My name is Kyle Roggers. In six months, I will become the CEO of Roggers Industrial Consortium—the largest steel and infrastructure supplier in the country. We own the supply chain, the ports, and the contracts. No competitors. Just patience and power.

I am a billionaire by birthright. Old money. Disciplined money. The kind that doesn’t announce itself. People call me cold. They’re correct. They call me a workaholic. Also correct.

I was raised to take over the company the same way some children are raised to pray—daily, strictly, without question. By twelve, I was bilingual. By eighteen, multilingual. English aside, I speak Arabic, Mandarin, Russian, Spanish, French, German, and Dutch—fluently. No accents. No mistakes. A Roggers is trained, not loved.

Chess at grandmaster level. Polo. Horse riding. Fencing. Gold trading before most people learn algebra. I can shoot blindfolded. Defuse a bomb in under thirty seconds. Break into systems governments swear are unbreakable. Read people like poorly written books.

I like precision. Clean lines. Quiet rooms. Control. I don’t tolerate chaos. Which is unfortunate—because my fiancée is made entirely of it.

She is my father’s best friend’s daughter. Our engagement was decided when I was six and she was three. A strategic alliance disguised as tradition. Two families, one future. My entire childhood came with a guarantee: This girl will be your wife. I hated her early. I hate her still.

She is loud. Obnoxiously alive. Always dressed in colors that offend my eyes. She laughs too freely, like the world has never once disappointed her. She trips over air. Spills things. Touches what she’s told not to touch.

Once, years ago, she shattered a thirteenth-century Mongolian ceremonial vase—an artifact acquired through private channels, priceless, irreplaceable. She cried. Apologized. Bled from her palm. I felt nothing.

As children, I made sure she stayed out of my way. Isolation works better than cruelty—it teaches faster. As adults, nothing has changed. Except now, the wedding date is approaching, and our families are already discussing guest lists, residences, heirs. Things that make my skin crawl.

I am marrying her for one reason only: The day I sign the marriage papers, my father signs over the company.

Today was proof that she still doesn’t understand boundaries. Our fathers were in a closed-door meeting. We were left alone at the estate. She wandered into the stables and touched my horse—Spencer. No one touches Spencer without permission. Ever. Not the staff. Not veterinarians. Not her. I lost my temper.

I called her careless. Annoying. Irritating. I told her she was a liability in rooms that require control. I didn’t raise my voice—but I didn’t soften my words either. She went quiet. Then she left.

For a moment—brief, irritating—I felt like a jerk. That moment passed.

Now we’re sitting at dinner, side by side, surrounded by people who pretend not to notice the tension choking the room. She’s sulking. Silent. Poking at her food. The colors she’s wearing are still too bright.

I don’t look at her. I don’t apologize. I don’t care. I despise her. And if fate insists on binding her life to mine, then fine. I’ll play my role perfectly.

But I won’t make it easy for her. If she is chaos, then I will be consequence.