Chapter 1: Enter your RRO Handle
Chapter Text
Bulma Briefs despised the smell of old money. The air in the conference room on the 40th floor of the Saiyan Industries building was thick with it—a suffocating haze of polished mahogany, leather chairs, and the stale perfume of tradition. It clung to the pinstriped suits of every man at the table, a stench she’d spent a decade scrubbing from Capsule Corp’s bright, bean-bag-filled ethos.
She took a slow sip from her bottled water, the eco-friendly label facing inward, a quiet act of rebellion against the gleaming crystal carafes stamped with the Saiyan Industries crest. Her outfit was deliberately unorthodox for a boardroom: a fitted cerulean turtleneck tucked into slim-fit dark jeans, the seams crisp and precise, paired with simple leather loafers that clicked against the polished floor just enough to make her presence known. A minimal silver wristwatch was her only accessory—no chains, no gaudy jewelry, no concession to the pinstripe culture surrounding her. Her assistant, Goku, sat beside her, his orange tie a crooked splash of color slightly askew over a casual button-down shirt and a perpetually bewildered look on his face. He was an ideas man, great with people… but in a boardroom? He was about as useful as a pager in a blackout.
Across the mahogany battlefield sat the man who made her blood pressure spike by existing. Vegeta Prince. Even his name was an affectation, some relic of faded European nobility he refused to drop. He wore a charcoal suit so precisely tailored it looked welded on, his posture rigid enough to snap steel. He was infuriatingly handsome in a way that had no business being so effective—sharp cheekbones, his sharply spiked hair was somehow both stylishly precise and rugged. His eyes, dark as midnight, scanned her like a predator waiting to pounce.
He finally spoke, his voice low and sharp. “Another quarter, another dot-com daydream, I’d almost admire your persistence if it weren’t so… unconventional.” The last word dripped like acid.
Bulma’s smile was sugar-sweet. “Unconventional, yes. Which is why my company is growing while yours is still faxing memos like it’s 1985.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice just enough that everyone could hear. “Tell me, Prince—when Y2K hits, will you even notice? Or will your board just assume it’s another long lunch at the country club?”
A ripple of laughter broke the polished silence. Goku shifted nervously, tugging his tie like it might choke him.
Vegeta’s eyes narrowed. “A fluke. A fad. Your so-called ‘innovation’ is little more than toys and internet fluff. Saiyan Industries builds things that last. Your Capsule Corp is one bad quarter away from vanishing like a free RRO trial.”
Bulma tilted her head, feigning pity. “Free trial? Please. We just closed the international telecom deal you were chasing while my engineers were winning ping-pong tournaments. And unlike your boardroom fossils, my people can actually spell ‘modem.’”
His jaw flexed, the faintest twitch betraying the fury beneath his immaculate exterior. “Enjoy your circus while it lasts. The market has no patience for beanbags and nap pods.”
“Oh, but it loves results,” she shot back, her eyes glittering. “And from my office, which houses a very comfortable beanbag, I might add—the results are spectacular.”
The silence that followed was thick with barely restrained glee—on her part—and seething fury—on his. Goku winced, recognizing the pattern. Another round won, another scar added to Vegeta Prince’s pride.
He stood sharply “I have an 11 o’clock, pleasure as always Briefs—until Monday”, he stiffly offered his hand and she shook it with a dangerous smile.
The meeting was over. It ended as abruptly as it began, with Bulma feeling a familiar mix of exhaustion and a strange, exhilarating rush. She watched Vegeta storm from the room, his long strides and stiff shoulders a testament to his barely contained fury, his lackeys hurrying after him. She had won, for now. And that thought, that small, satisfying victory, was what kept her going.
He’s so predictable, she thought, a small thrill of power running through her.
The annual Industry Innovator’s Gala that evening, was, to Bulma, a glittering purgatory: air kisses, fake compliments, and too many men who thought a business card was foreplay. But it was also an opportunity—a stage to flaunt her success in Vegeta Prince’s smug face.
Tonight, she wore a Versace gown, clinging to her curves with the audacity only Gianni himself could design, the neckline dipping just enough to scandalize the conservative investors who still thought shoulder pads were the height of fashion. A daring slit traced the length of her right leg, flashing with every step, balanced by beadwork along the bodice that shimmered like circuitry under the chandeliers.
It wasn’t just a dress. It was a declaration—equal parts brilliance and provocation. A dress that said she could outthink, outshine, and outlast every man in the ballroom… and look breathtaking while doing it. Her sapphire Manolo Blahniks clicked against the marble, the sound sharp as a gavel striking judgment.
When Vegeta saw her, he faltered—just for a second. His dark eyes dragged over the gleam of beadwork, the long line of leg revealed by the slit, the confident tilt of her chin. It was infuriating, how easily she stole the air from the room. And worse, how much he noticed. He was leaning against a marble pillar, surrounded by orbiting investors in tuxedos older than some start-ups. He looked severe in black and crimson, more hitman than CEO. But when his eyes found her—when they caught on the sapphire silk hugging every angle—something shifted. For half a second, his composure cracked. His mind stumbled.
She always does this, he thought, scowling harder to cover the moment. Always making an entrance. Damn her. She weaponizes silk and stilettos like a sword.
She raised her champagne glass in a silent toast, a smirk tugging at her lips. Taunting him.
He pushed off the pillar, crossing the room with the deliberate stride of a man who owned everything he walked upon. “You look… modern, Briefs,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “Which is to say, temporary.”
Bulma arched an eyebrow, smile widening. That’s it? she thought. A half-hearted jab after I spent an hour in these heels? Pathetic.
“Modern is another word for relevant, Prince,” she said sweetly. “Something your company hasn’t been since it stopped bragging about fax machines.”
A flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “At least my employees work. Not nap, or play ping-pong, or… surf the internet, whatever that means.”
“Funny,” she countered, stepping closer, the shimmer of her gown catching the chandelier light. “That ‘internet fluff’ just closed me a deal in half the time it takes your board to order lunch.”
Infuriating, he thought, the smile fading as his gaze dropped to her lips. It’s a wonder I can stand her… no, I can’t stand her. I despise her. I would love nothing more than to boss her around in my bedroom, to put that witty mouth to some better use. He felt a jolt of alarm, his own thought catching him completely off guard. Where the hell did that come from? It doesn't matter. Focus! His eyes dipped—once—taking in the line of her dress before snapping back up with military precision. She’s baiting you. She’s… His gaze lingered anyway. Distracting.
“You’d better hope your little online circus lasts,” he said, voice low, almost gravelly. “Because when the bubble bursts, Briefs, I’ll be there to watch Capsule Corp implode, me and my lesser competitors."
“Competitors? I didn’t realise I had any,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She stepped closer, their bodies almost touching. The scent of his cologne, clean and expensive, filled her senses. It was a scent she had come to associate with power, with a certain kind of dangerous, all-consuming masculinity. “I’d love to stay and trade insults all night, Prince, but some of us actually have a company to run. One that actually encourages its employees to think outside the box, not just polish it.”
For a moment, their eyes locked, an unspoken current surging between them. His hand twitched at his side before he caught himself.
“Enjoy your pillar, Prince,” she purred, turning away, the sway of her gown deliberate. “From the top, the view is much better. Especially in heels.”
He glared at her.
The digital clock on Bulma’s office wall had just ticked past two p.m, when Goku, stuck his head in. "Vados is here, Bulma. Says it's urgent."
Bulma, hit mute on her conference phone effectively silencing the executive she was currently cross-examining about their latest sales figures. "Give me five minutes."
Goku stayed rooted in the room "She insisted it was a matter of health, not a matter of minutes," Goku whispered, his face a study in worried exasperation.
Bulma sighed, running a hand through her perfectly coiffed hair. The interruption was maddening. She unmuted her phone “I’ll call you back Kai, 30 minutes”, she hung up on him immediately and gave Goku a frustrated glare "Fine. Show her in."
The doctor glided into the room, as graceful and serene as always, her lavender silk suit a jarring contrast to the frantic energy of the office. She took a seat without invitation, her eyes calmly assessing the exhausted Bulma. "You look as though you’ve just run a marathon, my dear."
"I've been in meetings since six a.m. running machine at 4am followed by swimming, this is not exhaustion, it is irritability" Bulma retorted, slumping into her chair. "What’s so urgent?"
"Your latest bloodwork, provided by your concerned assistant," Vados said, her voice smooth and unhurried. "Your blood pressure is reaching dangerous levels, Bulma. This is no longer just about temperament; Capsule Corp's HR team has a copy of this report. This could lead to you being signed off as medically unfit for work."
Bulma's blood ran cold. "Unfit? That's ridiculous."
"Not according to the medical guidelines you yourself approve for your employees," Vados countered, her tone firm. "This situation requires an immediate, non-negotiable solution. The medication I've prescribed will help, but you need a less… competitive outlet. Something to soothe your mind. It must also be a group activity, for positive social interaction."
Vados ticked off a list on her fingers. "I suggest Tai Chi, a group with a wonderful instructor. Or perhaps knitting, which is incredibly therapeutic. You could try oil painting with a class, or join a group for gentle hill walking."
Bulma's face twisted with disdain as she dismissed each option. "Tai Chi is too floaty and lacks intellectual rigor. Knitting is a waste of a perfectly good brain. Oil painting is a mess waiting to happen. And gentle hill walking? I walk to get places, Vados, not to meander."
Vados’s smile didn’t falter. "I understand. I have one final option. I've been discussing this case with my brother, a fellow physician, and we've agreed. I know you're a voracious reader; an online book club. The anonymity means you won't have to deal with the public and it will still give you a positive social outlet. Even Vegeta Prince has found a relaxing hobby recently, and it's made him less flippant and liable to fly off the handle."
Bulma's jaw tightened. The thought of Vegeta Prince having better control over his health was an unbearable insult. The idea of a book club felt preposterous, but the anonymity had a certain appeal. It was a private life, something separate from the constant public image. "Fine," she said, her voice laced with resignation. "I'll consider it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a deal to finish."
Across town, Vegeta Prince was just wrapping up a fiery conference call. He slammed the phone down and ran a hand over his face, a deep scowl etched into his features. His assistant, Chi-Chi, a woman of unyielding patience and fierce intellect, knocked once and entered, followed by his personal physician - Whis.
"Mr Prince, Whis is here for your mid-afternoon consult," Chi-Chi announced, her tone flat and brooking no argument in the oppressive atmosphere of the office.
Vegeta glared at Whis, who moved with a calm, almost otherworldly slowness that grated on his nerves. "I told you, I'm too busy for this. I have a company to run."
"And a heart to protect, you have rescheduled me four times, so I came anyway Vegeta" Whis said, floating into the room, his voice a calm, ethereal whisper.
"Your blood pressure is an abomination. It mirrors the ferocity of a wild beast, Vegeta Prince. Saiyan Industries' HR team will find this concerning and will be forced to act."
Vegeta gritted his teeth. "I am not a beast. I'm a man under pressure. Saiyan Industries' HR team knows better than to question my abilities."
"They know that your physical well-being is a liability," Whis countered, his tone unwavering. "This situation requires an immediate, non-negotiable solution. The medication will help, but you also need a mental reprieve. I've chosen a few group hobbies for positive social interactions outside of your corporate sphere."
Vegeta bristled but Whis continued completely unabated listing them off with a serene hand gesture. "You could try Tai Chi, knitting, oil painting, gentle hill walking?"
Vegeta's face twisted into a mask of pure disdain. "Tai Chi is for soft-handed weaklings. Knitting is a grandmother’s pursuit. Painting is tedious. And hill walking? What’s the point if there’s no finish line?"
"I see," Whis said, unfazed. "Then perhaps a pursuit that fits your intellect-I know you are a passionate reader. How about an online book club-I can leave the chatroom details with Chi-Chi. It's a chance for true connection, free from the constraints of your title and reputation. After all, even Bulma Briefs has found a relaxing hobby, and it’s made her much easier to engage with - or so my sister Vados informs me"
Vegeta recoiled at the suggestion. A chatroom? On a computer? He jabbed at the beige tower on his mahogany desk. The thing had more buttons than a fighter jet cockpit, and the last time he’d touched it, he’d turned the screen black for an entire day. The dial-up screech filled the office.
Pathetic, he muttered. This infernal contraption takes longer than a hostile takeover.
He had to admit, however reluctantly, that the idea of Bulma Briefs having a healthier, more balanced life than him… was intolerable. He would prove he was just as capable of “serenity” — if it killed him. "Fine," he growled, the word tasting foul in his mouth. "I'll look into it. Now get out. I have a meeting in five."
One week later, in their respective home offices, Bulma and Vegeta reluctantly found themselves logged on to Red Ribbon Online. Bulma stared at the "Please enter you RRO handle" prompt momentarily before she typed in "ByteMe” with a roll of her eyes. She clicked swiftly onto the chatroom for "Classic Literature" that Vados had recommended. The hum of her connection sounded like background music. She had been running networks since before Saiyan Industries realized the internet wasn’t a passing fad.
Vegeta, under the name “ironprince,” - all lowercase...he realised too late, stared at the screen, muttering curses at the blinking cursor. Chi-Chi had written his screen name and password on a Post-it, now lost somewhere in the chaos of his desk. His fingers jabbed at the keyboard like it had a pulse. The screech of the dial-up line grated on his nerves, and each tiny delay felt like an affront to his authority...
Chapter 2: A Stranger Volley
Notes:
Underestimated how hard it is to imitate an email volley exchange in AO3 and it took forever. Future emails will be more lengthy!
Chapter Text
The chatroom was a digital nightmare. Bulma stared at her screen, a scowl on her face as she read the fawning praise for The Bridges of Madison County. The general sentiment was so sickly sweet it threatened to give her a cavity.
SweetPea93: Oh, it was so romantic! I just wept when he left
LoveBug22: Such a moving testament to true love!
Bulma muttered under her breath, “Testament to my gag reflex,” and pushed her chair back, ready to log off. This had been Vados’s brilliant idea of “positive social interaction.” If listening to strangers gush about adulterous farmers was therapeutic, she’d rather keep her blood pressure high. This was an exercise in pure self-restraint. Just as she was about to log off in disgust, a new message popped up.
ironprince: my blood sugar is spiking from all this sentimentality.did we all read the same book?the protagonist was a coward and his so-called 'love story' was an exercise in self-pity
Bulma’s lips twitched into a small smile. Someone in this digital sea of sap had a mind. She typed again, her fingers flying:
ByteMe: Agreed ironprince. the most compelling character was the cow. at least it had the sense to stay put
Vegeta smirked at that, the first genuine expression of amusement he’d allowed himself all week. He quickly scowled at how fast the messages were moving, instinctively moving his scrollbar to keep track of what was being said with a frown.
ironprince: yes. the cow wins. the rest are… well. liability for my blood pressure. i thought i had been dropped into a convent for sentimental fools
ByteMe: you’re not wrong. i think my physician has it in for me
The conversation continued on with the others waxing poetic about passion and sacrifice, but ironprince and ByteMe fenced back and forth, sarcasm their shared dialect. To the rest of the group, it was as if they weren’t even there. To them, it felt like the only worthwhile conversation in the room.
Bulma’s amusement flared into something bolder. Instead of waiting for this ironprince to discover the private messaging feature, she made the first move.
ByteMe → ironprince (private): if you want to discuss a book with someone who isn’t clinically sentimental, message me direct
There was a pause long enough for her to doubt them—then a simple, decisive reply.
ironprince → ByteMe (private): Email. I despise this 'chat room' nonsense. [email protected]
Bulma blinked, then laughed. Of course they would. Direct, almost imperious. Confident in a way that mirrored her own. She recognized the standard Red Ribbon Online address immediately but didn’t care. It was reckless, possibly foolish, and… thrilling.
She sat back, her pulse ticking faster than she wanted to admit. For the first time in weeks, she felt a spark of excitement that wasn’t tied to a hostile takeover or quarterly earnings.
She typed her first email.
Vegeta almost jumped out of his seat when the computer on his desk emitted a shrill ping! A garish pop-up splashed across his screen:
YOU’VE GOT RED RIBBON MAIL!
“Blasted contraption,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t type on these things, I dictate.” His staff usually printed his emails for him, or worse, summarized them into neat little folders. Yet here he was, hunched at his desk after hours, staring at the glowing monitor like some bored intern.
He clicked—too hard—on the open button.
The email wasn’t from one of his sycophantic subordinates or the endless stream of suppliers. This was in his new personal email address that Chi-Chi had setup and it was from ByteMe.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Thu 05 September 1997 20:34
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Book Clubironprince
I approve of this plan. But suggest we pick our own book. Less weepy, more… literary. I have a few suggestions. The Stranger by Camus, Fahrenheit 451 by Bradbury, The Fountainhead by Rand, Frankenstein by Shelley, or 1984 by Orwell but open to suggestions
ByteMe
Vegeta leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He scanned the list of titles, each one sitting neatly on the shelf behind him. Coincidence? Or something else?
“Finally,” he murmured. “A brain.”
He cracked his knuckles and typed, slow and deliberate, every keystroke loud in the silence of his office.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Book ClubCoincidence or a shared passion? You have an impeccable taste. I’ll start with The Stranger if you’re game.
IP
Across town, Bulma refreshed her inbox almost compulsively, a cup of cooling tea sitting forgotten on her desk. When the reply appeared, she grinned—broad and unguarded, the kind of grin that made her look ten years younger.
“Game on,” she whispered, already drafting her reply with rapid keystrokes.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Thu 05 September 1997 20:46
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Re:Re:Book ClubGame!
Aim for 3 chapters by tomorrow.
Vegeta raised an eyebrow at the curt directive, then let out a low chuckle. Bossy. Direct. No wasted words. He liked it more than he wanted to admit. Still, he powered down the monitor, forgetting that the tower continued its maddening hum. With a withering glare at the machine, he stood, stalked to his bookshelf, and plucked The Stranger from its place.
“This won’t take long,” he muttered, though he already suspected it would take longer than he cared to admit—for reasons that had nothing to do with Camus.
Friday 6th September 1997
Bulma finished the first three chapters the next day, using her lunch break as an excuse to escape the never-ending parade of boardroom chatter. She claimed she had a “call,” closed her office door, and propped the slim paperback against her half-eaten salad.
The prose was stark, almost cruel in its simplicity, but she found it soothing. After the syrupy slog of Madison County, Camus’s detachment was like a cold glass of water thrown over her face. By the time she closed the book, she felt sharper, clearer, almost exhilarated.
By the time she got home after her game of tennis, shower and what felt like the longest day she had in a while she was still strangely buzzed-she poured herself a large glass of wine and padded into her home office, bouncing into her chair, her manicured fingers hovering above the keyboard. For once, this wasn’t a quarterly report or a memo carefully crafted to make subordinates quake in their heels. This was… fun. And dangerous in a way she hadn’t expected.
Her message spilled out quickly
She reread it three times, chewing on her lower lip. The question was flippant enough to be brushed off, but bold enough to force an answer. Exactly the kind of move she made across a negotiating table. She hit send before she could talk herself out of it.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 22:02
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: The StrangerI finished the first three chapters. Camus's prose is so deliciously dry, I almost feel a kinship with Meursault. He's not a sociopath, just... a man with a distinct lack of sentimentality. It's almost refreshing. The way he so dispassionately details his mother's death and the funeral makes you wonder if we're all just putting on a performance for society.
ASL or is that a ridiculous question to ask in a book club?
BM
Across town, Vegeta sat alone in his home office, half a glass of scotch sweating beside him.
When the ping came, he straightened instantly. He opened the email and frowned at the last line.
ASL.
He muttered the letters under his breath, trying to piece together some business acronym. Asset… Stock… Liability? Advanced Strategic Leadership?
“Tch.” He almost reached for the phone to call Tarble—his younger brother would know—but the thought of explaining why he needed the answer made his jaw tighten. He refused to look like a fool. He would simply ask.
He fired off a reply, terse but deliberate
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 22:07
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Re:The StrangerI concur. His detachment is both unsettling and strangely compelling. Society condemns him not because he committed a crime, but because he refuses to perform grief as expected. A weakness, in my view.
What is "ASL"?
IP
Bulma burst out laughing, alone in her penthouse. She actually had to set her wine glass down before she spilled it on the carpet. Too sharp to miss the hypocrisy of grief, but not sharp enough to know an internet acronym. The contradiction made her like them even more.
She typed quickly, this time letting herself be a little wicked
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 22:08
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Re:Re:The StrangerAge? Sex? Location? There is no pressure to answer
BM
Vegeta stared at the screen, one eyebrow lifting. Age, Sex, Location. Childish, yes. Pointless, maybe. But there was something about the indifference—the casual there’s no pressure—that struck him like a gauntlet thrown at his feet.
He typed his reply without hesitation
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 22:20
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Re:The StrangerAge. 41. I don't see the point in being coy about it
Sex. Male
Location. West CityIP
Bulma's eyebrows shot up, she wasn't expecting a man in a bookclub - she caught herself, is that sexist? she shrugged.
He is only two years older than me.
West City.
Her brows shot up. The odds were ridiculous. He’s here?
She typed, her fingers flying with sudden excitement
Bulma sat back in her chair, a wicked grin tugging at her lips. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to answer truthfully… or if she wanted him to bluff, so she could catch him at it.
Either way, she felt that familiar thrill—the one she usually got only at the height of a corporate showdown.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 22:30
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Re:Re:The StrangerSince you were so direct - I'm 39. Female and I live in the same goddamned city - what are the odds? Probably very slim.
I find myself wondering what kind of job you have. One that requires you to read a novel as a form of therapy, perhaps?
BM
Vegeta’s office was dim except for the pool of light cast by his desk lamp. He rolled her message around in his mind, reading it twice, three times.
Female. Thirty-nine. Here, in West City.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. What were the chances? Most of these online exchanges were with strangers scattered across the globe, people he would never meet. That distance was what made them tolerable. But this? This was unsettling. Exciting. Infuriating.
He leaned forward, fingers poised over the keyboard. He could hear his father’s voice in his head—mocking, dismissive: You don’t waste your time with nonsense like this, boy. You work. He ignored it. He hadn’t felt this alive in months.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 22:35
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Re:Re:The StrangerCorporate. Ruthless. My days are filled with idiots who think titles equate to competence. It’s a game of strategy, and most players are unfit to sit at the board. My doctor insists I “unwind,” but incompetence is difficult to tune out. Hence, here I am.
And you?
– IP
Bulma read the message with a sly grin. Corporate, ruthless, strategy. Oh, he was exactly the type she imagined. She tipped back in her office chair, letting out a laugh.
“Don't promise me a good time" she murmured. her grin widening. Whoever this man was, he spoke her language.
She started typing, letting herself be less guarded, more herself
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 22:55
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Re:Re:The StrangerMy job is also corporate, and just as cutthroat. The kind of work most people would find mind-numbingly dull, but I find it exhilarating. Every negotiation, every meeting, every impossible deadline—it’s like a chess match, and I hate losing.
My doctor told me to pick a “relaxing hobby.” Hence, I ended up in the chatroom. Clearly, she underestimated my ability to make even hobbies competitive.
So tell me, what does someone like you do for fun? Or is “fun” not in your vocabulary?
– BM
Vegeta’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t a scowl either. Fun. The word felt childish. He drained the last of his scotch and considered what she’d written. She understood the thrill of the fight, the grind, the unrelenting pace.
He typed back, blunt as ever
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 23:10
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: Re:Re:The StrangerFun is inefficient.
That said: squash, martial arts, and the occasional attempt at cooking that usually ends in fire alarms. My dislikes include small talk, inefficiency, and the kind of false charm people mistake for competence.
Your turn. Hobbies, likes, dislikes.
Bulma read the message twice, her brows lifting. Direct, isn’t he? she thought, drumming her nails against the desk. Hobbies, likes, dislikes. Not exactly foreplay, but there was something bluntly confident about the demand that made her grin.
She swirled the wine in her glass, deciding honesty with a twist was the best response.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 23:19
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re: The Stranger
Hobbies: tennis, though it doubles as a stress-relief mechanism. Last week, an insufferable client spent the entire match trying to flirt while simultaneously undercutting my company. I may have aimed several serves at his crotch. Cathartic, if not professional.
I also visit the shooting range with an old friend. Nothing clears the mind like the crack of a well-aimed shot.
Likes: intellectual sparring, challenges, and winning.
Dislikes: incompetence, small talk, and men who confuse flirtation with negotiation.Your turn again. Do you recognize yourself anywhere in that list?
– BM
Vegeta stared at the screen, the edges of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. The mental image of a woman deliberately firing tennis balls at a man’s groin was so outrageous that a short, sharp laugh burst out of him. He startled himself. When was the last time he had actually laughed?
Leaning forward, he typed without hesitation:
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 23:30
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: The Stranger
Recognize myself? Possibly. I’ve been accused of arrogance, ruthlessness, and expecting too much from people. Guilty as charged. But I don’t confuse flirtation with business. That’s amateur behavior.
Your story about the tennis match was… compelling. I admit, I’d almost like to meet the idiot. To watch him squirm. Or perhaps I already have.
– IP
Bulma paused, her wineglass halfway to her lips. Or perhaps I already have.
The words sent a little thrill through her chest. He couldn’t know. Of course he couldn’t. She tapped the rim of her glass against her teeth, smirking as she started to type.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 23:42
To: [email protected]Subject: Re:Re: The Stranger
Don’t worry, the “idiot” isn’t anyone you’d know. A client. The sort who assumes charm is a substitute for contracts, and that a woman with a tennis racket must be angling for his attention. I disabused him of the notion quickly.
My actual rival is another story. Brilliant. Maddening. Always ten steps ahead, or so he thinks. He refuses to yield an inch, even when he’s wrong—which is often. And yet… he sharpens me. Every clash, every meeting, every damned phone call forces me to bring my best game.
I’ll never admit this to him, but he’s the one opponent I’d hate to lose.
– BM
Vegeta leaned back in his chair, her words cutting sharper than he expected. His pulse picked up as he read, though he couldn’t have said why. Brilliant. Maddening. Always ten steps ahead. He wondered what kind of man could command her attention so thoroughly, could spark that mixture of irritation and reluctant admiration.
A rival, she called him. Worthy enough to sharpen her. Vegeta scowled at the screen, unsettled by the strange pang in his chest. Whoever this man was, he didn’t like him.
He told himself it was only professional curiosity. He hated rivals too. It was natural to want to size them up. And yet… there was something in her admission—I’ll never admit this to him, but he’s the one opponent I’d hate to lose—that crawled under his skin.
He cracked his knuckles, then began to type.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 23:49
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re: The StrangerYou’ve described your rival with a level of grudging respect I recognize. The sort of person who’s infuriating precisely because they’re worth your time. Without them, work would be easier… and far duller.
I understand the contradiction. A true rival drives you to fury and keeps you alive in the same breath.
Still, I have to ask: why tolerate it? Why not find someone less maddening, less consuming?
– IP
Bulma tapped her glass against her lip again, the corners of her mouth quirking. He didn’t understand, not fully. Why tolerate it? Because some storms you don’t weather—you chase them.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Fri 06 September 1997 23:56
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re: The Stranger
Because easier is boring.
Because I’d rather have someone who can match me blow for blow than a dozen sycophants nodding along.
Because irritation, when paired with respect, is addictive.That’s the truth of it. My “rival,” as you call him, is a thorn in my side—but I’d notice the silence if he ever stopped pricking.
What about you? You strike me as someone who’s made an enemy or two worth keeping.
– BM
Vegeta stared at the screen, jaw tightening. Addictive. She’d called this infuriating man addictive. The idea rankled, though he couldn’t say why. He told himself it was the principle of it. Dependence was weakness.
And yet… he knew exactly what she meant.
His fingers hovered over the keys, reluctant but compelled.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 06 September 1997 00:04
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re: The StrangerEnemies worth keeping. Hn. That is a phrase.
I have one in particular who comes to mind. She has an arrogance that borders on offensive, an endless need to prove she’s the sharpest in the room. She drives me to the brink of madness, and yet…
She’s the only one who makes the game worth playing. Without her, I might as well be sparring shadows.
But don’t misunderstand me. Respect does not mean affection. She is intolerable.
– IP
Bulma nearly choked on her wine. She read the email three times over, then tipped her head back and laughed.
She leaned forward, smirking as her hands danced over the keys.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 06 September 1997 00:11
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: The StrangerRespect does not mean affection? Spoken like a man who is very much in denial.
You describe her as intolerable, but the detail to which you describe her. Tell me—does she know she occupies this much of your headspace? Or would that dent your pride too much?
– BM
Vegeta’s nostrils flared. Denial? Pride? She was far too perceptive for his liking. His pulse thrummed, half irritation, half exhilaration. This woman—this ByteMe—had a way of slipping past his defenses.
His reply came faster than he intended.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 06 September 1997 00:18
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: The Stranger
She will never know. And if she suspects, she’ll be wrong.
But perhaps you understand that. You wouldn’t be writing to me otherwise.
– IP
Bulma sat back, staring at the words. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. He was every bit as prideful as her so-called “rival.” Maybe more. And God help her, she was hooked.
She drained the rest of her wine and began to type, already anticipating his scowl.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 06 September 1997 00:26
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: The Stranger
Wrong? About what? That you respect her? That she keeps you sharper than anyone else? Or that you notice her more than you want to admit?
The way you write about this “enemy” of yours… I think she’d be very amused to read it.
– BM
Vegeta read the message with a scowl that deepened into something closer to a grimace. He almost closed the blasted machine down then and there, but his pride—always his pride—wouldn’t let him. He flexed his fingers once, twice, then typed
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 06 September 1997 00:31
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: The Stranger
Amused is one word for it.
She is drop-dead gorgeous, but that is hardly the point. Beauty is cheap. There are a hundred pretty faces in this city, none worth the trouble. What sets her apart is her damned ability to keep pace with me. To push back. To sharpen my edge.
It infuriates me. And yet… I cannot ignore it.
Satisfied?
– IP
Bulma thought this was delicious. Gorgeous. He thought his “enemy” was gorgeous. She bit her lip, her fingers itching with a reply that was more daring than she’d meant to write.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 06 September 1997 00:37
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: The StrangerSatisfied? Not nearly.
You talk about her like she’s a puzzle you can’t solve. Maybe that’s the appeal. The right kind of challenge is intoxicating. And perhaps that’s why you haven’t walked away—because secretly, you’d hate the silence without her.
– BM
Vegeta’s jaw clenched. She wasn’t wrong. That was the infuriating part. He raked a hand through his hair and sat forward, typing shorter than usual, as though brevity might mask the admission.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 06 September 1997 00:43
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: The StrangerI would.
– IP
Bulma stared at the two words, her pulse kicking up in a way that startled her. She set her wineglass down carefully, then typed one last message, forcing her tone back into playful sarcasm.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 06 September 1997 00:47
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: The StrangerI believe you. Almost.
Sleep well, ironprince. Dream of your thorny rival.
I will email you on Monday - read read read
– BM
Vegeta leaned back. He should have shut the machine off immediately, dismissed her words as idle provocation. Instead, he found himself picturing his rival—her laugh, her smirk, the spark in her eyes when she cut him down in the boardroom.
Infuriating. Gorgeous. Addictive.
He shut the computer down with more force than necessary and stalked off to bed. Sleep would not come easily tonight.
Across town, Bulma lay awake with her own restless thoughts, replaying the exchange. The spark she’d felt wasn’t fading—it was spreading. And for the first time in years, she didn’t mind.
Monday 8th September 1997
The conference room at Capsule Corp was an affront to everything Vegeta Prince stood for. Gone were the mahogany tables and leather chairs of Saiyan Industries. In their place were bright orange walls, a glass table that looked too fragile to be used for anything more than holding a vase, and a scattered collection of oversized beanbag chairs. Bulma watched with a smirk as Vegeta and his entourage entered the room, the contrast between their sharp, tailored suits and the laid-back, almost childlike atmosphere being both hilarious and perfect. Vegeta's executives, a group of grim-faced men and women, looked as though they were being asked to sit on lava rocks.
“Please, sit,” Bulma said, gesturing to the beanbags with a sweep of her hand. Her own executives were already lounging, looking far too comfortable for a meeting of this magnitude.
Vegeta didn't trust beanbags. They were an undignified, unprofessional display of weakness, a symbol of Bulma's entire corporate ethos. Her conference room was a glorified playroom, an insult to his intelligence and his meticulously tailored suit. He chose to stand, a silent protest against her soft-edged mockery. Her offering this polystyrene filled sack a gesture of feigned civility that he knew was just another one of her games. His glare was potent enough to curdle milk. "I don't do beanbags." He said it as if they were a species of venomous insect. He chose to stand, a rigid sentinel of proper business etiquette.
Bulma chuckled and signaled to Goku, having fully expected this response. Goku quickly wheeled in a low, black leather chair. "A throne for the prince, then," she quipped, her eyes twinkling. Meanwhile Vegeta's team lowered themselves into the beanbags like newborn giraffes.
The chair offered was a puddle. It was a low, back-straining mockery of a seat that forced him to look up at her, to give her a physical advantage. It was an insult. Clearly his discomfort was a victory in itself. He shifted, trying to find a position that would allow him to maintain his composure, and he felt his trouser leg ride up. He immediately tensed, but it was too late. He saw Bulma’s eyes zero in on his ankle, and a second later, the sharp, disbelieving laugh.
Bulma could hardly believe her eyes, just above his impeccably shined loafers were two black straps, fastened just below the knee. They were sock garters, or sock bracers, an archaic piece of menswear she’d only ever seen in old movies.
"A sock bracer?" she taunted, leaning forward. "Vegeta. You're so traditional you don't even trust elastic?"
His blood pressure spiked instantly. He could feel it. He’d never been caught so off-guard. How could she do this and why did she do it? They were simply a part of his morning routine, a final touch to ensure every aspect of his appearance was flawless.
The insufferable woman, with her messy blue hair and her casual slouch, was finding amusement in his personal details. He felt a wave of impotent fury.
He snorted, a deep, contemptuous sound that held a decade of unspoken rivalry. "I am dressed properly," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Perhaps you'd try it sometime."
She responded, quick as a bullet "Oh ho ho, Vegeta. I don't think it would be business appropriate for me to wear garters for you," she had the gall to wink at him and he felt a flush crawl up his neck
"I didn't mean, I didn't...for christ sake woman, can we get on with this!"
The meeting wrapped up with the predictable stalemate. As always, they’d debated every line of the contract for two hours, each side refusing to budge on the slightest detail. Bulma’s executives began gathering their things, their expressions a mix of professional weariness and quiet relief. Vegeta’s entourage, as stoic and formal as their leader, did the same, fighting their way out of the beanbags with zero dignity afforded. Soon, it was just the two of them left in the spacious, brightly-colored room.
Bulma leaned back in her low-slung chair, a small, knowing smile still playing on her lips. She couldn’t stop thinking about the sock bracers. It was such a ridiculous, antiquated detail, yet it made him seem… human. A part of her wanted to laugh all over again. The silence between them was long, comfortable for her, and she found herself enjoying the stillness. She watched him, a single eyebrow raised in amused curiosity.
Vegeta, however, was anything but comfortable. He remained seated in the ridiculously low chair-trying to own it, feeling the weight of her gaze. He could feel the heat rising in his neck. He knew what she was thinking about. He knew her internal, mocking laughter was still ringing in her ears. He was a professional, a relentless titan of industry, and this insignificant woman had managed to completely disarm him with a single, knowing look. He had to say something. Anything. Something to break this infuriating quiet. He had to regain control.
The words that came out of his mouth, however, were an utter disaster.
“So… how was your weekend?” he blurted out, his voice a little too loud. He winced internally.
It was a clumsy, inelegant question, the sort of idiotic thing a flustered teenager would say. He immediately regretted it. He saw her eyes widen for a split second before she threw her head back and burst into an honest, uninhibited laugh that filled the quiet room. It was a sound he’d never heard from her before—a deep, genuine, bubbling sound.
When her laughter finally subsided, she was still smiling. “I had a great weekend, thanks Vegeta” she said, her voice soft with lingering amusement. She met his gaze, and for the first time, the look in her eyes was not one of mockery, but of genuine warmth. “Actually… I made a friend.”
The statement hung in the air, so absurdly simple it was jarring. Vegeta's mind, a finely-tuned machine for strategy and combat, couldn't process it. A friend? The word felt childish, alien. He had subordinates, rivals, and business associates. A "friend" was a weakness, a sentimentality he had long ago discarded. Her previous, genuine laughter had disarmed him, and this quiet, confident statement rearmed his defenses in an instant.
He barked a laugh, a short, sharp, contemptuous sound that held no humor. “A friend? What are you, five years old?” he sneered, his mask of arrogant superiority firmly back in place. He was not going to be undone by her absurd declaration.
Bulma didn't flinch. She simply smiled, a small, knowing expression that told him she saw right through his bluster. She knew his bark was a sign of his own discomfort. He was so terrified of vulnerability that the very concept of friendship was a foreign language to him.
"No, I'm not five," she said, her voice calm and even. "But I have found myself convinced to find a hobby for positive social interactions, and frankly, my corporate interactions are the opposite of positive. It's a group for people who have too much on their plates for normal social interaction-I'm sure you of all people understand that." She paused, her smile growing into a taunt of her own. "or do you prefer your solitude? Your company seems to be the only one you have."
Vegeta let out a short, dismissive snort, his jaw tightening. Her smugness was infuriating. Despite this, he could count the people in his life on one hand. And he did. In his head, he ran a quick, silent inventory. Raditz—squash partner. Nappa—MMA punching bag. brother—Tarble, ah, he forgot to call him this month. And... a ghost. A sarcastic, witty ghost named ByteMe.
He met her gaze, his expression a mask of cold arrogance. “I have my own pursuits,” he said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. “And my own circle. In fact I have a new acquaintance of my own”
He didn’t elaborate, didn’t feel the need to. He didn’t have to. The very statement was a form of superiority. He had his own world, small and perfectly curated. He had his people. He didn't need to justify their existence to her.
Bulma's smile was a a taunt he couldn't deflect. She had his measure, and she knew it. She knew he had no "circle" to speak of, and she was content to let that sit in the air between them. But she didn't leave it at that. Instead, she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Oh a new acquaintance huh Vegeta, is it a playboy bunny-is it a friend with benefits?”
He was ready for her this time "Of course not. I don’t make friends with my 'benefits' Briefs.”
Her eyes shone with mirth "Fine, be coy. But speaking of our social circle," she said, her eyes glinting playfully. "The joint product launch is next Friday. Do you have a date?"
She watched his face, his scowl deepened at the very word "date." It was a silly, sentimental concept. He was a man with no time for such trivialities.
"I don't do dates," he said, his voice a low growl.
Bulma’s laughter bubbled up again, light and genuine. “I don't do beanbags, I don't do dates", she mocked.
But before he could say anything more..."I don't do them either," she confessed, her voice filled with a conspiratorial understanding. "They’re a liability, aren’t they? They can make a verbal misstep at an event and they can be too important to mess up, right?” She stood then, extending a hand to him across the glass table. Her eyes held his, a silent promise in their depths. "I'll see you there, then Vegeta."
Her wink was a spark of pure mischief. As he reluctantly placed his hand in hers, she gave it a firm, almost bone-crushing shake. It was a power move, both a professional courtesy and a bold, physical challenge. Her grip was strong and confident, a stark contrast to her soft expression.
"I'll save you a dance," she said, her voice dropping to a low, playful purr. "And a glass of scotch."
Vegeta's mind went blank. Her laughter, her confession, her words—they were all a carefully crafted assault. He felt his face flush with a heat that had nothing to do with anger.
Her hand was slender, with elegant fingers wrapped around his giving him a jolt of electricity. Her grip was strong and confident, and he couldn't help but feel a flicker of reluctant admiration. He hated that she was strong. He hated that she was confident. He hated that she was so infuriatingly... perfect.
He watched her leave, her laugh echoing in the silent conference room, her scent a lingering ghost. His hand still tingled from her touch. He had no date. But now he had a promise. A challenge. And a dance with the most infuriating woman he had ever met.
Chapter 3: Contractual Masochism
Chapter Text
Still Monday
The corridors of Saiyan Industries rattled with the echo of Vegeta’s voice.
“Do you call that a report? It reads like a child’s diary entry! And you—yes, you—what the hell makes you think I want projections that don’t extend past Q4? If incompetence were currency, this place would be drowning in profit!”
His staff scattered like mice before a predator, clutching files and murmuring apologies. Vegeta strode past them, jaw clenched, the weight of his fury wrapped tight across his shoulders. He didn’t break stride until his office door slammed shut behind him with a satisfying crack.
The quiet hit him like a blow.
He yanked his tie loose, tugging it down until the knot sat halfway along his chest, and moved straight to the cabinet. Crystal clinked against crystal as he poured himself a measure of scotch. It was not yet noon. Hell, it wasn’t even eleven. Only one person alive could drive him to drink before lunch—and she’d done it with a smile.
Bulma Briefs.
The name alone was enough to set his teeth on edge. That insufferable woman. No, that infuriatingly clever, sharp-tongued woman. Today’s meeting had left him feeling both emasculated and intrigued, his composure shredded and his pride tested. And then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, she’d declared she would dance with him Friday evening. A decree, a gauntlet thrown.
He swallowed the scotch in one long pull, throat burning.
A dance. With her.
It was laughable. It was unthinkable. It was—damn it, it was exactly the sort of thing that had him pouring liquor into a glass at this hour.
Vegeta sank into the leather chair behind his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. He should be strategizing, reviewing contracts, preparing his team for the week. Instead, he was replaying every infuriating syllable of her taunts, the way her mouth curved around each word, the flash of victory in her eyes when she’d landed a hit.
And worse, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to throttle her or…
No. He wasn’t going down that road.
Vegeta set the glass down harder than he meant to, the sound sharp in the stillness. He’d spent years mastering his control—over his company, his reputation, his very image. Yet one woman in red heels and a sharper wit than half the men in the room could rattle him more than any hostile takeover.
Vegeta jabbed the intercom button with more force than necessary.
“Where the hell is my secretary?”
Silence.
With a growl, he shoved back from his desk, scotch glass clinking against the mahogany, and yanked the double doors open himself.
The bullpen was a wasteland—papers abandoned, swivel chairs askew, the ghost of his fury still hanging in the air. His staff had scattered like pigeons under gunfire. Only one person remained.
Launch.
She sat at Chi-Chi's impeccably organized desk, filing her nails direct onto the mahogany, legs crossed, looking for all the world as though she had not heard the echo of his rage bouncing through the corridors.
“Where the hell is Chi-Chi?” Vegeta barked.
Launch didn’t even look up. “Not in.” She blew at her freshly shaped cuticle. “She’s got an antenatal appointment.”
Vegeta froze mid-stride. “A what?”
“Antenatal, husband picked her up” Launch repeated, rolling her eyes this time. “She’s pregnant. You know—baby on the way, checkups, vitamins, glowing skin, all that domestic goddess nonsense. Honestly, I’m surprised you noticed she was gone at all.”
Pregnant? Married? Since when? Vegeta’s mind flicked back through the past few months—Chi-Chi’s increasingly baggy sweaters, her abrupt refusals of office wine, her perpetual look of righteous irritation. Damn it. He hadn’t seen it.
Launch smirked, clearly enjoying his ignorance. “Don’t look so shocked, boss. Not everyone announces their private life in quarterly reports.”
Vegeta’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t test me, woman.”
She only tilted her head, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. He tolerated her insolence for two reasons. The first: she was sleeping with Raditz, his sometime squash partner and a commodities trader who still owed him three victories and a bottle of Glenlivet. The second: she was astute and vicious—perfect as admin for his legal team.
“Fine,” Vegeta growled, straightening his tie. “Fetch the heads of department. I want them in my office in ten minutes—no excuses.”
Launch snapped her gum. “Sure, sure.”
“And send flowers to Chi-Chi,” he added, voice clipped. “Something expensive. She’ll know it’s from me.”
Launch’s eyebrows shot up, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. “Flowers?” she said, tilting her head as if testing the idea for plausibility. “Hm… impressive that you remembered someone other than yourself. Colour me mildly surprised.”
She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Do I… file this under ‘strategic generosity’ or ‘unexplained madness’? Either way, I’ll need a solid defense if anyone asks.”
Vegeta didn’t wait for a response. “Just do it,” he snapped, retreating into his office before her insolence could climb any further under his skin.
By the time Vegeta dragged himself through the glass doors of his townhouse, the clock on the wall sneered back at him: 7:03 p.m.
The day had been a gauntlet.
A 9 a.m. meeting at Capsule Corp with Bulma Briefs, followed by five hours locked in strategy meetings with his heads of department, hashing over the Capsule Corp contract. Five hours of accountants, lawyers, and engineers circling the same damned points like scavengers over a carcass. Bulma Briefs’ name peppered every other sentence, her company’s clauses dissected like scripture, her innovations dismissed, then grudgingly admired, then incorporated into the margins. She hadn’t even been in the room, and still, she had commanded it.
As if the day weren’t exhausting enough, Launch had been standing in as his secretary. Normally part of the legal team, her sarcasm was in full swing, each aside and eyebrow raise another barb in his already bruised pride. Every task, every request, every minor interaction with her felt like another obstacle in the gauntlet of his day—a reminder that even in his own office, control was never absolute.
By the end, Vegeta was strung so tight his jaw ached.
Now, home at last, he sagged into the leather chair behind his desk like a man felled in battle. His tie came loose with a violent tug, landing somewhere on the floor. Dinner was an afterthought—a microwave tray of something pale and rubbery he didn’t care enough to name. He stabbed at it once, chewed, and pushed the rest aside.
The wine bottle, though—that held promise. He yanked it from the credenza, pulled the cork with his teeth, and drank straight from the neck. No glass. No ceremony. Just fire down his throat, burning away the taste of a wasted day.
For a long moment, he let the silence settle. The city lights blinked through the window behind him, cold and distant.
Then, inevitably, his gaze fell to the computer.
He told himself not to. That he didn’t need the distraction. That tomorrow’s financial models wouldn’t fix themselves. But his fingers were already reaching, the familiar glow searing into him.
Her name was there.
Waiting.
He let out a low breath, something between a laugh and a growl. The woman had a way of dragging words out of him no one else could. Tonight, especially, he needed that—needed her quick tongue, her sharp mind, her merciless honesty.
He set the bottle down, flexed his fingers over the keys, and began to type.
To: [email protected]
Sent: Mon 08 September 1997 19:30
From: [email protected]
Subject: Contractual MasochismI’ve just spent five hours listening to my department heads dissect every line of a contract that may as well have been written in blood.
Do you know how many times my rivals name was invoked in that meeting? Twenty-seven. I counted. Twenty-seven times her name—her company—was held up as either a shining example or a cautionary tale, depending on which idiot was speaking.She wasn’t there, yet somehow she was in the room. Looming over it. Over me.
You’ll no doubt find it amusing, but I walked out of there feeling like a man who’d been sparring shadows. No opponent present, and still I’m bruised.
Do you ever get that? Someone who manages to live rent-free in your mind, even when you’d rather throw them out?I told myself I wouldn’t write tonight. I told myself a thousand other things, too. And yet here I am, half a bottle down, typing to you like a man with no better sense.
Your move.
—IP
Vegeta reread the email, his scowl deepening at the faint tremor of self-mockery between the lines. He’d admitted to being half a bottle down. Dammit, I gave her too much. A small, traitorous thrill ran through him at the thought of her reading it, of her seeing the crack in his perfect facade.
He hesitated before hitting send, almost embarrassed by the vulnerability disguised in his biting prose. And yet… the thought of her reading it, analyzing every word, made the moment worth it.
Why does it feel like she’ll see right through me? he wondered. I don’t even know her, and yet… there’s something about the way she’ll dissect this message that pulls at my mind. Irritating. Dangerous. Fascinating, almost like I've known her longer.
Bulma kicked off her heels the second she stepped through the front door, wincing as they clattered against the wall. Capsule Corp had been buzzing all day — another round of endless negotiations, another battle of wills, another chance for her blood pressure to spike.
She had been good, though. Controlled. Even funny, if her assistant’s stifled grin in the meeting was any indication. And best of all? She’d watched Vegeta Prince — falter, if only for a second. It wasn’t much, just the brief tightening of his jaw, but it was enough to feel like a win. God, she lived for those little victories.
Now, curled up on her sofa in her work clothes, nursing her second glass of wine, she felt the fatigue settle deep in her bones. The house was quiet. Too quiet. She could hear the faint buzz of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the hum of her desktop computer still running in the corner. A blocky beige tower, humming away like some obedient old dog.
Then it chimed. That familiar, tinny notification — “You've got Red Ribbon Mail!” — popped up on her bulky CRT monitor, glowing in the darkened living room. Her lips curved before she even crossed the room. It wasn’t like she had been waiting for it, exactly. Except… maybe she had.
There was comfort in knowing he was out there too — somewhere else in this city, probably just as exasperated, just as tired, just as unwilling to admit that the solitude sometimes pressed in harder than either of them liked to admit.
She pulled the heavy chair closer, tapped the keyboard to wake the screen, and began typing:
To: [email protected]
Sent: Mon 08 September 1997 19:41
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Contractual MasochismWell, I’m glad to hear your evening was productive, IP. Mine was… marginally better.
I had the pleasure of spending the day with my rival — henceforth to be known as The Big Prick (TBP, for short). Don’t look at me like that. The acronym suits him.It was one of those meetings where, for once, I got to make him flinch. A small victory, perhaps, but I’ll take it. The man is maddening. Sometimes I genuinely don’t know what it is I do that manages to crawl under his skin so effectively. (Not that I mind. In fact, I’d argue it’s a talent worth cultivating.)
And yes — to answer your question — I have had days like the one you’ve just described. Days where I walk out of the office already exhausted, and by the time I’ve made it home I’m staring down the bottom of a glass of wine, wishing it were something stronger. My college days are well behind me, but apparently, some coping mechanisms have remarkable staying power.
So tell me, IP — when your shadow opponent gets the better of you, do you brood until dawn, or do you drink until it doesn’t matter anymore?
—BM
Vegeta sat back re-reading the email. She reads me so well. Even now, unseen, she sees the edges of my frustration. How is this possible? Why do I feel… at ease with this stranger?
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Mon 08 September 1997 19:55
Subject: re: Contractual Masochismbm,
i brood. i drink. sometimes both. it works. but not nearly as well as thinking of the source of the problem.TBP. that is your “big prick.” i approve. clever. ruthless. i am… annoyed. unexpectedly. is this how you spend your day? flaying men with words? terrifying.
—ip
Vegeta grimaced. I’m confessing small truths to someone I’ve never met. Someone I should dismiss as inconsequential. And yet… I keep thinking about her. About the phrasing, the wry humor, the bite behind it. She is… a puzzle, and it draws me in more than I like.
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Mon 08 September 1997 20:03
Subject: re: re: Contractual MasochismIP,
Oh, yes. I do enjoy a good verbal scalp every now and then. It keeps the mind sharp and the ego humble. Plus, there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing someone like TBP squirm. Makes the wine taste better.Tell me, do you ever consider that brooding might just be your problem? Or is it part of your charm? I need to know if this is an ongoing thing I’m going to have to endure in perpetuity.
—BM
Bulma chuckled to herself. Am I flirting? With a stranger in the dark?
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Mon 08 September 1997 20:12
Subject: re: re: re: Contractual Masochismbm,
charm is for the weak. brooding is for the strong. i endure. not for fun. for survival. My rival frustrates me. you frustrate me. Christ - do I have the strength for this. wine is… excellent. dangerous. i like it.
—ip
Vegeta sighed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Does he always magnetize women like this—relentless, clever, infuriating battle axes? She’s all of that, and yet… I’m still thinking about her words hours after reading them. This is absurd.
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Mon 08 September 1997 20:20
Subject: re: re: re: re: Contractual MasochismIP,
Strength, danger, endurance… sounds exhausting. But if anyone can survive it, it’s apparently me. Just remember — a little mischief keeps even the strongest on their toes. And I do enjoy watching a man wrestle with frustration, especially when he’s nursing fine wine while doing it.Don’t think you’re off the hook — I expect a full report on how much brooding it takes to survive your own charm. Consider it… homework.
—BM
Bulma cracked another smile. He is an enigma. Calculated, precise, and… distractingly magnetic, even online. I should not care this much about email correspondence. And yet…
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Mon 08 September 1997 20:27
Subject: re: re: re: re: re: Contractual Masochismbm,
you are insufferable. clever. dangerous. i… am intrigued.
—ip
Vegeta emptied the last of his wine and stared at his latest reply. Her mental agility was… intoxicating. I’ve known her for hours, minutes, days—yet I have never met her. And still, I trust her more than almost anyone in my life. This is… dangerous. And I am drawn to it.
He read the exchanges again. Am I… flirting? The thought was disorienting. He hadn’t done that—tried that—since he was young, and certainly never with someone who could match him word for word. Somehow, though, he had. Without realizing it.
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Mon 08 September 1997 20:45
Subject: Hydration & HomeworkIP,
You’ve had enough wine for one night. Go drink some water before you pass out on your keyboard. Seriously. I’m not responsible for any tragic keyboard naps.
And while you’re at it, I expect you to read at least a few pages of The Stranger tomorrow. No slacking. I want notes, observations, the whole IP-style dissection. Consider it… preventative mental exercise.
Do not make me have to nag you again.
—BM
P.S. If you insist on brooding in the dark, fine—but hydrate first.
Tuesday, 09 September 1997 – Morning
Bulma adjusted the strap of her blazer as she navigated the conference center lobby, the hum of conversation and clinking coffee cups filling the space. She had come early, hoping to review her notes and survey the room before the day began. The scent of polished marble and fresh flowers did little to calm her pulse.
She froze mid-step. Across the atrium, Vegeta strode in, crisp suit impeccable, every movement precise. His dark eyes swept the lobby with the same calculating intensity she had seen in boardrooms and emails alike. He had a presence that could dominate a room without raising his voice.
Her instincts kicked in. Bulma ducked behind a towering fern, pressing her back against its leaves, heart hammering. I—am hiding from him, she thought, a twinge of disbelief biting at her composure. The tactical analyst, strategist of the boardroom, reduced to a child ducking behind foliage.
Vegeta paused mid-stride. For a heartbeat, she imagined him scanning the lobby, sensing her presence. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Either way, she let the moment linger, savoring the tension as much as fearing it.
Once he moved on, a force of nature uninterrupted, Bulma straightened and smoothed her hair, straightened her skirt, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. This is going to be an interesting day, she thought amused with her actions, the thrill of anticipation making her pulse quicken.
She grabbed her notebook and phone, already composing the mental draft of her next email to IP. Observation, analysis, survival.
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Tue 09 September 1997 18:00Subject: A Study in Suits
I observed TBP today and I hadn't been prepared for it in advance. He had the audacity to sweep into the room as though he owned the place. Dark grey Armani suit, crisp white shirt, cufflinks that gleamed under the lights. He doesn’t just wear clothes; he occupies them. Every movement says precision. Every pause says calculated dominance.
It’s infuriating. And distracting.Tell me, IP—what does a man’s choice of suit reveal? Is it armor, performance, or both? And—indulge me—what’s your favorite color to see on a woman? Does it truly make much difference in disarming a rival like TBP?
Footnote: Chapter 7 of The Stranger—Meursault remarking on heat and discomfort—reminded me how the smallest detail, even clothing, shapes perception of an entire event.
– BM
Bulma hovered over the last question. It was dangerous, a little too personal. But curiosity burned in her. What would he say?
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Tue 09 September 1997 18:45Subject: Re: A Study in Suits
Armani, you say. Not surprising. TBP understands presentation. A man’s suit is never just fabric—it’s a declaration. Dark grey with crisp white is control. Authority. Precision sharpened to a point.
I confess something, though—I wore my grey Armani suit today as well. Damned glad I wasn’t at the same event as your TBP. I would’ve died of shame to stand in the same room wearing the same uniform. Rivalry is one thing; twinning like schoolboys is quite another.
As for color—yes, it matters. More than most men will admit. Red is fire, blue is composure, black is dominance, white is untouchable.
My own preference on a woman? A deep, rich blue. It disarms without screaming for attention, it commands respect without begging for it. But the real trick is this: wear the color that makes you feel unassailable. If you believe it, TBP will notice—and flinch.
Footnote: Chapter 7 reminded me that even discomfort—heat, sweat, clothing—reveals how humans armor themselves against exposure. Perhaps TBP’s choice is more vulnerable than you think.
– IP
Vegeta shook his head after sending. Why had he admitted to the suit? Why had he pictured Bulma Briefs in deep blue just now? Worse—why had he liked it?
Wednesday, 10 September 1997
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]Sent: Tue 09 September 1997 19:55
Subject: Event
I have a dance with my rival - The Incessant Nightmare (TIN) this weekend. She doesn’t know it yet, but the duel is inevitable. She’ll have her strategies, her verbal blades. I’ll have mine. The anticipation itself sharpens the mind.
Tell me, BM, how does one unsettle an opponent who thrives on chaos?
Footnote: Chapter 8—Meursault’s trial begins. His detachment unnerves the court, proof that sometimes refusing to play the game is the most destabilizing tactic.
– IP
Bulma’s eyes widened at the word “dance.” She imagined chandeliers, champagne flutes, strings swelling in the background. A ball. A gown. IP, face distorted in a tuxedo, bow tie sharp enough to cut glass. The image made her breath catch. She hated the pang of jealousy, hated that she cared. She had to remind herself—it might not be that kind of dance at all. Still, the idea lingered, stubborn and disarming.
Thursday, 11 September 1997
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]Sent: Thu 11 September 1997 22:56
Subject: Disarming Colors
You said deep blue disarms. Suppose a woman did wear it—would it truly shift the balance of power, or only give her the illusion it had?
TBP notices everything. If I choose that color, he’ll register it. But will he be unsettled… or secretly pleased?The nickname TIN amused me, if only to be reminded of her effect on you!
Footnote: Chapter 9—Meursault’s refusal to feign emotion unsettles those around him. Sometimes appearance matters less than conviction behind it.
– BM
Bulma bit her thumbnail after sending. Why did she suddenly care what IP thought of her in blue? And why did it feel, somehow, like she was asking two men the same question—Vegeta and Ironprince—and waiting for only one answer?
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Thu 11 September 1997 23:20
Subject: Re: Disarming ColorsBM,
Deep blue disarms, yes—but only if the wearer believes it. Confidence does the heavy lifting. As for TBP noticing… well, that is inevitable. Men always register what they shouldn’t. Whether it unsettles or pleases him is… subjective. I suspect a blend of both.
Choose wisely. And remember: you’re not dressing for him—you’re dressing for yourself. That is always the trick.
—IP
Friday 12th September – Capsule Corp
Bulma swiveled in her chair, half-watching her screen as she absentmindedly scrolled through emails. She leaned over the edge of her open office door. “Hey, Goku,” she started, voice catching in the middle, “how’s… uh… Chi-Chi? The baby and all that?” She paused, realizing her tone was more rushed than apologetic. “Right, Monday’s appointment… I—ugh, I completely forgot. Terrible of me.”
She added, almost to herself, “I’ve been… distracted.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the screen, imagining IP’s sharp words, that precise rhythm of intellect she couldn’t quite stop thinking about. “Sorry, really,” she muttered, though the confession felt half-hearted; her mind had already begun weaving back to another correspondence entirely.
Goku popped his head over his partition and grinned at her, shaking his head. “Oh! She’s good! And don’t worry—she never overdoes it, strangely enough. Vegeta’s been a pretty good boss to her. Always makes sure she leaves early, stays late himself.”
Bulma blinked, a flash of surprise crossing her face. “Really? Huh… I didn’t expect that. He… actually takes care of his people?”
“Yep,” Goku said, smiling. “Chi-Chi says he’s strict, but fair. Weird, right?”
Bulma waved a hand dismissively, though her thoughts were elsewhere. “Right… strict, fair… still, I should’ve checked in. Don’t let her overdo it, okay?”
“Got it, Bulma! She’s tough,” Goku said, grinning.
Bulma nodded absently, already returning to her screen, muttering under her breath, “Huh… maybe he saves the worst of himself just for me.”
Friday, 12 September 1997
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Fri 12 September 1997 18:00Subject: Curtain Call
It’s tonight. TBP and I will be in the same orbit all evening. I’m still debating the outfit—tempted to choose deep blue—blue is after all my favourite color and your weapon of choice, though part of me wonders if conceding to your advice is a victory for him already.
The real question: do I aim to unnerve him, or seduce the boardroom crowd while pretending he doesn’t exist?
Footnote: Chapter 10 of The Stranger—Meursault waiting for the verdict—reminded me how unbearable anticipation can be. Sometimes it’s worse than the event itself.
– BM
Bulma hit send, then stood before her open wardrobe. The gowns gleamed at her in silk and satin rows. Black for power. Red for danger. Blue… She ran her hands over the sapphire fabric, hearing Ironprince’s words: “deep, rich blue… disarms without screaming for attention.” Was she dressing for Vegeta—or for IP-for herself? The thought unsettled her.
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]
Sent: Fri 12 September 1997 18:15Subject: Re: Curtain Call
Choose blue. Own it. Not for him, but for yourself. If you feel invincible in it, that’s all the armor you need. He’ll notice, of course—men always do, whether they admit it or not. But the trick is to let him think he’s seeing what he wants, while you’re showing him only what you allow.
As for me—I have the dance with TIN tonight. Literal or figurative, it makes no difference. She’ll come armed with wit; I’ll counter with precision. It will be a duel masked as civility.
Footnote: Chapter 11—Meursault reflecting on inevitability—reminded me that some confrontations are unavoidable. A rival’s orbit always draws you back in.
– IP
Vegeta sat back. “Dance,” he’d written. He hadn’t meant it as a ballroom fantasy. But as he adjusted his cufflinks and reached for the charcoal tuxedo, he couldn’t shake the image of Bulma's hand in his, her perfume close, the press of her body against his. He cursed under his breath. This was war, not romance. And yet…
From: [[email protected]]
To: [[email protected]]Sent: Fri 12 September 1997 18:24
Subject: Re: Re: Curtain Call
Blue it is, then. I’ll claim it, not concede it. And if TBP notices—well, he can wrestle with whether it unsettles or pleases him. Either way, I’ll have won something.
Good luck with your “dance.” Try not to let TIN step on your toes.
Footnote: Meursault awaiting dawn—reminded me that the final act of anticipation is strangely calm. Perhaps tonight will be the same.
– BM
Bulma slipped into her gown, the fabric hugging every curve with ruthless precision. She caught her reflection and smirked. Not for Vegeta. Not for the board. Maybe not even for herself. Perhaps, absurdly, for Ironprince. She shook her head, grabbing her clutch. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.
Across the city, Vegeta fastened his cufflinks and smoothed the line of his tuxedo. Tonight, he promised himself, would be controlled, calculated, exacting. He had a dance with Bulma, and he would not falter. And yet, beneath the steel of his preparation, his chest thrummed with anticipation—the kind he hadn’t felt in years.
Grad Gero Hotel 20:00
The gala glittered like a jewel box cracked open, every chandelier spilling golden light over polished marble floors and elegantly dressed titans of industry. A string quartet played near the entrance, their music weaving through the hum of champagne-fueled conversations.
Bulma Briefs descended the staircase with the calm poise of a queen entering her court. Her gown—a dark sapphire that caught every flicker of light—skimmed her figure with calculated precision. Diamonds at her ears, a sweep of silk at her hip. Every detail was deliberate: powerful, magnetic, untouchable.
And every step was designed to land squarely in Vegeta’s line of sight.
Across the ballroom, Vegeta adjusted the cuffs of his midnight-black tuxedo. Sharp lines, black bow tie, shoes shined like obsidian. His expression was cool, bored even, but his dark eyes betrayed the momentary hitch when they found her. Blue. Of course it would be blue. His chest tightened before he mastered it back into a scowl.
“Briefs,” he muttered under his breath, though she hadn’t reached him yet. “Always a performance.”
When they finally closed distance, it was like flint striking steel.
“Prince,” she greeted, voice smooth as the champagne she hadn’t yet touched. Her eyes skimmed over him with exaggerated scrutiny. “Well, at least you clean up. Who picked the tux? Certainly not you.”
He smirked, lowering his voice just enough that it tugged her closer. “Jealous, Woman? Admit it—I look better in this than half the room combined.”
Bulma tilted her head, lips curving. “Oh, Vegeta, you’d look better than half the room in a potato sack. But that doesn’t mean I’m impressed.”
His pulse kicked at his name, warm and sharp. She’d given him a backhanded compliment and it mattered, like it wasn’t just a casual jab in the boardroom.
She saw his smirk and faltered slightly
Vegeta caught it and filed it away, a private victory. He leaned in, brushing the edge of propriety. “Careful, Bulma. If you stare too long, people might think you enjoy my company.”
She lifted her glass of champagne in a mock toast. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m only enjoying the silence before you inevitably ruin it.”
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder as guests passed by, each refusing to give ground, both acutely aware of how close they stood.
“Shall I guess?” he asked suddenly, his eyes tracing the line of her gown with deliberate slowness. “You spent hours choosing this dress, just to make certain every head turned when you walked in. Congratulations. Mission accomplished.”
Bulma’s laugh was low, dangerous. “It only matters if your head turned, Vegeta.”
It had, violently. He felt it, the heat crawling under his collar. But he refused her the satisfaction. “Don’t push your luck, Woman. This isn’t tennis. You don’t always win your serve.”
Her diamonds glinted as she leaned forward, whispering for his ears alone. “Then dance with me. Prove it.”
The words landed like a gauntlet thrown at his feet. His jaw tightened, but he extended his hand without hesitation, the tension strung taut between them.
“Fine,” he said, voice low and edged. “But don’t cry when I lead.”
Her fingers slid into his, delicate but firm, and her laugh—a spark of mischief—slid under his skin like fire. “Lead? We’ll see about that, Vegeta.”
On the dance floor, their rivalry melted into something hotter, sharper. Every step a test, every turn a dare. She matched him effortlessly, her sapphire gown sweeping around them like liquid midnight. She tried to take the lead, but he held firm, smirking with the satisfaction of a man who would not be bested. They spoke little, yet every glance, every brush of contact, carried more weight than words.
The music carried them in smooth, deliberate circles, every turn and sweep of fabric binding them tighter. Vegeta’s hand pressed firm against her back, hers feather-light on his shoulder, but the tension between them was anything but delicate.
“So,” Vegeta drawled, the word curling like smoke. “This new friend you’ve taken up with… tell me, Woman, is he as handsome as your dance partner?” His smirk was pure arrogance, though his eyes flickered sharp with curiosity.
Bulma laughed, the sound sliding under his skin. “Wouldn’t know,” she said, eyes glittering. “I haven’t seen his face”
Vegeta pulled back from her to raise an eyebrow “You haven't seen this face? So he could be some decrepit old fool hiding behind a keyboard, and you’d call that appealing?”.
Bulma laughed her singsong voice.
“It hardly matters to me what he looks like, but I will tell you this. He’s nothing like you, Vegeta. He’s…” she leaned in just enough to make his pulse stutter, “…thoughtful. Caring. Patient. The kind of man who listens before he speaks.”
It was a lie, of course—a carefully polished exaggeration—but the satisfaction of watching Vegeta’s jaw tick was worth it.
“Caring,” he echoed flatly, spinning her into a tight turn that made her catch her breath. “Sounds dull. And cowardly. Hiding behind a screen instead of standing toe-to-toe.” His mouth curved into a sharp line. “At least my acquaintance doesn’t have ridiculous blue hair.”
Bulma’s eyes widened a fraction, caught between indignation and amusement. “Ridiculous?” she shot back, lashes lowering as her grin returned. “Funny. You’ve been staring at it all evening.”
He ignored the jab, tightening his grip just slightly as he pulled her closer. “If you plan on meeting this mystery saint of yours,” he said, voice low, serious now, “make sure it’s in a public space. People aren’t always what they pretend to be.”
For the briefest moment, she felt his concern brush against her, genuine and unguarded. It tugged at something in her chest she wasn’t ready to name. She masked it with a sly smile. “Why, Vegeta… are you worried about me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Briefs,” he growled, though his eyes lingered longer than they should. “I’d hate to see you outmaneuvered by some fool with nothing but pretty words.”
Her laugh came soft this time, edged with heat. “Noted. But maybe I like the risk.”
He pulled her through another spin, the sweep of her gown catching light like liquid fire. Their bodies brushed again, closer now, heat radiating with each step. The room blurred around them, but neither gave ground.
“You play with fire, Woman,” Vegeta muttered, his breath brushing her temple.
Bulma tilted her chin, daring. “Maybe that’s the point.”
The music swelled toward its end, and they moved as one—testing, taunting, burning—until the final note fell like a held breath released. Applause erupted, but for them the silence between heartbeats was louder.
Bulma dropped into a mock curtsey, diamonds glittering as her eyes locked on his. “Not bad Vegeta”
Vegeta’s mouth curved, dangerous and quiet. “Bulma.”
Her name—low, rough, too intimate. It struck like a spark in her chest, hot and dizzying. She turned before he could see the flush rising, slipping back into the glittering crowd with a toss of sapphire silk.
Vegeta watched her go, his palm tingling where her body had pressed against his. He scowled to mask the jolt in his chest. Briefs. Always too much.
Chapter 4: A Very Sexy Thing
Notes:
oh slow burn romance. How slow do we want it... I honestly don't know. Also open to suggestions for who should be Bulma's Ex-Husband - oh he will be making an appearance :)
Chapter Text
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 05:50
Subject: Morning After
So—your “dance.” Did it go as planned? Did your rival bruise your pride, or are you too proud to admit it if she did?
As for me… I survived my evening with TBP. Sparks flew, though not always the pleasant kind. He’s sharper than I gave him credit for, but also more distracting. I keep catching myself replaying little moments. Irritating.
Do you have much family, IP? Or do you thrive better without such distractions?
– BM
Bulma clicked send and let the message window collapse back to her inbox. The faint hum of her office computer filled the quiet. She tapped the rim of her coffee mug, brow furrowed. Why ask him about family? That wasn’t strategy. That was personal. She told herself it was just curiosity—but the question lingered in her chest like an echo she couldn’t quite chase away.
Vegeta’s bedside clock buzzed sharply. 6:00 a.m.—later than usual, and his body bristled at the lapse. He pushed upright, muscles stiff, the gala and the damned “dance” pulling at him like an unwelcome weight. Her smirk. The subtle sparks he hadn’t expected. Irritating. Distracting. Yet, part of him had relished it.
He rubbed his eyes, made strong coffee, and walked into his office. The Windows 95 boot sounded too loud; he muttered irritably and muted the speakers. When RRO finally opened after what felt like an eternity, a new mail alert pulsed faintly: “You’ve got Red Ribbon Mail!”.
Vegeta exhaled slowly, ran a hand through his hair, and dropped into the chair. By the time he reached the final line—Do you have much family, IP?—his mouth had tightened into something halfway between a smirk and a scowl.
Family. Hn. She has no idea.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 06:15
Subject: Re: Morning After
Family, you ask? Hn. A younger brother—he’s a physiotherapist. Nothing like me. He spends his days “helping” people, whereas I’ve built a life dismantling them. Still, he has his uses. Keeps me grounded, when he isn’t infuriating me.
My mother died when I was younger and my father—well, that’s a story. He lives in the city. We’re… complicated. The man has been married eight times, currently engaged to his ninth. His fifth wife? My ex-wife. Strange, isn’t it? But that chapter closed over a decade ago. More amusing than painful now.
And the gala… that “dance.” I’ll admit—she had a way of keeping me on edge. A reminder that some women understand the rules of engagement far better than I do. I’ll survive, but not without remembering.
Distracting rivals are dangerous ones. Be wary.
What about you, ByteMe? Surely a sharp tongue like yours didn’t appear out of nowhere.
– IP
Vegeta sat back, smirking faintly. “More amusing than painful” was a lie, but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone—not even an anonymous stranger. Especially not her. Still, it was oddly easy to type the words. Too easy. A small part of him bristled at the memory, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about how easily she might detect the lie if she knew the story in full.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 06:31
Subject: Re: Re: Morning After
Your family sounds… colorful. Your father most of all. Nine marriages? He must be a force of nature—or just a terrible husband. Maybe both. And the fifth wife being… your ex? That’s… bizarre. I can’t imagine navigating that kind of history without losing your mind.
I have an older sister, but she doesn’t live in the city. Neither do my parents. I’m more or less on my own here. Though that isn’t a complaint—I like it that way. My marriage ended over a decade ago as well. He cheated, of course. Cliché, but there it is. I was angry for a while, but anger fades eventually. What remains is… perspective.
Funny, how strangers can ask questions friends never do.
– BM
Bulma pressed her lips together after sending. She hadn’t meant to write so much. She hadn’t meant to confess anything at all. And yet, it was there—her family, her past, her perspective. Easier than she expected.
Her mind lingered on the father/ex-wife revelation. The kind of grotesque coincidence that feels like it belongs in a novel. She shook her head, a faint shiver threading down her spine.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 06:46
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
Perspective. That’s a word for it. Betrayal cuts deep, but it leaves scars that harden rather than fester—if you let them.
Strangers have an advantage. No expectations. No history. Just words, stripped of judgment. You can say what you want, and the other has no choice but to take it at face value. Perhaps that’s why it’s easier here than in the so-called “real” world.
I understand about being cheated on. My wife… she left me for my father. Still married to me when she moved in with him. Humiliation would have been an understatement. Years later, the bitterness is still there, but I tell myself it is contempt, not humiliation. Contempt keeps me sharp, prevents me from repeating mistakes.
Tell me—what do you think makes someone worth keeping close? Family? Loyalty? Or the rare ability to actually keep up with you?
– IP
Vegeta hovered over the keyboard, fingers tense. Each word weighed deliberately, measured. The memory twisted inside him like a cold blade—the betrayal, the laughter of his father, the shock of realizing his wife had traded him for a man who should have been a mentor, a figure of respect. Yet, writing this… admitting pieces of it to someone anonymous… it felt… easier. Almost like he could share the burden without losing control. He exhaled slowly and hit send, watching the message disappear into the digital ether.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 06:50
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
That… wow. That’s grotesque. I can’t imagine how humiliating it must have felt at the time. And yet, the way you describe it—your contempt, your calm—that says more about you than it ever could about them.
Do you know why either of them did it? Was it… some twisted alignment of selfishness, or were they just being assholes?
– BM
Bulma leaned back slightly in her chair, tapping the edge of the desk with one fingernail. She felt the sharp pulse of curiosity mixed with concern. She didn’t expect to care so much about someone she’d never met in person. Yet here she was, pressing him to explain the motives behind a betrayal that sounded grotesque even on paper.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 06:53
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
My ex… she found me boring. Simple as that. Not cruel, not particularly malicious—just… uninspired. My father? Well… he’s always been a predator of opportunity.
– IP
Vegeta watched the cursor blink, imagining how her brow might arch at his words. He grimaced...Embarrassing really.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 07:00
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
Boring? Please. I find that difficult to believe. I look forward to conversing with you every day, which is something I’ve never said to anyone. You are anything but boring.
You said you are someone who has to control everything, to analyze and to dissect. Yet, you just laid out the most painful parts of your life in a few short sentences. Most people would wallow or rage, but you… you observe, assess, and articulate. I see that as a rare and beautiful thing.
I know men who look good in a suit, who say the right things and present a flawless image to the world. But I find myself drawn to a man who is not afraid to speak the truth—a man who has the courage to be honest, even when it's ugly. That is a kind of courage I respect more than anything.
– BM
Bulma opened the email and pressed her lips together, rereading his words. There was a careful restraint. She felt a pang of sympathy, yes, but also admiration. He hadn’t lingered in self-pity. He hadn’t lashed out. Instead, there was clarity, precision—an almost painful candor that spoke of intelligence, wit, and the sheer discipline required to maintain composure in the face of betrayal. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitant, because praise from her was deliberate, and she felt it was warranted here.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 07:20
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
You’ve… managed something rare. You left me without words for several minutes—no small feat.
I’ve had women praise my face, my body, my bank account. Empty flattery, all of it. What you said… it was different. It was the most attractive thing anyone has ever said to me, because it wasn’t about the surface. It was about who I am when everything else is stripped away.
That means more than I thought it would. More than I want to admit.
– IP
Vegeta reread the message three times, letting each word settle in his mind. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then curled loosely into fists at his sides. It was unusual for him—this raw, deliberate acknowledgment of how another person saw him. He exhaled slowly, a quiet tension easing from his shoulders. She sees me differently, he thought. Not the man everyone expects him to be, not the façade of strength or stoicism. She sees the edges, the parts I usually hide. And she doesn’t flinch. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not arrogance, not amusement—something softer, something rare. He felt the familiar stir of a guarded curiosity, mixed with a thread of wariness. Yet, beneath it all, there was gratitude. For a man who measured himself in power, control, and precision, this… this was new. And he wanted her to know he felt it, that her words mattered. Slowly, carefully, he leaned back in his chair, allowing the leather to creak beneath him. Eyes closed for a heartbeat, he savored the quiet, the pause between thoughts and actions. It was a rare moment of stillness—one that left him feeling more alive than he expected.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 07:35
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
I understand… and I won’t pretend it’s easy.
My marriage ended over a decade ago. He cheated, yes—but that wasn’t the reason I left. He was a monster in ways that went far beyond betrayal. Controlling, cruel, selfish. I realized early on that staying would cost me more than heartbreak—it would cost me myself.
So I left. Walked out and never looked back. The anger was intense at first, but it faded. What remains is perspective—and a clearer sense of who I am, what I won’t tolerate.
I’m telling you this because… I sense you’re not used to being vulnerable. And maybe, just maybe, it helps to know you’re not alone in wrestling with the aftermath of someone else’s cruelty.
– BM
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 07:40
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
I need to ask… did he ever lay a hand on you?
Not from curiosity alone. I… I believe a man should never strike a woman. Call it old-fashioned, call it sexist if you like—it doesn’t matter. Violence is control, not love. If someone puts a hand on you, there is no excuse. None.
– IP
Vegeta exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the keyboard as if it were fragile glass. He didn’t want to press, didn’t want to force confession—but he needed to know. There was a line that shouldn’t be crossed. That line defined him in ways he’d rarely articulate.
He waited, the cursor blinking, each beat of silence amplifying the weight of the question.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 07:55
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
Yes. Once.
It was… the trigger I needed, after years of manipulation, cruelty, and being trapped. Not because it surprised me—it had been coming—but because, in a sick way, it clarified everything. I knew then I had to leave.
If I hit someone first, I expect to be hit back. That’s fair. But no one should ever be put in a position of fear or helplessness. That isn’t love. That’s control.
He was a big guy, and he loved it. He used his size like a weapon. I never gave him the satisfaction of a fight. Good riddance.
I’ve never told anyone that before
– BM
Vegeta read her response, his face a mask of stone. The words “He used his size like a weapon” echoed in his mind, and a slow, cold fury built in his chest. It was a controlled rage, the kind that didn’t explode but instead solidified into a chilling certainty.
She had told him a truth she had never told anyone. She had trusted him with a level of vulnerability he had never seen, even in himself. For a man who defined himself by strength and an unwavering will, her confession was the ultimate act of courage. It was a warrior's tale of survival, not a victim's cry for pity.
He began to type, his fingers moving with a deliberate, lethal precision.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 08:03
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
Cowardice.
He was a big man with a small soul. Your leaving was the only victory that mattered.
— IP
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 08:20
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
Thank you.
You can tell yourself you’ve moved on. That the pain is a data point, an obstacle you overcame. You can build the defenses, design the fortress, and live inside it with the lights on. But you still come home to an empty space.
Ten years out from the divorce, I know I'm "healed." But the truth is... it leaves a mark. A habit of turning up alone to every wedding, every gala. Of not trusting anyone to stay.
Kind people suggest I should let someone in, that someone would be lucky. Unkind people remind me of the menopause and that my biological clock is ticking. Maybe they’re all right. But I don’t let people in, not easily. I’ve learned that letting people in is a risk, and I’ve gotten very good at keeping the door closed.
I wonder if you find a kinship in that?
– BM
Bulma paused before hitting send. The words felt strange on her tongue—or rather, on her fingers. Honest, self-deprecating, carefully measured honesty. She didn’t know him, not really. Yet, the anonymity of the screen gave her permission to reveal fractures she usually hid behind wit and charm.
She could feel the weight of the truth lingering in the air between them, even though the only witness was the faint hum of her computer.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 08:35
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After
I understand.
The solitude is a habit. I find a certain... efficiency in it. Ten years returning to an empty townhouse. No one to answer to, no one to disappoint. My brother thinks there's something wrong with me. He suggested getting a pet. I told him a beast of burden was an anchor, not a companion.
Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we have both simply grown accustomed to the quiet. But I like to think it’s because we refuse to fill the space with anything less than what we deserve.
— IP
Vegeta exhaled slowly after hitting send, fingers still hovering over the keyboard for a long moment. There was a rare vulnerability in admitting it—less about pride, more about truth.
The screen reflected his expression: quiet, controlled, yet carrying the weight of years lived alone. He didn’t expect her to reply with sympathy, or even acknowledgment. But he hoped she’d understand—not as a stranger, but as someone who, for a fleeting moment, might share a similar rhythm of solitude.
Bulma had a stray errant thought and she chuckled giving into her mischief.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 08:40
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Morning After (or something like that)
Perhaps we should make a pact. If we’re both single in a year, we marry, get ten cats, and pool our amazing literary collection.
Be warned—I’m not joking. Consider it… a motivational exercise.
– BM
She hit send, smiling at the idea of his reaction. It was ridiculous. It was playful. And yet… there was a tiny spark of possibility beneath the joke, a shared understanding that maybe, just maybe, some part of life could be softened by absurdity, even in their carefully controlled worlds.
Vegeta stared at the blinking cursor for a long moment. Ten cats? A literary merger? Marriage by pact? The very idea was absurd, yet he couldn’t deny a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ridiculous, and yet… strangely appealing.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 08:43
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
You just proposed a cat-filled literary empire with me.
That's a bold negotiation. An appealing absurdity.
– IP
Bulma sensed it immediately—the faint stiffness, the carefully calibrated stoicism in his words. He wasn’t laughing. Not fully. But she could feel it, the edge of amusement hiding behind control.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 08:48
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
I can see you’re trying to keep that stoic mask on. Beware: a mind as brilliant as yours, combined with my rapidly atrophying libido... it feels like a need that needs to be filled...so to speak
– BM
She sent it with a mischievous grin, imagining his reaction. A tiny challenge, a small poke at his composure—and yet, it was a step closer to letting the walls slip. The kind of teasing only possible with someone who might, just might, understand the absurdity of their carefully controlled lives.
Vegeta froze mid-scroll, his eyes widening at her words. Vulgar… and fearless. A heat bloomed across his cheeks, sudden and undeniable, betraying the stoicism he so carefully maintained.
For the first time in what felt like years, his body reacted before his mind could rein it in. A tight knot of tension loosened somewhere deep in his chest, a reminder of how long it had been since someone had touched him, even in jest. His jaw clenched, but it did little to hide the flush creeping up his neck.
A low, almost strangled laugh escaped him, harsh and abrupt. He exhaled through his nose, trying to regain control, but the warmth in his face and the sudden awareness of his own desire refused to abate. By the gods… he muttered, barely able to look away from the screen. She… she’s dangerous in more ways than one.
He was unburdened. For the first time, he wasn't carrying the weight of his company, or his family. He was simply a man reacting to a woman. And it was a goddamn relief.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 09:05
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
You’ve achieved the impossible: a direct hit. My face betrayed me like a teenage boy.
I need a new keyboard now, as my coffee is all over it.
– IP
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 09:15
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
Touch-starved, perhaps? Seems we’re in the same miserable boat. Maybe you should go have some… corrective measures with TIN. You know, a little hate sex to set things right.
Anyway, enough about that. How’s the rest of your weekend shaping up?
– BM
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 09:25
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
"Corrective measures?" You have a remarkable talent for making a man feel both scandalized and… perilously intrigued.
Corrective measures with TIN would be interesting-In theory. In practice, however, it would be utterly disastrous. It would ruin my professional credibility, and she would be unbearable, lording it over me at every turn.
But you? You’d be untouchable in that scenario. I can’t imagine anyone lording a single thing over you.
As for the weekend… it’s shaping up to be filled with work…and. I will be seeing my brother who shares your candour.
— IP
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 09:40
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
Oh, TBP would absolutely lord it over me. He thinks he’s God’s gift, and he isn’t wrong. Unbearably arrogant, but exquisitely built.
But the physical isn't what gets me. The physical is just the casing. It’s the mind that’s the true aphrodisiac, the way it observes, assesses, and articulates. The candor. The honesty. That is the kind of power that makes me weak.
And you… you possess that kind of power in droves.
— BM
Vegeta sat back in his chair, a slow, dawning comprehension spreading across his face. She wasn’t just flirting; she was confessing the very thing he didn’t realise he had hoped for—that her attraction wasn't superficial. The physical was just the "casing."
The irony of it all struck him with a silent, sharp humor. The man he viewed with contempt, the one on the magazine covers, was the one she admitted to finding physically attractive. But the man he was here, the one who was honest, bitter, and lonely, was the one who was her "true aphrodisiac."
The revelation was a victory unlike any other. It was the moment he knew he wasn’t just wanted, he was seen. For a man who had only ever been viewed as a tool, or an image, this was a revelation of intoxicating proportions. The feeling of her words, of her confession, settled into him like a heavy, welcome truth. For the first time, he found himself without words not because he was stunned, but because a decade of loneliness had just been filled by her.
He began to type, his fingers moving with a quiet, certain focus.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 09:50
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
I have to agree.
The physical is fleeting. It’s the architecture beneath it that truly holds power. The casing may be appealing, but the engine is what truly matters.
What you've built in your mind... I find it to be a compelling and frankly, a very sexy thing.
— IP
Bulma read his email a second time, a small, genuine smile forming on her face. "A compelling and frankly, a very sexy thing." He had meant every word. He had taken her challenge and met it, not with a simple compliment, but with a precise, devastating truth. The man who saw the world in facts and figures had just admitted that her mind—her very essence—was a source of physical attraction for him.
The feeling was a potent cocktail of triumph, relief, and a quiet giddiness she hadn’t felt in years. The absurdity of it all was beautiful. She thought about his admission of the "empty townhouse" and the thought of him, alone in his office, his controlled facade crumbling around him for her.
She typed her response, her fingers moving quickly, easily. The game of intellectual chess was over. The rules had changed, and she was exhilarated by the new ones.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 10:00
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
Dear Emergency Future Husband,
Well, now that that's out in the open.
You can stop holding your breath. I can tell you're a mess.
Now go eat something, take a shower, and maybe re-read some of that damned book. The world can wait.
— BM
Vegeta barked a laugh at the reply. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but there was more than amusement there—a rare warmth, an odd flutter in his chest he wasn’t used to acknowledging.
He exhaled slowly, feeling the tension of the morning ease.
From: [[email protected]]
Sent: Sat 13 September 1997 10:05
To: [[email protected]]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Morning After (or something like that)
Dear My Cat Lady
I will do this—on the condition that you don't lecture me about my emotional state when I return
Have a pleasant day, I will speak to you tonight
IP
x
With deliberate care, he shut the computer down, the soft hum fading to silence. The words lingered in his mind, teasing him.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tamp down the blush creeping across his cheeks. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. And yet… satisfying in a way he’d never admit aloud.
The quiet of the office settled around him, but he felt less alone. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself a small, private grin.
Chapter 5: Battle Axes and Sunglasses
Notes:
I'm going for Zarbon! Zarbon will follow. Just not yet :D
Chapter Text
Sunday Morning, 6:00 AM — West City Coffee Co
The city was still half-asleep when Bulma stepped into the quiet café. The hiss of the espresso machine filled the silence, accompanied by the soft scrape of a chair being pushed back somewhere in the corner. She relished mornings like this: when the world felt suspended, not yet awake enough to demand anything of her. The barista blinked at her trying to get sleepiness out of his expression.
Her heels clicked softly on the tiled floor as walked up to the counter to place her order. Tight jeans, a crisp blouse, her red coat draped over her shoulders. Effortless. Casual. But still commanding in the way she carried herself. She allowed herself a small smile—this was her moment of peace.
“Black - large”
Then a low voice, edged with amusement slid through the air behind her hitting her spine like a spark.
“I’ll have the same as her, with no writing on the cup”
Her heart skipped before her mind caught up. She turned.
Vegeta.
Not boardroom Vegeta. Not tailored three-piece, tie knotted within an inch of his life, jaw hard enough to cut glass Vegeta. This was… different. A black suede jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, as though it weighed nothing. His shirt—black, sleeves rolled up to the elbows—showed the sharp lines of his forearms, the tendons flexing as he adjusted his sunglasses. hair rumpled as though he hadn’t bullied it into submission yet. He looked… human. Ordinary, in the best possible way. And that—was dangerous.
Bulma’s gaze caught on the watch at his wrist: a Patek Philippe Nautilus, dark blue dial flashing as it caught the pale gold of the dawn. Casual, but impossibly expensive. Power without announcement.
For a heartbeat, she didn’t breathe.
He looked… relaxed. Approachable.
“Vegeta?” she said, her brow arching though her voice betrayed her surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Heading to my brother’s,” he replied, jaw flexing like it cost him to admit something so ordinary.
“And you?” His head tilted, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the weight of his focus.
“Documents,” she said, shrugging as though it was nothing, though she felt suddenly overexposed under that calm, assessing stare. “A few signatures. Capsule Corp never sleeps.”
Silence stretched between them, charged rather than awkward. She risked another glance. The suede jacket caught in the sunlight, softening his outline, almost humanizing him. Almost.
“You get black coffee too? No frills?” she asked, partly to distract herself.
“No frills, no decoration.” He agreed, the curve of his mouth sharp and fleeting, Sunglasses made it impossible to read his eyes, and somehow that unsettled her more.
She smiled without warning. “Good. Points for taste.”
Her gaze flickered back to his watch again “speaking of which, I haven’t seen that version before, the dark blue Nautilus?”
Vegeta glanced down, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Good eye… it’s my favourite color” he said simply, shrugging.
Bulma laughed softly, teasing “how could you not just adore blue”, she tossed her hair and he rolled his eyes, but there was amusement there.
"At least it isn’t a gaudy gold Rolex,” Bulma mused. “I find them deeply tiresome. A gold Rolex is for a man who has to announce his importance because he lacks the character to show it."
He nodded along to her in agreement and tilted his wrist, deliberately casual. “Rolex is for men who need introductions. I don’t.”
She didn’t know why she waited for him, but she did. They stepped outside, side by side. Their steps fell into rhythm, unintentional but undeniable.
“Does your brother appreciate you turning up at six a.m.?” she asked, arching a brow.
Vegeta gave a faint, almost amused huff. “I had to stop by the office first. Something urgent. Breakfast is tradition—we do it once a month. He insists - and I indulge him.”
Bulma laughed softly, her breath puffing white in the early morning air. “Hmmm how generous of you*
"And…signatures on a Sunday. Sometimes I want to make a stamp of mine and be done with it.”
That tugged something out of him—a low laugh, rough and startling, like gravel turned to velvet. He shook his head, shifting his jacket higher on his shoulder.
She found herself watching the movement, then snapped her gaze forward again, cheeks warming.
Then his voice dropped, softer, probing. “And… have you made any decisions about meeting your knight in shining postscript?”
Bulma nearly choked on her coffee. He’d remembered then.
Her grip tightened around the cup, but she forced out a laugh. “Perhaps. I’ve been thinking… life’s too short for hesitation. I’m not getting any younger, and… new friends aren’t always easy to come by.”
Something unreadable flickered across his face. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but his mouth tightened, then softened again.
“You’re not getting any younger? What sort of a line is that, that is nonsense. If you are not getting any younger, that puts me in the ground by comparison. What has gotten into you?” he asked finally, suspicion laced with something quieter.
“I had some time to reflect this weekend,” she said simply. “Cleared a weight off my chest. Realized life’s too short to play perfect all the time. I’d rather just… say what I mean.”
Vegeta tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle. Her honesty seemed to land somewhere deep, unsettling him.
“You… speak plainly,” he said after a moment. His voice was low, husky, almost reluctant. “That’s unusual. Respectable. Surprising.”
Bulma smirked. “Not used to people speaking plainly to you, are you?”
“No,” he admitted, voice careful. His thumb brushed the ridge of his coffee cup, a restless tell. “Most want something—equity, influence, recognition.”
“Well,” she said in a mock serious voice. “Lucky for you, I’ve got my own equity. My own influence. My own bottom line. I don’t need yours”
Vegeta stopped walking for a fraction of a second. Then he laughed—sharp, dark, genuine. “You dare mock me?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Bulma grinned, eyes gleaming as she sipped her coffee. “Because you look ridiculous being so stoic in a suede jacket, of all things. You’re a CEO, Vegeta, not a GQ model.”
His jaw clenched. A faint flush rose high on his cheekbones. “Absurd,” he muttered. But the twitch at his mouth betrayed him.
She leaned closer, her tone softening. “You’re human, Vegeta. More than you let people see. You laugh. You can even be charming, when you let yourself. Don’t resist it.”
Something tightened in his chest. He swallowed it down with a scoff. “You’re insufferable.”
“I know,” she laughed, unashamed. “Rare, insufferable, and I keep you honest. Humble, even.”
“Honest? Humble?” he repeated, incredulous, though his smirk betrayed him. “You really hear yourself?”
“Every word,” she shot back.
Their steps carried them past shuttered storefronts, the quiet city just beginning to stir.
Then he glanced at her sidelong, smirk deepening. “So… does your newfound clarity of mind and magnanimous attitude extend to you reconsidering signing off on the Namek deal?”
Bulma nearly spilled her coffee. She barked a laugh. “Oh, fuck right off, Vegeta. That deal is off the table.”
He shrugged "worth a shot"
They stared at each other for a beat too long. Then she scoffed, breaking it. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? Even at dawn, even outside the boardroom—you still want to win.”
He smirked. “Always.”
“And that’s why I’ll never sign that deal. I hate to lose” She took a victorious sip of her coffee.
Vegeta chuckled again, a dark, amused sound that felt uncomfortably close to admiration. “Unbelievable,” he murmured.
She smiled, turning her face toward the rising sun. “Get used to it.”
He leaned closer, voice pitched low and teasing. “You’re a battle axe in heels, Briefs. Admit it.”
Bulma’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut as her eyes blazed. But the twitch at her lips betrayed her. “Better a battle axe than a pompous ass in sunglasses.”
That did it. His laugh—rare, deep, unrestrained—spilled into the cool morning air.
And against her will, she laughed too.
Capsule Corp came into view at the end of the street, “where are you headed after work then?” he looked at her over his sunglasses
“Ladies day” she said smirking “a little therapy with my credit card”
He raised an eyebrow “Good, sharp mind, sharp style tomorrow. I expect nothing less for our meeting”
She laughed at him, “Oh I always bring my ‘A’ game, Prince.”
A slow, deliberate smirk spread across Vegeta’s face. “I know,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was just for her. “That’s why I'm looking forward to it.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He simply nodded once—a sharp, almost imperceptible gesture of respect—and turned to cross the street.
Bulma stood there, frozen, the steaming cup of coffee feeling suddenly cold in her hand. She watched him walk away, his confident stride eating up the distance. He didn’t look back. The black suede jacket caught the light as he disappeared around the corner.
Tarble’s Apartment 6:30am
Vegeta’s boots clicked sharply against the worn wooden floor as he entered Tarble’s modest apartment. Early sunlight spilled across the counter. The smell of coffee and toast lingered in the air.
Tarble, still in pajama pants and a loose t-shirt, glanced up, spatula mid-air. “Whoa. You look… lighter. Chipper, even. Did you dismantle a family business yesterday or something?”
Vegeta shot him a withering look.
“Seriously, what is it?” Tarble smiled at him.
Vegeta scoffed as he shut the door behind him and tossed his spare key on the counter. “This is why I keep my visits monthly.” He paused, then added, his voice calm but laced with amusement, “You pry.”
Vegeta sat at the bar stool on the kitchen island and emptied his pockets, pulling out his state of the art Palm pilot PDA and Nokia and carefully lining them up on the counter in front of him. He decided to pick up his PDA, he hadn't checked his emails that morning, half-grateful for the distraction. His brother had started circling the kitchen with irritating domestic cheer, humming under his breath like he was intent on testing Vegeta’s patience.
Sent: Sun 14 September 1997 05:00
From: [email protected]
Subject: Emergency Future Husband
Had so much fun last night writing to you. Woke up thinking about you, but I suppose that's what happens when a mind as brilliant as yours visits my consciousness so early. A lovely thought to wake up to, I must say.
Anyway... a change of pace. I was out shopping last week and I have been deliberating on these heels ever since. I’m thinking of returning to the store later and getting them in red. They are Manolo Blahniks and they were a non-negotiable purchase.
What are your thoughts? I don’t have any girly friends—or friends in general, for that matter—so your opinion would be a welcome change. Let me know what you think.
— Your Cat Lady
Vegeta smirked faintly, expecting a shot of a shoebox or a description of some impractical footwear. What the fuck are Manolo Blahniks. Tsk Women. he mused. His thumb scrolled, but the air caught in his chest.
The photo filled the screen. A pair of elegant black stilettos. And nothing but long, bare legs radiating a casual, understated power that shattered his mental image of ByteMe.
Behind him, Tarble, who had wandered over to grab his coffee cup, gave a low whistle. “Well, well, big brother. Unless I’m mistaken, those are a woman’s legs. Gorgeous ones.”
Vegeta snapped the PDA shut with more force than necessary, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “Mind your business.”
Tarble raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You’re seeing someone.”
“I am not,” Vegeta growled.
Tarble sipped his coffee, smirk firmly in place. “Then explain why you look like you just swallowed your tongue.”
Vegeta shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “It was an email. Nothing more.”
Tarble chuckled. “An email with pictures. From a woman. Who clearly knows how to get your attention.”
“Drop it,” Vegeta warned, his voice low, dangerous.
But Tarble only grinned, leaning back against the counter, utterly unbothered. “Hnh. I’ve been waiting ten years for you to admit you’re capable of this. I should’ve known it would take someone with legs like that to crack you.”
Vegeta’s jaw worked, no retort sharp enough to cover the truth burning under his skin. He hated the flush in his face, hated the way his brother’s knowing smirk saw too much.
And worst of all—he hated that Tarble wasn’t wrong.
Vegeta forced himself to the reply screen, fingers hovering before finally moving.
Sent: Sun 14 September 1997 06:33
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Emergency Future Husband
I’ll be blunt. That photograph has rattled me more than I care to admit. I expected a shoe. Not… that.
Your legs are long, pale, and—perfect. There’s no sense denying it. I’ve been sitting here flushed, distracted, and cursing you for putting the image in my head.
So yes. Keep the shoes and get them in red. They suit you. But know this: you’ve made me want far more than footwear.
– IP
As he pressed send he felt his brother behind him again, he flipped the screen closed and gave him a sidelong look. “So…she local?” he smirked
Vegeta exhaled slowly, jaw tight. “Yes, local.”
Tarble leaned back, arms crossed, deadpan. “Tell me about this mysterious correspondent. You’re completely busted, by the way.”
Vegeta’s jaw tightened, but a flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. She is clever. Witty. Thoughtful. Forces me to think in ways I haven’t for years. She is kind… unlike anyone I have known. That is all.”
Tarble let out a long sigh, leaning against the counter. “Clever, incisive, and makes you think… hmm. Yep. Sounds just like Bulma Briefs. And you’ve been in denial about that one for over ten years. About time you acted on something.”
Vegeta’s eyes darkened, voice sharp. “I have not been in denial for 10 years about Bulma-fucking-Briefs.”
Tarble smiled at him “uh huh...suppose they are the same woman, wouldn’t that be something!”
Vegeta scoffed “please. she is nothing like Briefs. For one, Briefs is not the type to be dateless for ten years, guarded like this. She is certainly not thirty-nine. She is… younger than that. And this—” he gestured slightly at the thought “—is not her.”
Tarble laughed, shaking his head. “Maybe you should meet her then, big brother. Just… find out.”
Vegeta exhaled, tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. “I suppose I will… but only to see if she is as formidable as she appears. That is all. Nothing more.”
Tarble raised an eyebrow, mischief twinkling in his gaze. “Nothing more? ok.”
Tarble smirked knowingly. “Well then, go forth and meet your mysterious correspondent. But don’t tell me you’re going to fall head over heels, big brother. That’s my department, right?”
Vegeta’s lips twitched, a faint smirk tugging at the corner. “Keep your amusement. I have more serious matters at hand.”
Chapter 6: Payback
Chapter Text
Sunday 14 September 1997 20:00
The house was a silent fortress when Vegeta stepped inside. The kind of silence that didn’t just lack sound, but actively pressed at his ears, heavy and accusing. Every polished surface, every carefully curated object, seemed to mock him, reminding him of a life lived in meticulous control. He tossed his keys on the console; the metallic clatter echoed through the cavernous entryway like a gunshot in an empty cathedral.
Every detail of the home was as it always was—art that could have been plucked from a gallery, books aligned like soldiers on their shelves, furniture chosen to impress rather than comfort. A house designed for display, not living. And tonight, in that overwhelming stillness, it suffocated him.
Bulma’s laugh from that morning kept surfacing: bright, careless, a jolt he hadn’t expected. He could still see the red coat, the tilt of her head, the way she walked carefree. And then ByteMe’s photograph would wedge itself into the same frame—faceless but devastating: long, pale legs, in those shoes, an effortless authority that said I am not for you to tame. Control had always been his language. Two different women speaking in two different registers pushed him out of fluency.
He stripped off his shirt with an uncharacteristic toss and stepped into the shower. Scalding water hammered him into the present; steam fogged the mirror. He braced a hand on the tile, trying to brace for sense. The harder he tried to order his thoughts, the more they braided: Bulma’s smirk, ByteMe’s legs, the sound of Bulma's laugh threaded with the crispness of ByteMe's sentences in his head.
Vegeta, a man who prided himself on absolute control, felt unmoored. The duality of these two women—tormented him. He scowled, shaking his head as if physical movement could dislodge them.
He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to wrest control, but the frustration only intensified. The storm inside him was not just physical—it was a raw, emotional tempest. Finally, his restraint broke. His body obeyed impulses that were neither fully thought through nor consciously permitted. The act itself wasn’t about relief. It was an acknowledgment of the chaos both women had wrought in him. And afterward, sitting on the edge of his bed, towel loosely hanging low, he felt a mixture of exhaustion and furious exhilaration.
He was tired of faceless exchanges, tired of letting the name in his inbox tease him from afar. He wanted certainty. He wanted reality. He wanted the risk of the real thing. He snapped a quick photo of his chest—wet chest glistening, muscles sharply defined under the dim light, no posing, no polish. Just him. Raw. Exposed and uploaded it to his computer, slightly nervous about how out of character it felt.
To: [email protected]
Sent: Sun 14 September 1997 20:45From: [email protected]
Subject: Payback
You rattled me this morning. Consider this repayment in kind.
I am finished with faceless exchanges.
Name the time and place.
We meet this week.– IP
The click of “send” echoed through the room like the discharge of a cannon. For once, his anticipation wasn’t about conquest. It was about meeting her—seeing her, hearing her, knowing she was real.
Bulma kicked off her heels at the door with a dramatic flick of her toes, exhaling in satisfaction. Shopping had been a success—a catharsis of leather, silk, and sleek handbags—and the spoils now littered her living room. She shrugged off her red coat, padded barefoot to the kitchen, and poured herself a generous glass of full-bodied red wine. The evening felt like a personal victory, a quiet indulgence.
Her thoughts drifted to the previous evening spent emailing IP and then the early morning run in with Vegeta Prince and her traitorous heart sped up a fraction faster. Overnight the easy intellectual flirtation had been complicated: morning Vegeta’s laugh, the previous evening words from IP landing on her like small, intimate revelations. A delicious, dizzying mix. She sat back, wine glass cupped in both hands, and let herself feel the stirrings without arguing with them.
There was another thought, small and pragmatic but no less true: IP felt like a much safer option to get close to. Not less interesting. Not less sharp. Safer. He read her and answered her with intelligence, and intelligence had always, oddly, felt like a kind of tenderness. Vegeta Prince was undeniably attractive—magnetic, even—but he wore danger like a well-cut jacket. She’d seen men like him scorch their circles, charm then discard. Her past taught her to hesitate where flash gleamed. IP was not polished for conquest; he was polished for conversation. IP would not, she told herself with careful logic, hurt her in the way the other might. That felt important. Necessary, even.
Halfway through third sip, her computer pinged. The sound sliced through the calm, sharp and unexpected. Only one person would email her at this hour. Her pulse skipped in anticipation as she opened the message.
Then froze.
Subject line: Payback
Her breath caught. The photo loaded. Wet. Muscles defined in low light. Towel riding scandalously low. The image wasn’t just physical—it was power, control, and undeniable masculinity captured in a single frame. Her mind whispered the word she couldn’t say out loud: Adonis.
Her pulse thundered as her fingers hovered over the keys. Faceless IP had transformed into tangible, dangerous, and yet magnetic flesh. A thrill of panic and desire coursed through her.
Then she reread his words, sharp and commanding: Name the time and place. We meet this week.
Her chest tightened. He wasn’t asking. He was challenging.
She leaned back in her chair, wine glass still in hand, eyes wide, her mind racing. Morning Vegeta and evening IP—laughter, sass, intellect, raw physicality—all merged into an intoxicating puzzle. For the first time in years, she felt alive in the way that mattered: daring, unguarded, reckless in her own calculated way.
A slow smile spread across her face. Confidence returned to her fingers. If IP could meet her mind with equal fire, she could meet him in the flesh.
Sent: Sun 14 September 1997 20:45
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: PaybackWell.
I see we’ve moved past clever wordplay into… uncharted territory.
You should know—I’ve saved your photograph to my personal collection. Purely for research, of course.Payback indeed. Consider the scales balanced.
But more importantly: I’ve made a decision. I agree. I also want to meet you.
Seeing you—no, hearing you—across a screen has been exhilarating. But I don’t want to hide behind clever lines and anonymous emails anymore. I want something real.So you name the place and the time. This week and I’ll be there.
— BM
She exhaled, heart still hammering, wine forgotten. The morning’s encounter with Vegeta had rattled her, and now IP had captivated her intellect for weeks and now teased her instincts. Both had been thrilling—but only one was real, tangible.
With a wicked little smile tugging at her lips, she whispered to the empty room:
"Your move"
Her inbox dinged again moments later with the familiar banner "You've got Red Ribbon Mail!"
Sent: Sun 14 September 1997 20:45
From:[email protected]
Subject: Saturday
Bring your copy of The Stranger.
10:00 AM.
Café Le Parc, across from West City Botanical Gardens.
— IP
x
He had hit send before he could second-guess it, then sat back in the chair. His reflection in the darkened window stared back at him—still composed, still guarded.
But his lips betrayed him. A sharp, private smile ghosted across his face.
For the first time in years, he was… looking forward.
Bulma pressed a hand over her mouth, but it didn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. Typical IP: bossy, commanding, like he’d already won. And yet—her stomach fluttered in the way it hadn’t in years.
Her mind drifted back to that morning, to Vegeta of all people—sleeves rolled up, suede jacket, laughing in the cold. She had felt… something. But Vegeta Prince was danger wrapped in arrogance. IP was different. IP saw her, challenged her, made her laugh, made her think.
Monday 15th September 1997
Saiyan Industries 09:00
Bulma Briefs knew how to make an entrance. The double-glass doors of Saiyan Industries seemed to part for her on instinct as she crossed the marble lobby in sky-high Louboutins. A tailored navy suit hugged every deliberate line. Pearls at her throat, red lipstick like a warning flare. She didn’t need an entourage. She was the entourage.
By the time the private elevator pinged onto the top floor, she was already in battle mode, smoothing the lapel of her blazer. Capsule Corp’s queen against Saiyan Industries’ Prince—again. But the first thing Vegeta heard wasn’t the click of her heels. It was her laughter.
He frowned, tugging his office door open, irritation already simmering. Bulma was leaned casually against the reception desk, chatting animatedly with Chi-Chi, who was glowing in a new gold bangle and rubbing her pregnant belly. Bulma gestured with a hand, Chi-Chi giggled, and the whole scene landed like a pebble in Vegeta’s shoe.
He arched a brow, voice clipped. “We had a 9 o’clock?” He tapped the face of his Nautilus with a pointed flick of his wrist.
Bulma turned, caught mid-smile, and rolled her eyes at him like he was an impatient cab driver. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m exactly on time.” She brushed past him in a perfume-slicked breeze, not waiting for an invitation. She shot a knowing look to Chi-Chi as she entered.
Vegeta’s mouth tightened, but he followed, closing the door behind them. Bulma went straight to the bookcase behind his desk, tilting her head as she scanned the neatly arranged rows. She dragged a manicured finger across the spines before plucking one out.
“The Prince. Machiavelli. …of course, you’d have this; it's more a self-titled memoir than reading material.” She smirked, sliding it back into place. “And—oh! Sartre? Camus? I must admit, I pegged you as more of a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue man… maybe a glossy little Stocks and Shares Digest tucked in for variety.”
Vegeta scoffed, striding over to reclaim the shelf’s gravity and moving The Prince back to its rightful spot. “You know nothing of me, Briefs. And that is by design.”
Her eyes glittered as she turned to face him. “Mmm. Mysterious.”
He crossed his arms. “What were you and Chi-Chi whispering about?”
Bulma waved a dismissive hand, lips quirking. “Oh, nothing. Just her wedding. I told her I started the conga line—not my finest hour.”
That earned him a flicker of a raised brow. “Her wedding? I didn’t realize you were invited to my executive assistant’s nuptials.”
Bulma laughed, tipping her head to the side. “Oh Vegeta. Chi-Chi didn’t invite me. Goku—my executive assistant? Chi-Chi’s husband? He did.”
Vegeta blinked once, his jaw tightening in the smallest crack of surprise. He hadn’t put the pieces together. “That clown. How didn’t I know this? Surely that is a conflict of interest,” he muttered under his breath.
Bulma grinned. “I would say more of a conflict of interest for me than for you. I love the man dearly, but he is a few side plates short of a dinner service if you catch my meaning.” She looked toward the door, knowing full well the machine that was Chi-Chi was quietly organizing work way above her pay grade. “Chi-Chi is… by contrast, an efficient and super competent vault. But then, you know that at least.”
She tapped her chin with a perfectly manicured nail and smirked at him. “And as for not knowing, I make it my business to know the people running my business. Surely you do the same?”
That irritated him. “Of course I do! But I never pry or ask searching questions about my employees' private lives unless they offer it voluntarily. Their privacy is of paramount importance to me, as my own is.”
Bulma just shrugged, wondering who in the wide world of West City would offer him anything private voluntarily. She sank into the chair opposite his desk. “Come on then, let’s spar. You don’t appreciate tardiness.”
Saiyan Industries 10:15
The argument had stretched for nearly an hour, volleys fired back and forth across the desk. Figures, contracts, projections—all shredded under Bulma’s incisive wit and Vegeta’s unrelenting logic. Finally, exasperated, she shoved her pen across the table toward him. “Fine. Capsule Corp will take the eastern territories, Saiyan Industries gets distribution rights in the south. But not an inch more, Vegeta. I mean it.”
He eyed her for a long beat, suspicion flickering in his gaze like he thought she might be baiting him. Then, slowly, he reached out his hand. “Done.”
Her grip was firm, nails brushing his knuckles. The contact lingered a fraction too long before she withdrew.
Bulma gathered her things with a flick of her hair, the movement sharp, decisive, like the closing punctuation of their meeting. She slipped her notebook into her bag, snapped it shut, and rose smoothly to her feet. He rose on instinct when she did, meaning to see her out.
“Well,” she said brightly, her tone hovering just on the edge of provocation, “business concluded. I’ll let you get back to running your empire, Vegeta, and I can focus on more entertaining pursuits.”
His brow lifted. “Such as?”
She hesitated, then turned her head slightly, her smile sharpening. “I have a date this weekend. With my knight in shining postscript, as you so gallantly called him.”
The words hit like a stone in his chest. Vegeta’s hand flexed against the desk. He kept his voice even, neutral. “A date?”
“Mmhm.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes glittered, gauging his reaction.
“Be careful,” he said at last, his voice quieter than before. “The anonymity of the net is not to be trusted. I hope you chose somewhere public.”
He thought briefly to his own rendeavuz, he had subconsciously chosen somewhere public because he had wanted ByteMe to feel safe.
Her lips quirked. “Of course. I’m not reckless.”
“Good,” he said simply, though his jaw ticked. “Men behind pretty words aren’t always what they claim to be.”
Bulma tilted her head, studying him with a slight smile. “Speaking from experience Prince? I’ll take my chances.” She adjusted her coat, her perfume cutting sharp through the cool office air. “And besides, you don’t strike me as an expert on romance, Vegeta. Or are you secretly a closet poet?”
He scoffed, masking the heat simmering in his veins. “Hardly.” Vegeta’s smirk sharpened, following her a few steps. “But I would be careful with your smugness, woman. I’ve a date this weekend as well.”
She stopped, blinking. “A date?”
His jaw lifted in a deliberately careless tilt. “Yes. And unlike your ‘knight in shining postscript,’ mine won’t be some faceless fantasy.”
Bulma dropped onto one foot, eyes glittering with mischief. “I can’t even imagine what poor woman signed up for a date with you. She must be half-saint, half-masochist. Or drunk. Probably drunk.”
Vegeta’s mouth twitched, somewhere between a smirk and a scowl. “And your poor bastard? Whoever he is, I almost pity him already. You’ll terrify him before the bread basket hits the table.”
She gasped in mock offense, laying a hand dramatically over her chest. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I can be very charming on dates.”
“Charming,” Vegeta repeated flatly, as if testing the word for structural weakness. He leaned forward, arms folded. “You’d treat it like a corporate negotiation. No doubt you’ll demand bullet points before dessert.”
Bulma grinned. “Well, at least he’ll know where he stands. Better than your date, poor thing—she’ll probably spend the night wondering why her dinner companion glowers at the cutlery like it owes him money. If anyone needs to tone down the intimidation, it’s you.”
He gave a sharp huff of amusement, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “I don’t glower at cutlery. I glower at idiocy. If she’s worth her salt, she’ll know the difference.”
“Worth her salt?” Bulma laughed, shaking her head. “Listen to you, like you’re auditioning for Pride and Prejudice. Next you’ll tell me you only dance when compelled.”
Vegeta smirked, eyes gleaming. “Compelled, bribed, blackmailed—it all amounts to the same thing.”
Her laugh came quick and genuine, echoing off the office walls. She tilted her head at him, her smile softening into something sly. “You know what, Vegeta? If our dates survive the weekend, we should send them sympathy cards.”
He arched his brow. “Pity gifts, more like. Hazard pay.”
“Dinner vouchers,” she suggested. “Or therapy sessions.”
“Or a medal,” he countered, lips curving. “For surviving the impossible.”
Bulma’s eyes lingered on him a beat too long, her grin not quite hiding the undercurrent tugging between them. “Well then… let’s hope they’re up to the challenge.”
Vegeta’s smirk was sharp and deliberate. “They’d better be.”
Her eyes sparkled wickedly. “And if they’re not? If these heroic martyrs of ours can’t handle us?”
His smirk deepened, dangerously amused. “Then perhaps we should do them a favor. Trade places. Let your poor fool date my poor fool. Maybe together they’ll form a support group.”
Bulma laughed so hard her bag slipped from her shoulders. “A survivors’ circle! First meeting: coping strategies for dating workaholic CEOs.”
“And refreshments provided,” Vegeta added dryly, “by the ones who drove them to despair in the first place.”
Bulma tilted her head, biting back a grin. “Careful, Vegeta. Keep this up, and I’ll start thinking you actually have a sense of humor.”
He smirked, sharp and slow. “Don’t be ridiculous. Humor is inefficient.”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Tell that to your date on Saturday. She might even believe you.” Then she spun and started walking towards his door
“Tell it to yours,” he shot back smoothly. “If he lasts long enough to listen.”
and then he added, “Don’t be late next week Briefs”
She laughed. “I’ll be punctual for my next ambush,” she threw it over her shoulder and blew an air kiss at Chi-Chi as she swept through his door.
Vegeta exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face, muttering something that sounded like a curse under his breath as he hovered on the threshold of his office.
Chi-Chi, who had been perched neatly at her desk with a stack of files, caught the gesture and smirked at him knowingly. “She always seems to leave you looking like this.”
“Like what?” he snapped, though without much bite.
“Like you’ve been through three rounds in the ring,” she said, amused.
He scowled, straightening his cuffs like the question was beneath him. “Tch.”
Bulma, halfway down the hall, caught just enough of that exchange to make her lips curve in satisfaction. She pressed the elevator button, pausing just long enough to glance back. Vegeta had already turned to Chi-Chi, his voice low and steady, all business again.
“…if your waters break in this damned building, you are not calling a taxi. Either helicopter will take you straight to West City General. I’ve already cleared it with the mayor”
Bulma’s eyebrows rose. She hadn’t expected that.
Chi-Chi let out a startled laugh. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“I don’t repeat myself either,” Vegeta replied flatly. His arms folded across his chest, the picture of irritation, though the words were anything but cold. “I won’t have chaos in the lobby. Or lose a competent assistant.”
The elevator chimed. Bulma stepped inside, lips parted as if to say something—only to think better of it.
The doors slid shut, and she let herself smile, small and private.
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