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."

He smirked. "It never does."

She stepped forward, heart beating too fast. "So... why me?"

He studied her. "You're not from Vanity Fair. You've been fired recently. You don't intimidate easily. And you're hungry."

"For the story?"

"For more than that." His gaze dipped to her lips and back. "But you don't know it yet."

Isla blinked. "Do all your interviews start with flirting and psychological evaluations?"

"I've never done an interview," he said, turning back toward the window. "You're my first."

Something in his tone made her pause. It wasn't just about the interview.

You're my first.

She crossed her arms. "And what exactly do you want from me?"

He turned slowly, stepping toward her with the precision of a predator-not aggressive, but deliberate. Controlled.

"I want a story," he said. "But not the one the world's heard. I want to give it to someone who might understand."

"And what do I get in return?"

His eyes darkened. "A week in my world. No lies. No cameras. Just the truth." He stepped closer, and her breath caught. "But if you want the real story... you'll have to earn it."

Her pulse skidded as he brushed past her, the heat of his body barely missing hers. "You're free to leave," he added. "Or you can stay and find out why a thirty-two-year-old billionaire has never touched a woman."

Her mouth went dry.

Julian Cross was a virgin.

And suddenly, Isla knew-this wasn't just a story.

It was a storm.