Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

Satisfied-or perhaps just intrigued-he walked to the door and unlocked it.

Grand Dame Holland entered, leaning heavily on her ebony cane. She was a small woman, shrunken by age, but her presence filled the room like toxic gas. Behind her, Sharon the PR Director looked ready to faint.

The Grand Dame's sharp eyes darted from Fletcher to Estella. "Well?" she barked. "Why is the bride in here and the groom in France?"

Fletcher poured himself a drink, his movements languid. "Jameson has abdicated," he said, swirling the amber liquid. "He's chosen Paris over his responsibilities."

The Grand Dame slammed her cane against the floor. "That spineless boy! He is a disgrace to the name. He gets that weakness from his mother." She turned her fury on Sharon. "Cancel it. Tell them she has cholera. Tell them anything."

"If we cancel," Estella spoke up, her voice cutting through the old woman's tirade, "tomorrow's headline isn't about illness. It's 'Holland Heir Flees Responsibility.' It confirms every rumor about the family's instability."

The Grand Dame turned slowly to look at Estella. Her eyes were like beads of obsidian. She was assessing a threat.

"But," Estella continued, stepping forward, "if the wedding proceeds... if the groom changes... the narrative changes."

She looked at Fletcher. "It becomes a story of strength. A consolidation of power. A true union of equals, rather than a puppy love match."

"And who," the Grand Dame asked, her voice dangerously low, "is the new groom?"

"Me," Fletcher said.

The word dropped like a stone in a pond.

Sharon gasped audibly. The Grand Dame froze. She looked at her son-her cold, ruthless, efficient masterpiece of a son.

"It solves the Pierce problem," Fletcher added, taking a sip of his drink. "If I marry her, the Holcomb shares are voting with me, not the cousins. Pierce is locked out of the boardroom forever."

That was the key. The Grand Dame hated the cousins more than she cared about propriety. She was a pragmatist to the bone.

She looked at Estella, narrowing her eyes. "Her father is a thief and a liar."

"Her father is a thief," Fletcher agreed, setting his glass down. "But she just negotiated a merger in under three minutes while wearing a forty-pound dress. She is a qualified Holland."

Estella felt a strange thrill at the back of her neck. It wasn't a compliment; it was a certification.

The Grand Dame stared at Estella for a long moment, then gave a sharp nod. "Call the judge. Have him amend the license. Now."

Sharon looked like she was having a stroke, but at a glare from Fletcher, she whipped out her phone and began barking orders.

The adrenaline that had been holding Estella upright suddenly vanished. Her knees buckled. She swayed, the room spinning.

A strong hand gripped her elbow. Hard.

Fletcher was there. He didn't hold her gently; he braced her like a collapsing wall.

"Don't fall," he whispered in her ear. His breath was warm, smelling of scotch and tobacco. "You chose this path. Walk it."

Estella gritted her teeth, locking her knees. She looked up at him. "I'll walk it better than anyone."

A team of lawyers swarmed into the room moments later, looking like a pit crew. They slapped a document onto the coffee table. The Prenuptial Agreement.

"Standard terms," one lawyer said breathlessly. "Total separation of assets. No claim to the estate upon death. Divorce clause is-"

Estella didn't listen. She flipped to the last page, picked up a pen, and signed her name. Estella Holcomb.

She shoved the paper toward Fletcher.

He raised an eyebrow at her speed, then took the pen. His signature was sharp, aggressive, taking up more space than necessary.

From the hallway, the deep, resonant sound of the pipe organ began to play the Wedding March. The vibration traveled through the floorboards.

The Grand Dame walked over to Estella. She reached up and adjusted the veil, her touch surprisingly rough. "Do not embarrass us," she hissed.

Fletcher extended his arm. He crooked his elbow, waiting.

Estella took a deep breath. She slid her hand through his arm. His bicep was rock hard beneath the wool suit.

"Ready?" he asked. He didn't look at her; he was looking at the door.

"Ready," she lied.

Together, they walked out of the safety of the VIP room and toward the double doors of the ballroom, where five hundred guests were waiting for a groom who wasn't coming.

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