Chapter 2 Terms of seduction

Isla should have walked out. She wanted to walk out.

But her feet wouldn't move.

Julian Cross stood at the minibar, pouring whiskey into a crystal glass like it was a ritual. No noise, no clinking. Even the ice cubes obeyed him, sinking silently into amber liquid.

"You're not asking me to write a puff piece," she said, breaking the silence. "You're offering... intimacy."

His eyes flicked up to hers. "I'm offering truth. What you do with it is up to you."

Isla stepped closer, de I'mfiant in her heels. "Why now? Why me? Why-"

"Why am I a virgin?" he finished for her.

She didn't blink.

Julian walked toward her slowly, whiskey in hand, until they stood nearly toe to toe. He smelled like clean cedar and danger.

"I built a company before I learned how to kiss. I built empires before I trusted anyone to touch me. And by the time I could afford the world..." He paused, eyes dragging over her curves like a heat signature. "I didn't want just anyone."

The air between them buzzed.

"You waited," she whispered.

"I still am."

Isla's heart thundered in her chest, but her voice stayed steady. "This isn't sex therapy. I'm a journalist."

His lip curled at the corner. "I'm not asking you to undress."

"But you want me to get close."

"I want you to see me. The man, not the myth."

She crossed her arms. "That's a tall order from a man who lives in the clouds."

Julian laughed soft, deep, and surprising. "Then let's start small."

He reached to the side, pressed something she couldn't see, and a wall panel slid open to reveal a sleek hallway.

"I've arranged a guest suite," he said. "You'll stay here. One week. No outside contact. No social media. You'll observe. Ask anything you want. But there's one rule."

Isla tilted her chin. "Which is?"

"No touching," he said. "Not unless I ask."

Her breath hitched. "And if I say yes?"

Julian stepped forward, his voice dropping to a gravel whisper. "Then you'll get the truth. And maybe," he added, brushing a finger along the inside of her wrist-just once-"you'll be the first to understand why no one ever has."

She yanked her hand back, heart racing, skin tingling from that one impossible touch.

"Fine," she said, voice sharper than she felt. "One week. One story."

He nodded, satisfied. "Then welcome to my world, Isla Monroe."

Later That Night

She couldn't sleep.

The suite was palatial soft linen, city views, a bathroom the size of her last apartment-but her body buzzed with too much adrenaline.

Isla padded barefoot into the hallway, hoping to clear her head with a glass of water. But as she neared the living room, she saw it:

Julian. At a piano.

He didn't see her. His fingers moved across the keys like he was translating emotion into sound-slow, mournful, breathtaking. He was shirtless, the muscles in his back flexing as he played, a single tattoo curling over his left shoulder blade.

She leaned against the wall, breath caught.

There was so much she didn't know about him. So much she wanted to know.

She had come here to write a story.

But now?

She was starting to wonder if she was the one being rewritten.