Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

Estella stepped out of the elevator. Two men in dark suits, built like linebackers, stood in front of the double mahogany doors at the end of the corridor. They crossed their arms as she approached, their earpieces coiling down their necks.

"Private area, Miss Holcomb," one of them rumbled. "Mr. Holland is not to be disturbed."

Estella didn't slow down. She didn't blink. She walked straight toward them, the white dress billowing around her like a storm cloud.

"Tell him his stock portfolio depends on opening this door," she said. "Or get out of my way. I don't have time for muscle."

The guard hesitated. In that split second of indecision, the handle of the mahogany door turned from the inside. A frantic-looking assistant, clutching a stack of files, opened the door to leave.

Estella didn't wait. She turned her shoulder and shoved past the assistant, slipping through the gap before the guards could grab her.

The room smelled of aged leather, cedarwood, and expensive scotch. It was a masculine cave, insulated from the wedding hysteria outside.

Fletcher Holland sat on a deep Chesterfield sofa. He was reading a document, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid resting on the table beside him. He wore a tuxedo, but the jacket was unbuttoned, and he looked less like a father of the groom and more like a king holding court in exile.

He didn't look up when she burst in.

Estella slammed the door shut behind her and twisted the lock. The click echoed in the silence.

At the sound of the lock, Fletcher finally raised his head.

His eyes were a dark, slate gray. Cold. Impassive. They swept over her disheveled state-the slightly askew veil, the flush on her cheeks-without a flicker of concern.

"Jameson isn't here," he stated. It wasn't a question. His voice was a deep baritone, smooth and devoid of emotion.

Estella walked forward. Her legs felt like jelly, but she forced them to move. She placed the iPad on the coffee table in front of him, the black-and-white photo of the airport still glowing on the screen.

"He's in Paris," she said.

Fletcher glanced at the screen. His brow furrowed-a microscopic movement, the only sign that he was processing the collapse of a multi-million dollar event. He didn't sigh. He didn't shout. He simply reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"I'll have legal draft the annulment of the contracts," he said, his thumb hovering over the screen. "And PR will handle the fallout."

Estella reached out and covered his hand with hers. Her skin was ice cold against his warmth.

Fletcher stopped. He looked at her hand, then up at her face. His gaze was heavy, a physical weight pressing down on her. It was a warning. Remove your hand.

Estella pulled back, but she didn't retreat. She took a breath, holding his gaze.

"Marry me," she said.

The words hung in the air, absurd and heavy.

Fletcher stared at her for a long moment. Then, the corner of his mouth ticked up. It was barely a twitch, but it was there. A scoff.

He stood up. He was tall, over six-foot-two, and he loomed over her, blocking out the light. The sheer size of him was intimidating, a wall of muscle and bespoke wool.

"You are hysterical," he said dismissively. "You're a damaged asset, Estella. You have no leverage. Your father is a fraud, your fiancé is a runaway, and you are currently hysterical in my private lounge."

"I'm not hysterical," Estella countered, her voice steadying. She began to recite the numbers she had memorized from the financial pages. "If you cancel this wedding, the merger with the Kensington Group falls through because it relies on the family image clause. Holland stock drops at least eight percent on Monday. That's a loss of... what? Four hundred million in market cap?"

Fletcher's eyes narrowed. He was listening now.

"And then there's the scandal," she pressed, stepping closer. "The press will say Jameson is unstable. They'll dig into his partying. They'll question his fitness to inherit. The board is already shaky on him. If he runs now, they'll push for Pierce."

She gestured to the door. "Pierce is upstairs right now, trying to get into my dress. Do you want that idiot sitting on your board? Because if I don't walk down that aisle, my father will sell me to Pierce just to pay his debts. And then Pierce has a direct line to the family trust."

Fletcher walked to the window, turning his back on her. He looked out at Central Park, his hands clasped behind his back. The tension in his shoulders was the only sign of the calculations running through his mind.

"You're proposing a business transaction," he said to the glass.

"I'm proposing a solution," Estella corrected. "You need a stable image. You need to block the side of the family that wants to usurp you. And you need to clean up Jameson's mess."

She took a breath. "And I need protection. I need a name that scares people."

Fletcher turned around slowly. He looked at her with new eyes. He wasn't seeing a daughter-in-law anymore. He was evaluating a potential partner.

"What do you want, Estella?" he asked softly. "Really?"

"Dignity," she answered instantly. "And the power to make Jameson regret the day he was born."

Fletcher was silent. The air conditioner hummed. He seemed to be weighing the cost of a wife against the cost of a stock crash.

Then, a sharp rap sounded on the door.

"Fletcher!" It was the Grand Dame's voice. "Open this door immediately."

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