The billionaire virgin

Isla Monroe didn't believe in fairy tales. Not after her third unpaid internship, not after being ghosted by her ex and fired by her editor in the same damn week.

So when the offer hit her inbox-"$10,000 for a one-week freelance profile. NDA required. Subject: Julian Cross."-she assumed it was a scam.

Until she Googled the name.

Julian Cross. Billionaire. Tech mogul. Reclusive genius. A man with no social media, no public appearances in over five years, and a reputation more encrypted than the source code that made him rich.

"Subject prefers in-person engagement only," the email continued. "No photos. No recordings. Just words."

Isla stared at the screen in her shoebox apartment, the New York skyline flickering behind her like a promise she could never afford. Her stomach twisted with a cocktail of suspicion, curiosity-and something she hadn't felt in weeks.

Hope.

---

The elevator in Cross Tower rose silently. Velvet walls, soft lighting, no buttons-because, of course, you didn't choose your floor in Julian Cross's world. The elevator already knew where you were going.

Isla smoothed her black skirt, adjusted the neckline of her fitted blouse, and inhaled sharply. This was insane. She was here to write a profile, not sell her soul. But the NDA was airtight. Her only weapon was her pen.

The doors opened into silence.

His penthouse wasn't what she expected. No cold tech-chic or sterile glass walls. Instead, it was warm-dark wood, navy velvet, old books lining the walls. It felt more like an old-world library than a billionaire's fortress.

Then she saw him.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, hands in his pockets, dressed in a tailored black shirt that hugged his frame like it had been stitched there, Julian Cross turned around.

And damn.

His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. Slate-gray eyes watched her like he was analyzing a code string. His dark hair was tousled just enough to suggest he didn't care-and yet somehow made it look devastatingly intentional.

"Ms. Monroe," he said, his voice a low rasp. "You're late."

She swallowed. "The elevator didn't give me an option."