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.

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.

The next morning, Isla woke up tangled in hotel-quality sheets that still smelled faintly of lavender-and him.

Even though he hadn't been anywhere near her room, his presence lingered. In the silence. In the tension coiled in her stomach.

She got dressed-tight jeans, a white blouse unbuttoned just low enough to be dangerous-and stepped barefoot onto the cool marble of the hallway, headed toward the kitchen. She didn't expect to see him already there, sleeves rolled up, barefoot, stirring coffee like a man who didn't have a hundred million reasons not to be domestic.

Julian didn't look up. "Cream's in the fridge. No sugar."

"You know how I take my coffee?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I know how you took it yesterday. Black. No hesitation. Same as your attitude."

She narrowed her eyes, but she was smiling behind the mug. "Still profiling me, Mr. Cross?"

"Always."

He finally looked at her, and the jolt that passed between them was hot and instant.

"Where's the staff?" she asked, mostly to distract herself from the ache between her thighs.

"Gone. Gave them the week off."

"You cleared the entire building... just for me?"

Julian leaned against the island, sipping his own coffee. "I don't like distractions."

"You're one giant distraction."

He smiled slightly, and the room felt ten degrees hotter.

Then, out of nowhere: "Tell me something true."

Isla blinked. "Now?"

"Yes."

"Like what?"

He set his cup down, slowly circling the island toward her. "Something no one else knows."

She swallowed. "I had a stutter until I was twelve."

Julian stopped in front of her, brows raised. "Really?"

She nodded. "Speech therapy. My dad used to tell me I could outrun it with big words."

"Smart man."

"He died when I was fourteen."

A pause. Then softer: "I'm sorry."

She shrugged, though the wound was old and familiar. "It made me hungry. For truth. For stories. For... something real."

Julian stepped even closer.

"And do I feel real to you yet?"

Her pulse kicked into overdrive. "You don't even feel human."

He chuckled, low and dark, the sound like honey sliding down a blade. "And yet here I am."

Her breath caught as he raised a hand to her face-slow, careful, fingers ghosting the line of her jaw but not quite touching.

"You have no idea how hard it is not to touch you," he murmured.

"Then why don't you?"

"Because the second I do," he said, voice suddenly hoarse, "I won't stop."

Silence stretched between them, so taut it trembled.

Then Isla, unable to help herself, whispered: "Maybe I don't want you to stop."

Julian's jaw clenched. He stepped back like the air had burned him. "Don't say that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm trying to protect us from something we'll regret."

She tilted her head. "You're a virgin, Julian. Not a monk."

His eyes darkened. "That's exactly why I'm careful. Because you're not a game to me."

And just like that, the energy in the room changed.

He turned away.

And Isla-confused, turned on, and suddenly furious at herself for wanting him so badly-forced herself to walk past him, mug clutched tight, ignoring the way her body screamed for what her pride wouldn't let her ask.

But as she reached the doorway, she heard him murmur behind her:

"You're not the first woman who's wanted me, Isla..."

She turned.

"But you're the first I've ever wanted to want me back."