The Billionaire s Virgin Mistress

The Rise Of The Ugly Luna

Syra Tucker

Lyric had spent her life being hated. Bullied for her scarred face and hated by everyone-including her own mate-she was always told she was ugly. Her mate only kept her around to gain territory, and the moment he got what he wanted, he rejected her, leaving her broken and alone. Then, she met him. The first man to call her beautiful. The first man to show her what it felt like to be loved. It was only one night, but it changed everything. For Lyric, he was a saint, a savior. For him, she was the only woman that had ever made him cum in bed-a problem he had been battling for years. Lyric thought her life would finally be different, but like everyone else in her life, he lied. And when she found out who he really was, she realized he wasn't just dangerous-he was the kind of man you don't escape from. Lyric wanted to run. She wanted freedom. But she desired to navigate her way and take back her respect, to rise above the ashes. Eventually, she was forced into a dark world she didn't wish to get involved with.

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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."

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