Page 14 of Vega

I knew I probably should’ve been out with a man on a Friday night instead of curled up with a book, but being a twenty-three-year-old virgin didn’t leave me with many options.

I wasn’t a virgin by choice. I would’ve loved to trust a man enough to give him my body and believe he would take care of it. I wanted to know what that felt like. I wanted the intimacy, the touch, the closeness, and the freedom other women talked about without overthinking every possible way it could go wrong. But I had been raised in places where people taught you early that trust was expensive and most people couldn’t afford it. Men proved me right too often and were quick to show me they cared more about access than responsibility.

So, my standards stayed high. I had spent too much of my life surviving people who were supposed to protect me. I wasn’t giving the softest part of myself to a man who couldn’t.

“You cannot spend another Friday night in this house reading about fictional people falling in love.”

Dior stood in the middle of my bedroom with one hand planted on his hip. He wore fitted black pants, a cropped cream top, and too much jewelry.

I playfully rolled my eyes. “I can, actually.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He snatched the book from my hands and read the cover. “A brooding billionaire with emotional damage? Again?”

“He owns a vineyard.”

He humorously scoffed, but there was some disgust and disappointment behind it. “Oh, that changes everything.”

I reached for it, but Dior held it above his head.

“You are twenty-three years old, gorgeous, educated, employed, and wasting all this body on your couch. You stay locked up in here like you’re in witness protection.”

Those words hit differently than he intended. I looked toward the living-room window, though the blinds were closed.

Dior watched my eyes. “See? Even you know the streets are calling.”

“The streets have my number blocked.”

He dropped onto the bed beside me and shoved the book behind his back. “There’s a cute little lounge opening in the West Loop. There’s good music and grown men. Let’s go have one drink.”

“No.”

“Two drinks.”

My eyes narrowed at him. “That’s not how bargaining works.”

A car door slammed somewhere outside, and I flinched.

Dior paused.

I had been like that all week. Every sudden sound made me jump out of my skin. Even an elevator opening, phones ringing, a delivery cart striking the wall outside my office; every sudden sound sent a startled and fearful jolt through me. Once, a coworker had approached my desk from behind and said my name, and I had nearly knocked my coffee onto the keyboard.

I had also stopped taking the shortcut beside the warehouse. It added eleven minutes to my walk from the bus stop, but I didn’t care. I crossed the street before I reached the block and took the longer route through the front entrance of our corporate building, where there were windows, traffic, and witnesses.

At work, I checked the street from the second-floor windows more than I checked my email. I watched dark SUVs, men in suits, and cars that stayed parked too long.

Nothing had happened, but that didn’t mean I was safe. It only meant Roman Granger hadn’t found me yet.

“You did it again,” Dior said.

I stared at him with a raised brow. “Did what?”

“Left the room while sitting right next to me.”

“I’m tired,” I lied.