place to escape from.

Her hands shook as she dragged an old suitcase from under the bed. She began throwing her few belongings inside. Her passport. Her Social Security card. The few hundred dollars she kept for emergencies.

She had to run. Now.

Her fingers brushed against her phone. The screen lit up, showing a photo of her and her grandmother in the garden of their small-town home upstate. Her grandmother's smile was the only real warmth she had ever known.

Tears blurred her vision. For her grandmother, she had to get out. She couldn't be trapped in this hell.

She quickly changed into black sweatpants and a hoodie, pulling her long hair into a tight ponytail. She checked the window. It was on the second floor, overlooking a soft, manicured lawn. A sprained ankle was a small price to pay for freedom.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she tied her suitcase in a bedsheet and lowered it out the window. It landed with a soft thud.

Her heart leaped into her throat. She listened, holding her breath, but no alarms were raised.

She climbed onto the windowsill. The cold night air was a slap to her face, but her eyes were blazing with determination.

She jumped.

She landed on the balls of her feet, a sharp pain shooting through her ankle, but she ignored it. She grabbed the suitcase and ran, using the shadows of the ancient oak trees as cover, heading for the side gate of the estate.

Just through that iron gate. Freedom was just a few feet away.

Her fingers were about to touch the cold metal latch when she heard the low rumble of an engine approaching from outside the estate.

A black, custom-made Bentley slowed near the side gate, its headlights cutting through the darkness. It came to a silent stop, blocking her path.

The rear window slid down with a faint whir, revealing the hard, chiseled jawline of a man half-hidden in shadow. The tip of a cigarette glowed like a single, malevolent eye.

A voice, as cold and emotionless as the night, cut through the air.

"A late-night visit, Miss Stevenson?"