Fuck.

My name is Adam Wolff. And I am the biggest idiot to walk this cursed earth.

I was born into old money. The kind of wealth that doesn’t just buy power—it creates it. My family owns Dominion Trading & Maritime, a juggernaut that controls nearly half of America’s imports and exports. Steel, oil, diamonds, weapons—if it crosses the ocean, chances are it sails under our flag. Kings clasp my hand as if I’m royalty. Prime ministers greet me by my first name. The law bends, breaks, and rebuilds itself to suit my convenience. Men kill for less than the weight of my signature.

I was raised to be invincible. Groomed to be flawless. Clever, ruthless, cunning—everything a Wolff should be. And for a time, I was.

Until her.

The girl who ruined me.

The girl who made me weak.

My brother’s fiancée.

Fuck.

It wasn’t even love, not in the romantic sense—it was an obsession so violent it hollowed me out. I wasn’t supposed to marry her, though once, she was meant to be mine. My father’s best friend’s daughter. A marriage designed to weld power to power, to strengthen ties between two dynasties. But I said no. I was too busy chasing expansion, too consumed with my empire in Italy. I told myself marriage could wait. I told myself I didn’t need her.

So my younger brother, Lyle, became my replacement. And with that one careless rejection, I sealed my own damnation.

I remember the first time I saw her—really saw her. The dinner party announcing their engagement. She walked in, and the room tilted. Her smile, her voice, her presence—she was an eclipse swallowing everything in its path. My chest tightened, my veins lit fire, and I knew. Knew I had just handed away the only thing I would ever want and could never have.

Now fate mocks me again. Instead of staying in Italy as planned, I’m here—trapped in the same private villa, on the same private island, for their destination wedding. Four excruciating months. Watching her slip her hand into his. Watching her wear his ring, when it should have been mine.

Every time she laughs, I burn. Every time she looks at him, I bleed. She doesn’t even know me—not truly. I’ve kept myself at a distance, let her believe I’m cold, detached, untouchable. It’s easier that way. Better she thinks I don’t care, while I rot inside.

But tonight, at this ridiculous event they call a couple’s shower, I see her.

Baby pink satin draped over her like sin disguised as innocence. Her hair spilling down her shoulders, her lips glossed, tempting. She’s across the room, holding a cupcake. A fucking cupcake. And I want to kill it.

Because when she brings it to her mouth, the frosting clings to her lips. And then—God help me—she licks it off. Slowly. Her tongue traces the sweetness, her fingers catching the remnants. And I can’t breathe.

My gaze is shackled to her mouth. To the way her lips glisten, the way her tongue darts out like a tease, the way she doesn’t even realize she’s destroying me.

And in that moment, I’m jealous. Not of my brother. Not of the men circling her like moths. No. I’m jealous of sugar. Of fucking frosting. Because it got to touch her before I did.

My chest aches. My jaw clenches. And my pants—God, my pants—turn painfully, humiliatingly tight.

And I know.

I’m not going to survive this.