Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father
I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires.
Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world.
My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets.
I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her.
The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money.
I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table.
"Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."
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Chapter 6
She sat up, the silence of the massive house pressing against her ears. She slid out of bed and found a silk robe in the closet-one that had clearly been stocked by an assistant overnight.
She walked out of the master suite and down the hallway. As she approached the grand staircase, the sound of clinking china drifted up from the dining room, accompanied by hushed whispers.
She paused at the landing, hidden by the shadow of a marble bust.
Two maids were dusting the banister below.
"Poor thing," one whispered. "Imagine marrying him. They say he hasn't been... capable... since the helicopter crash."
"Shh," the other hissed, looking around nervously. "But it makes sense. No women in ten years? He's probably got nerve damage down there. She's basically a nurse with a ring."
Estella didn't flinch. She didn't gasp. She simply leaned against the cool marble of the bust, a dry smile touching her lips. She had known about this rumor for years. It was one of the key variables in her risk assessment algorithm before she walked into that VIP room. The world thought the Lion of Wall Street was broken, a eunuch in a bespoke suit.
To Estella, that wasn't a tragedy. It was a safety feature. It meant her new husband was unlikely to demand things she wasn't ready to give.
She deliberately stomped her heel against the floorboard. Thud.
The maids jumped, nearly dropping their feather dusters. They went pale as they saw her descending the stairs.
Estella ignored them, sweeping past with her head high. She walked into the dining room.
Fletcher was there. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table, dressed in a crisp white shirt and a grey vest. He was reading the Wall Street Journal and drinking black coffee. He looked vibrant, powerful, and distinctively not damaged.
Estella pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the table-a mile away.
"Sleep well?" Fletcher asked without looking up.
"Like the dead," Estella replied. She unfolded her napkin. "The maids think you're impotent."
Nina, who was standing by the sideboard pouring juice, choked. She coughed violently into her hand.
Fletcher froze. The paper lowered slowly. He looked at Estella across the expanse of polished wood. His eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of amusement in the grey depths.
"Who says?" he asked, his voice level.
"Everyone, apparently," Estella said, buttering a piece of toast. "They think the crash ruined your plumbing. It's actually quite a popular theory. It explains why a twenty-four-year-old would marry you. They think I'm safe. A glorified companion."
Fletcher set the paper down completely. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The movement rippled the muscles in his forearms.
"And are you disappointed?" he asked softly. "That I didn't disprove the rumor last night?"
Estella felt heat rush to her cheeks, but she held her ground. "I don't care about your plumbing, Fletcher. I care about the utility of the lie. If everyone thinks you can't perform, Grand Dame can't pressure me for an heir immediately."
Fletcher stared at her. Then, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. It was a rusty sound, like an engine that hadn't been started in years.
"Smart," he murmured. "Let them talk. It keeps the vultures away."
"Exactly," Estella said. "We use it."
Fletcher stood up. He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. He walked the length of the table until he was standing right behind her.
He leaned down. His mouth was inches from her ear.
"There is a charity gala tonight," he whispered. His voice dropped to a register that vibrated in her spine. "Wear something red. And Estella?"
"Yes?" she breathed, gripping her fork.
"Don't dress like a victim. Dress like the woman who owns the man everyone else is afraid of."
He straightened up, his hand brushing her shoulder-a touch that was electric and firm.
"Car leaves at seven," he said, and walked out of the room.
Estella sat there for a moment, her heart hammering against her ribs. She touched her ear where his breath had lingered.
Nerve damage. Yeah, right. He was dangerous. Lethally so.
She turned to Nina, who was still recovering.
"Get me a stylist," Estella ordered. "And get me the reddest dress in New York."
---
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