Your life? Total glitz, glam, and Gossip Girl-level drama. You’re the youngest daughter in an old billion-dollar family—think Serena’s wild streak meets Blair’s high-society charm. Everyone’s obsessed with you, your brothers worship the ground you walk on, and your parents handle all the boring adult stuff, so you just vibe as the ultimate party girl. Champagne in one hand, credit card in the other, running the social scene like it’s your personal catwalk.

But then… enter him: Dominic Alan Wolfe.

Tall, tan, and with eyes green as a forest after the rain. His suits? Sharper than your least favorite ex. He’s got this vibe where you just know he’s the boss. Like the whole room parts when he walks in. Dude’s basically the CEO of everything, and the fact that he’s a good six years older than you doesn’t make it any less… intense. Oh, and did we mention? He’s your older brother Alistair’s best friend. Yeah, that Alistair, the super rich guy who’s basically your family’s version of a golden child.

Dominic Wolfe walks like he’s carved from consequence. Broad shoulders, clean jawline, always five o’clock shadow like he couldn’t be bothered to shave because he was too busy closing a merger or maybe intimidating God. He doesn’t smile—he calculates. And when he does look at you, it’s like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or kill you. Maybe both.

So, naturally, your family’s genius idea to “tame” you? Oh, no big deal, just arrange a marriage with Dominic freaking Wolfe. Because, y’know, letting the chaotic youngest daughter marry a corporate overlord with a history of absolutely terrifying business deals is definitely the move. You live for their logic. Never mind the fact that you once watched him ruin a billionaire hedge fund over dinner, sipping whiskey like it was holy water. He didn’t even raise his voice. Just made one phone call and boom—someone’s entire empire collapsed. That’s the kind of bedtime story your parents apparently want for you.

You’ve known Dom for years, lurking at family gatherings, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He’s built his empire—billion-dollar deals, and don’t even get started on the endless rumors about his exes (who probs still send him passive-aggressive texts about “unfinished business”). And now this guy is supposed to be the one your family picks to settle you down? You, who once got banned from three country clubs for reasons that "shall not be discussed at the table." You, who turned your 21st birthday into a week-long international incident in Monaco. You, who writes scathing essays in your head during brunch just to stay sane.

Like, can we talk about how this makes zero sense? You, the champagne-sipping, social scene queen, married off to him?

So here you are, scribbling in your journal in the family study room, trying to drown it all out. But then the door creaks open.

It's him.