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