Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

The lipstick was a shade called "Virgin Red," a cruel joke Estella Holcomb didn't find funny as she sat before the vanity in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre. The makeup artist's hand hovered, the brush trembling slightly, waiting for Estella to stop staring at her own reflection.

But Estella couldn't look away. The woman in the mirror was perfect. Too perfect. The Vera Wang gown, a cloud of silk and hand-stitched lace worth more than most people earned in a decade, seemed to be swallowing her whole. Her dark hair was pinned up in a structure that felt less like a hairstyle and more like a cage.

She felt a storm brewing in her gut. Not the nervous flutter of a bride, but the heavy, suffocating drop in pressure that precedes a hurricane.

On the marble countertop, her phone began to vibrate. It buzzed against the cold stone, a harsh, mechanical sound that cut through the soft classical music playing in the suite. The screen lit up.

Nina. Her assistant.

The door to the suite didn't open; it burst inward. Nina stood there, her face drained of blood, her chest heaving as if she had run up all thirty-nine floors. She had forgotten to knock. Nina never forgot to knock.

Estella watched Nina's reflection in the mirror. The makeup artist pulled the brush back, sensing the shift in the air.

"Miss Holcomb," Nina choked out. She didn't come closer. She held out an iPad like it was a bomb she was afraid to detonate.

Estella turned slowly. The silk of her dress rustled, a sound like dry leaves. She reached out and took the device. Her fingers were steady, though her heart had begun to hammer a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

The screen displayed Instagram. A Story update.

It was Jameson.

The photo was grainy, filtered in black and white to look artistic, but the location tag was crystal clear: Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris.

The caption was short. Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom.

A high-pitched ringing started in Estella's ears. It was a physical sensation, like a needle piercing her eardrum. The room tilted. Her lungs seized, refusing to draw in air. Chasing freedom.

He wasn't just late. He wasn't cold-footed. He was gone.

Estella closed her eyes for a second, forcing the air into her chest. She visualized the iPad shattering against the wall, the glass spraying like diamonds. But she didn't throw it. She lowered the device to the table and pressed the power button, plunging the screen into darkness.

"Get out," she whispered to the makeup artist. The woman didn't need to be told twice; she grabbed her kit and fled.

Before the door could click shut, it was thrown open again. This time, the intrusion was violent.

Richard Holcomb, her father, stormed in. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ruining the line of his expensive toupee. He looked manic.

"Where is he?" Richard roared. He didn't look at his daughter; he looked around the room as if Jameson might be hiding under the sofa. "Tell me you know where he is, Estella! The acquisition deal is contingent on this marriage! If this wedding doesn't happen by noon, the Holland Group triggers the default clause on the holding company! They will strip us for parts!"

Susan, her stepmother, trailed behind him, wringing her hands. Her face was a mask of selfish terror. "We're ruined," she wailed, her voice grating. "The press is downstairs. The entire Upper East Side is drinking our champagne. We're going to be the laughingstock of Manhattan!"

Estella looked at them. Really looked at them.

They didn't see a daughter whose heart had just been publicly ripped out. They saw a failed asset. They saw a bouncing check.

A wave of nausea rolled through her, followed by a cold, clarifying anger. She straightened her spine, the corset of the dress acting as armor.

The Holland family's PR Director, a woman named Sharon who looked like she chewed glass for breakfast, entered the room, flanked by two grim-faced lawyers.

"We need a statement," Sharon said, her voice clipped. "We'll go with sudden illness. Food poisoning. Or perhaps a panic attack on the bride's part. It makes you look sympathetic, Estella."

"Sympathetic?" Estella laughed. The sound was brittle. "It makes me look weak. And it makes the Holland stock price plummet when the market opens on Monday because everyone will know the heir is unstable."

Richard grabbed Estella's wrist. His grip was wet and desperate. "You have to go to Paris. Chase him down. Beg him if you have to."

Estella looked down at her father's hand. His fingers were digging into her skin, leaving red marks that would bruise. She felt the revulsion rise in her throat like bile. She yanked her arm back.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice dropping an octave.

"We have a Plan B," a voice said from the doorway.

One of the Holland board members stepped aside. Pierce Holland walked in. Jameson's cousin. He was wearing a tuxedo that fit too tightly across his chest, and his eyes were already glassy with pre-wedding scotch. He looked at Estella, his gaze raking over her exposed shoulders with a slimy familiarity.

"I'm ready to step in," Pierce said, a lopsided grin plastering his face. He moved toward her, his intent clear. "Someone has to save the day, right, cuz? I've always liked your... assets."

He reached out to touch her shoulder.

Estella took a step back. Her heel caught in the tulle, but she didn't stumble. She looked at Pierce, a man who had spent his life living off the scraps of the main family line, a man who viewed her as nothing more than a warm body attached to a trust fund.

This was the trap. If she didn't act, she would be sold off to the lowest bidder to save her father's skin.

"Where is he?" Estella asked. Her voice cut through the room, silencing Susan's sobbing.

Sharon blinked. "Jameson is in Paris, Miss Holcomb. We just established that."

"Not the boy," Estella said. Her eyes were hard, dry, and terrifyingly clear. "The man who actually runs the money. Where is Fletcher Holland?"

The name sucked the oxygen out of the room. Richard paled. Even Pierce took a step back, his grin faltering.

"Mr. Holland is in the VIP holding room downstairs," Sharon stammered. "He's waiting for the ceremony to begin."

Estella reached down and gathered the heavy satin skirt of her dress. She turned to the mirror one last time. She didn't adjust her hair. She didn't fix her lipstick. She just stared into her own eyes and killed the girl who had wanted to be loved.

"Get out of my way," she said to her parents.

She pushed past them, ignoring their shouts, and walked out of the suite. She marched down the hallway to the elevator, the silk train hissing against the carpet like a snake.

As the elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the sight of her chaotic family, Estella caught her reflection in the polished brass.

"If I have to sell myself," she whispered to the empty car, "I'm selling to the one who writes the checks."