Olivia Carter reached the lobby of Blackwood Industries at 8:47 p.m.

with the unsteady walk of someone running on caffeine, sheer discipline, and the last fumes of a very long day.

The glass doors whispered shut behind her.

The security desk was half-lit.

Somewhere above her, a floor buffer whined and then went quiet.

The building, so polished and imposing during business hours, felt different at night.

Bigger.

Colder.

Almost intimate in the way empty places sometimes do.

She had spent twelve hours holding together an administrative department that seemed committed to falling apart in creative ways.

The coffee machine had died during the morning rush and triggered a small internal rebellion.

Two vice presidents had wanted conflicting versions of the same report before noon.

Human resources had lost access to payroll files.

Purchasing had blamed IT, IT had blamed an old server, and everyone had blamed Olivia because she was the person who stayed calm and knew where everything was supposed to go.

By the time the last email had been answered and the final stack of paper had been dropped on the proper desk, her feet throbbed inside her pumps and the muscles in her neck burned.

She wanted a shower hot enough to erase the day, two slices of leftover pizza, and nobody asking her for anything until morning.

She jabbed the elevator button.

When the doors opened, she stepped in with her head down and leaned against the cool wall.

There was already someone inside, but all she registered was height, dark suit, expensive shoes.

Another executive staying late.

Blackwood Industries produced people like that in bulk.

She closed her eyes for a second.

Then her phone buzzed.

Emma.

Olivia smiled despite herself and answered at once, slipping one earbud in.

Emma was the kind of friend who could sound sunny during a power outage.

Within seconds she was demanding a full update on the date Olivia had canceled the night before.

Olivia, too tired to censor herself properly, told the truth.

She had canceled because the man had spent nearly an hour talking about his body fat percentage and his car lease and had somehow managed to make dinner sound like a hostage situation.

Emma laughed, then scolded, then gently cornered her in the way only a best friend could.

Why did Olivia keep backing out? Why did every date become a disaster before it even began? And because the day had stripped Olivia raw, because she believed she was alone except for a stranger she would never see again, and because exhaustion weakens all the locks we put on our private thoughts, she answered more honestly than usual.

She admitted what she rarely told anyone.

She was twenty-four and still a virgin.

She was not ashamed of waiting, exactly, but she was tired of living in a culture that treated experience like a requirement and patience like a myth.

She was tired of men who seemed to treat intimacy as a finish line they had paid to cross.

She was tired of feeling that if she admitted she wanted trust first, she would be labeled childish, prudish, broken, or worse, a challenge.

Emma’s voice softened immediately.

She told Olivia there was nothing wrong with her.

Nothing late about her.

Nothing strange.

The right man,