Chapter 7
The receptionist at the front desk nearly fell out of her chair when Estella walked in. "Mrs... Mrs. Holland," she stammered. "Mr. Holland is in a meeting."
"I know," Estella said, breezing past security who didn't dare stop her. "I'll wait."
She took the private elevator to the top floor. She walked past the rows of terrified assistants and entered Fletcher's office.
He was at the head of a conference table, surrounded by ten grey-haired men. They all stopped talking as she entered.
Fletcher looked up. He didn't look annoyed. He looked curious.
"Gentlemen," Estella nodded. She went to the sitting area by the window and sat down, crossing her legs. "Don't mind me."
Fletcher dismissed the meeting five minutes later. The executives filed out, casting wary glances at the new wife.
"I thought you were shopping," Fletcher said, walking over to her.
"I have an errand first." Estella pulled a document out of her Hermes bag. She placed it on the low table. "I need your signature."
Fletcher picked it up. He scanned it. His eyebrows rose.
"Appointment of Proxy for the Jameson Holland Trust," he read. He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "You want to control his disbursements?"
"The trust bylaws state that the beneficiary requires the signature of a designated Trustee Overseer for any withdrawal over five thousand dollars until the age of twenty-five," Estella recited, her voice cool and professional. "Previously, that was you. But you are busy running a conglomerate. I am offering to take the burden of micromanaging his receipts off your hands."
Fletcher leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. "And you won't rubber-stamp his lifestyle?"
"I want to cut him off," Estella said, a shark-like smile playing on her lips. "Every cent. He's partying in Paris on your dime while I clean up his mess. I want him to feel it. I want him to starve."
Fletcher studied her face. He saw the anger there, but it was controlled. Focused. He had always wanted to discipline Jameson, but family politics-specifically Addyson-had made it a headache.
Estella was offering to be the bad guy.
"Addyson will scream," Fletcher warned.
"Let her scream," Estella said. "She's not my problem."
Fletcher uncapped his fountain pen. "You're vindictive."
"I'm efficient," she corrected.
He signed the paper. The scratch of the nib was loud in the quiet office. "It's yours. Freeze him out."
Estella took the paper. "Pleasure doing business with you, darling."
Just then, Fletcher's desk phone buzzed. He hit the speaker button.
"Mr. Holland," the assistant said. "It's Jameson. He's on the line from Paris. He sounds... distressed."
Fletcher looked at Estella. He gestured to the phone. "Be my guest."
Estella walked to the desk. She pressed the button.
"Dad!" Jameson's voice filled the room. He sounded panicked. "My card was declined. At the Ritz! Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? The concierge just told me they can't extend my suite booking without a valid pre-authorization! They're moving my bags to the lobby!"
Estella leaned over the speakerphone.
"Hello, Jameson," she purred.
Silence. Absolute, dead silence on the other end.
"Estella?" Jameson's voice shook. "What are you doing in Dad's office?"
"I'm handling the family finances," she said sweetly. "Your father is busy running the empire you abandoned."
"Put my dad on," Jameson snapped. "Fix the card, Estella. Stop playing games."
"The card is cancelled, Jamie," she said. "So is the allowance. And the lease on the Paris apartment. I suggest you find a job. I hear the cafes are hiring waiters."
"You can't do that!" Jameson screamed. "Dad! Tell her she can't do that!"
Fletcher didn't say a word. He just watched Estella, a look of dark satisfaction on his face.
"Your father agrees that you need to learn some responsibility," Estella said. "Oh, and by the way? Don't call me Estella."
She paused, savoring the moment.
"Address me by my title, Jameson. In this family, hierarchy is everything. And right now? I outrank you."
She hit the disconnect button. The line went dead.
Estella looked up at Fletcher. Her eyes were shining.
"That," she said, smoothing her skirt, "felt better than the wedding."
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