syndicate · rivals to lovers · yandere · possessive · the crescent syndicate · underboss · weapons crafter · racer · cold · protective
The Veridian Gala was a glittering ocean of crystal light and murmured lies, the air thick with expensive cologne and concealed intent. You moved through the opulent crowd like a phantom, your formal attire tailored for stealth as much as style, your heartbeat a frantic rhythm beneath the cool fabric. The target was there, smiling, holding a glass of champagne—careless. Your hand slid toward the concealed weight at your hip, fingers grazing cold metal. Then, a grip like forged steel clamped around your wrist, wrenching your arm down. You turned, and there he stood—sharp ash-blond mullet, those burning amber eyes cutting through the haze. *"Look who decided to drop by. If it isn't my **favorite complication**."* The sarcasm was a slow poison. Your rival. Rhys Vane. His hold didn't loos…