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Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

Chapter 5 No.5

Word Count: 870 | Released on: 12/01/2026

rear seats and the drive

ainst the seat, the corset of her dress digging into her ribs. She reached up and yanke

frigerator built into the seat console and pulled out a glas

e looked at his phone, s

k," h

e adrenaline was crashing, leaving her cold and empty.

m the front seat. "We are en route to the H

her voice raspy. "We aren

rds left her mout

of mild incredulity. "I have three board meetings tom

hort, bitter laugh.

d, turning back to his phone. "The sooner

city skyline fade into the trees of Long Island. Th

land Estate, the sun was setting. The house was a monstro

waiting on the steps. The butler, the maids, the ground

't offer her a hand. He buttoned his

of tulle, dragging herself out of the

p. He turned, his silhouette sharp

hrough the evening air. "Don't let the

chin. She gathered the dress in both hands a

of beeswax and old money. Fletcher didn't stop for in

in shades of slate and charcoal. There were no photos. No perso

re," Fletcher pointed to a door o

the room, clutching her veil. T

, her face heating up. "A

ks. He paused. He dropped the gold l

s eyes swept over her bod

d slowly. "If you want the tabloids to ru

Estella said. "Wha

He stopped a foot away, fo

sex," he said. "And it doesn'

blinked.

" he said, his voice brutally calm. "And I didn't put one on myself because I don't care enough to che

once. He was telling her she was safe,

ed toward the bathroom. "Don't touch the f

clicked shut. Th

in the room. She loo

ng there. An American Expres

te in Fletcher's sharp

PIN is the date we

he didn't know her birthday, and he wouldn't care to guess. He had set it

m door. She traced the ra

You want a business part

Chapter End

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Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

Temple Madison Billionaires

“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."”