Chapter 2
O
Collateral
Bulma shut the door behind her with a sigh so loud, even her cat scurried off into another room. She kicked off her heels with less grace than she'd ever allow anyone to see, clutching her purse to her chest like a life preserver. Her room felt too quiet, too bright. She staggered toward the bed and collapsed onto it face-first, purse still in hand.
For a moment, she didn't move.
Then the groan came.
It started in her throat, warbled up through her chest, and died somewhere into the comforter.
"What the hell did I do?" she mumbled, voice muffled.
The night came back in flashes. Heat. Nails. Teeth. A growl between her thighs. A low moan in her ear.
And a name: Vegeta.
She flipped onto her back with a groan and covered her face with her arm.
"I don't even like arrogant guys," she told the ceiling.
The silence replied: You let him eat you alive in a hallway.
Bulma groaned louder.
Then something jabbed her in the ribs.
She sat up and looked down. Her purse had tipped open where she'd tossed it beside her, contents spilling across the sheets; lipstick, keys, a few stray zeni, and something else...
Her fingers closed around worn leather.
She blinked, turning it over.
A wallet.
A man's wallet.
Her heart stopped. "No. No-no-no."
She opened it like it might explode.
Inside: neatly folded bills, a license with a familiar frown, and a fighter ID that confirmed her growing suspicion.
Vegeta. Champion-Class. Saiyan. Galactic Division.
Bulma froze, staring at the ID.
"Are you kidding me?"
Her eyes scanned the rest of the contents. Some receipts. A keycard. A few business cards with his name etched in sharp font.
She fell back against the pillows.
"I stole his wallet."
A pause.
"I hooked up with Vegeta and stole his damn wallet."
She groaned again, louder this time, and let the wallet fall on her stomach like it weighed fifty pounds.
She didn't even know if she should return it. Did that make it worse? Better?
Would he even remember?
Probably.
Definitely.
She dragged a pillow over her face and screamed into it.
By the time she dragged herself into the shower, her phone had buzzed with a dozen new messages.
Chi-Chi: So you died?
Chi-Chi: Bulma. It's not like you to ghost.
Chi-Chi: I will break into your place if you make me.
Bulma stared at the screen, thumbs hesitating.
She didn't want to talk about it.
So, naturally, she texted: Coffee?
Chi-Chi showed up ten minutes early, because of course she did.
She was dressed like she'd just left a photoshoot for "Combat-Ready Homemaker"; tight jeans, tank top, hair in a bun so tight it could deflect bullets. She had a latte in one hand and judgement in the other.
"Well," she said, sliding into the booth at their usual café, "You're alive. Good. Now what the hell happened?"
Bulma stirred her coffee like it had wronged her.
"I did something incredibly dumb."
Chi-Chi waited.
"Like… hall-of-fame level stupid."
Still waiting.
Bulma sighed. "I had a one-night stand."
Chi-Chi's eyebrows went up. "That's not dumb. That's adulting."
Bulma shot her a look. "In a hallway."
Chi-Chi choked on her coffee.
"And then again in his bed."
"Okay," Chi-Chi coughed, grabbing a napkin. "Still not judging."
Bulma dropped her head into her hands. "I took his wallet."
"What?"
"Not on purpose!" she snapped. "I was half-conscious and scooping up my life at five in the morning. It was on the floor next to my stuff."
Chi-Chi blinked. Then leaned in like a gossip-hungry aunt. "So… what's his name?"
Bulma hesitated.
"Vegeta," she finally said.
Chi-Chi's jaw dropped. "Like the fighter?"
Bulma buried her face in her arms again.
"Girl. Girl. You slept with Vegeta the Saiyan? The most emotionally stunted, undefeated-by-technicality man-child in the Galactic MMA circuit?"
Bulma just groaned.
Vegeta woke up to the faint hum of city traffic, a pounding headache, and an uncomfortably cold side of the bed.
He sat up slowly, stretching one arm over his head as he blinked at the bright rectangle of morning light cutting across the room.
The sheets were rumpled.
His body was sore in satisfying places.
And the woman? Gone.
He grunted. Not surprised. Not even annoyed.
He rolled out of bed, stark naked, and stalked toward the bathroom. A cold splash of water sobered him just enough to notice something.
Something missing.
He paused mid-splash.
Walked out of the bathroom, frowning.
Checked the dresser.
His wallet.
Brown leather, worn edges, Galactic Fighter I.D. tucked in the front slot,
Was gone.
"That bitch," he growled.
He stomped across the room, digging through laundry, under the bed, everywhere. Nothing.
He stood still, bare and furious.
Then, from deep within him, his beast stirred, not with rage, but with interest.
She'd left.
But she hadn't left empty-handed.
And for reasons he couldn't yet explain, that made him want to see her again.
Not for the wallet.
Not even for a round two.
But because her absence irritated him more than her presence.
And that was new.
Back at Capsule Corp, Bulma finally opened the wallet again, just to double check she wasn't hallucinating.
Inside: several crisp zeni bills, a license with his scowl on it, a fighter ID that confirmed it.
Vegeta, Champion-Class. Saiyan. Galactic Division.
She let out a low whistle.
"Well, damn," she muttered.
Then paused.
Smirked.
"Bet he's looking for this."
She flipped the wallet shut and tossed it onto her desk like a gauntlet.
Let him come find her.
She wasn't scared.
Vegeta didn't waste time.
After a scalding-hot shower and a round of aimless pacing in his apartment, he threw on a black tank, compression pants, and boots, then grabbed his phone.
First stop: the bar.
The rooftop lounge was mostly empty during daylight hours, but the same manager from the night before was counting bottles behind the bar when Vegeta walked in.
The man looked up, startled. "Oh. Uh, Mr. Vegeta. Didn't expect to see you back so soon."
Vegeta didn't return the pleasantry. "You have cameras?"
The manager blinked. "Cameras?"
"You heard me," Vegeta growled. "The hallway outside the rooftop exit. I want the footage."
The man hesitated. "Well, technically that's for building security and guest protection, but if you lost something..."
"My wallet," Vegeta said flatly. "And I want to see the last person who walked out with me last night."
The manager paled, then nodded. "Okay. Uh, give me a minute."
Vegeta crossed his arms and waited like a stone statue until the man returned with a tablet and pulled up the timestamped footage.
He didn't have to wait long.
There, in grainy black-and-white, was the moment: the woman pressed against the wall, hair falling around her shoulders, dress riding high on her thighs. His own silhouette loomed in front of her, his head between her legs.
Vegeta cleared his throat and leaned in as the footage shifted. The woman stumbled from the hallway, dress wrinkled, makeup smudged. She glanced around before disappearing into the elevator.
He paused the frame.
Zoomed in.
There. Her face. Clear enough to make out cheekbones, eyes, lips. He stared, eyes narrowing.
"Can I… email myself a copy of this?"
The manager hesitated. "That's… I mean, that's normally not allowed..."
Vegeta turned his full attention on him, tone dropping an octave. "I'll pay triple whatever this lounge makes in a night."
A long beat.
"…Let me grab a flash drive."
Back in his car, Vegeta loaded the file to his phone and took a screenshot of her face.
Then opened his messages.
Raditz was first.
Vegeta: You still dating that tech chick who works PR for Capsule Corp?
Raditz: Yeah. Why? You tryna fight her too?
Vegeta: Ask her if she knows this woman. Works in R , engineering, or something. Possibly blue hair.
He attached the image.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Finally:
Raditz: Her name's Bulma Briefs. That's THE Bulma. Heiress. Capsule Corp royalty. Damn, bro… you in trouble?
Vegeta stared at the screen, jaw tight.
So she was someone important.
He leaned back in his seat, thumb hovering over her image.
No more mystery.
He had a name.
A face.
And a reason to make her give it back herself.
But part of him already knew
This was no longer about the wallet.