Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

The partition between the rear seats and the driver slid up with a soft whir.

Estella let out a breath she felt she had been holding for an hour. She slumped back against the seat, the corset of her dress digging into her ribs. She reached up and yanked the heavy veil from her hair, tossing it onto the floor of the car like a used tissue.

Fletcher was already loosening his tie. He opened a small refrigerator built into the seat console and pulled out a glass bottle of Evian. He cracked the seal and handed it to her.

He didn't look at her. He looked at his phone, scrolling through emails.

"Drink," he said.

Estella took the water. Her hands were shaking now. The adrenaline was crashing, leaving her cold and empty. She took a sip, the water cool against her dry throat.

Nina's voice crackled over the intercom from the front seat. "We are en route to the Hamptons estate, Mr. Holland. ETA two hours."

"Hamptons?" Estella asked, her voice raspy. "We aren't... going on a honeymoon?"

The moment the words left her mouth, she felt stupid.

Fletcher finally looked at her. His expression was one of mild incredulity. "I have three board meetings tomorrow and a merger to salvage. Paris is off the table."

Estella let out a short, bitter laugh. "Right. Business."

"Everything is business, Estella," he said, turning back to his phone. "The sooner you learn that, the easier this will be."

The drive was long and silent. Estella watched the city skyline fade into the trees of Long Island. This was her new life. No romance. Just an itinerary.

When the car crunched onto the gravel driveway of the Holland Estate, the sun was setting. The house was a monstrosity of stone and ivy, looming against the darkening sky.

The massive iron gates swung open. A line of staff stood waiting on the steps. The butler, the maids, the groundskeepers. They looked terrified. They had heard the news.

Fletcher got out of the car. He didn't offer her a hand. He buttoned his jacket and strode toward the house.

Estella struggled with the heavy layers of tulle, dragging herself out of the car. She stumbled slightly on the gravel.

Fletcher stopped on the bottom step. He turned, his silhouette sharp against the light from the foyer.

"Keep up," he said, his voice cutting through the evening air. "Don't let the staff see you falter. They smell blood."

Estella straightened her back. She lifted her chin. She gathered the dress in both hands and walked up the steps, her eyes fixed on his.

They entered the house. The foyer was cold, smelling of beeswax and old money. Fletcher didn't stop for introductions. He walked straight up the grand staircase.

He led her into the Master Suite. It was a cavernous room done in shades of slate and charcoal. There were no photos. No personal touches. It was a hotel room where someone happened to live.

"The dressing room is through there," Fletcher pointed to a door on the left. "It's empty. Fill it."

Estella stood in the middle of the room, clutching her veil. The bed was enormous. King size.

"Are we..." She hesitated, her face heating up. "Are we sleeping together?"

Fletcher was unfastening his cufflinks. He paused. He dropped the gold links onto the dresser with a clatter.

He turned to face her. His eyes swept over her body, clinical and detached.

"You can sleep in the guest wing," he said slowly. "If you want the tabloids to run a story about our separation by Tuesday."

"So we sleep here," Estella said. "What about... duties?"

Fletcher walked toward her. He stopped a foot away, forcing her to look up at him.

"The agreement doesn't mandate sex," he said. "And it doesn't contain an infidelity clause."

Estella blinked. "What?"

"I didn't put a restriction on you because you have no power to cheat on me without losing everything," he said, his voice brutally calm. "And I didn't put one on myself because I don't care enough to cheat. I don't have mistresses, Estella. I don't have the time or the patience for emotional maintenance."

It was an insult and a comfort all at once. He was telling her she was safe, but only because she was insignificant.

He grabbed a pair of silk pajamas and walked toward the bathroom. "Don't touch the files on the desk. Anything else is yours."

The bathroom door clicked shut. The shower turned on.

Estella stood alone in the room. She looked at the nightstand.

There was a black card sitting there. An American Express Centurion. Heavy titanium.

Underneath it was a note in Fletcher's sharp, angular handwriting.

Household expenses. PIN is the date we signed the merger.

Estella picked up the card. It was cold. He hadn't set it to her birthday-he didn't know her birthday, and he wouldn't care to guess. He had set it to the only date that mattered to him: the day of the business transaction.

She looked at the bathroom door. She traced the raised numbers on the card.

"Fine," she whispered. "You want a business partner? You just funded one."

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