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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Emily stared out the window of her high-rise office building, her eyes gazing longingly at the horizon. She felt trapped, like a bird in a gilded cage. The past five years had been a whirlwind of success, but at what cost? Her job as a marketing executive had consumed her every waking moment, leaving her little time for anything else.

Just then, her assistant buzzed to remind her of a meeting with a potential client. Emily sighed and stood up, smoothing her tailored suit and making her way to the conference room.

After the meeting, Emily returned to her office and found an envelope on her desk. It was a letter from a lawyer's office, informing her that her great-aunt had passed away, leaving her the beachside cottage in her will.

Emily's eyes welled up with tears as she remembered her childhood summers spent at the cottage. It was the one place where she had felt truly happy and carefree. She knew exactly what she had to do.

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