She sat up, the silence of the massive house pressing against her ears. She slid out of bed and found a silk robe in the closet-one that had clearly been stocked by an assistant overnight.

She walked out of the master suite and down the hallway. As she approached the grand staircase, the sound of clinking china drifted up from the dining room, accompanied by hushed whispers.

She paused at the landing, hidden by the shadow of a marble bust.

Two maids were dusting the banister below.

"Poor thing," one whispered. "Imagine marrying him. They say he hasn't been... capable... since the helicopter crash."

"Shh," the other hissed, looking around nervously. "But it makes sense. No women in ten years? He's probably got nerve damage down there. She's basically a nurse with a ring."

Estella didn't flinch. She didn't gasp. She simply leaned against the cool marble of the bust, a dry smile touching her lips. She had known about this rumor for years. It was one of the key variables in her risk assessment algorithm before she walked into that VIP room. The world thought the Lion of Wall Street was broken, a eunuch in a bespoke suit.

To Estella, that wasn't a tragedy. It was a safety feature. It meant her new husband was unlikely to demand things she wasn't ready to give.

She deliberately stomped her heel against the floorboard. Thud.

The maids jumped, nearly dropping their feather dusters. They went pale as they saw her descending the stairs.

Estella ignored them, sweeping past with her head high. She walked into the dining room.

Fletcher was there. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table, dressed in a crisp white shirt and a grey vest. He was reading the Wall Street Journal and drinking black coffee. He looked vibrant, powerful, and distinctively not damaged.

Estella pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the table-a mile away.

"Sleep well?" Fletcher asked without looking up.

"Like the dead," Estella replied. She unfolded her napkin. "The maids think you're impotent."

Nina, who was standing by the sideboard pouring juice, choked. She coughed violently into her hand.

Fletcher froze. The paper lowered slowly. He looked at Estella across the expanse of polished wood. His eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of amusement in the grey depths.

"Who says?" he asked, his voice level.

"Everyone, apparently," Estella said, buttering a piece of toast. "They think the crash ruined your plumbing. It's actually quite a popular theory. It explains why a twenty-four-year-old would marry you. They think I'm safe. A glorified companion."

Fletcher set the paper down completely. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The movement rippled the muscles in his forearms.

"And are you disappointed?" he asked softly. "That I didn't disprove the rumor last night?"

Estella felt heat rush to her cheeks, but she held her ground. "I don't care about your plumbing, Fletcher. I care about the utility of the lie. If everyone thinks you can't perform, Grand Dame can't pressure me for an heir immediately."

Fletcher stared at her. Then, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. It was a rusty sound, like an engine that hadn't been started in years.

"Smart," he murmured. "Let them talk. It keeps the vultures away."

"Exactly," Estella said. "We use it."

Fletcher stood up. He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. He walked the length of the table until he was standing right behind her.

He leaned down. His mouth was inches from her ear.

"There is a charity gala tonight," he whispered. His voice dropped to a register that vibrated in her spine. "Wear something red. And Estella?"

"Yes?" she breathed, gripping her fork.

"Don't dress like a victim. Dress like the woman who owns the man everyone else is afraid of."

He straightened up, his hand brushing her shoulder-a touch that was electric and firm.

"Car leaves at seven," he said, and walked out of the room.

Estella sat there for a moment, her heart hammering against her ribs. She touched her ear where his breath had lingered.

Nerve damage. Yeah, right. He was dangerous. Lethally so.

She turned to Nina, who was still recovering.

"Get me a stylist," Estella ordered. "And get me the reddest dress in New York."

---

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."

---