Page 10 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

T o say I’m nervous doesn’t quite cover it. My heart hasn’t stopped racing all day, and I’ve run through this plan so many times it hardly feels real anymore.

I’ve almost backed out more times than I can count but still—I’m here—about to sell my virginity off to the highest bidder.

Last night, right after Jaxon dropped me off, I went straight to Jonathan’s room. He’s in the UK for the next month, and I didn’t bother being careful. If Jaxon knew about The Black Ledger, there was a good chance Jonathan did too.

It didn’t take long to find his tablet tucked in the nightstand and I’ve known his password for years so I went right in.

At first, I told myself I was looking for answers— about the mortgage, about everything. But I kept focus on the auction and finally, I found something. A booking confirmation from a few weeks ago.

I remembered the date—some fancy black-tie event following a golf tournament. Jonathan said it was for networking. It wasn’t. It was an escort bought through The Black Ledger.

The realization hit slow and sharp. If Jonathan had used it… Jaxon probably had too. That thought stayed with me longer than I wanted to admit.

I clicked the link into the client portal and saw his full history—dates, payments, preferences. Things I didn’t want to know.

But I also found what I needed.

The Black Ledger’s downtown address. And an invite to the upcoming auction, disguised as a charity gala.

Jonathan had RSVP’d no and I actually felt relieved—briefly.

But the auction was real. And so was everything it represented.

By the time the sun rose, I knew what I was going to do.

I’d show up in person. I’d find whoever was in charge and I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Because like it or not, this was the only option I had left.

Now that I’m here—wrapped in a red sequin gown that clings like sin and catches the light with every breath—I can’t stop retracing the steps that brought me to this moment, wondering if any of them were the right ones.

Then I remember Jonathan’s text from this morning.

No “How’s Mom?”

No “Where are we staying once the house is gone?”

Just a cold list of tasks like everything is normal, like our lives aren’t crumbling.

That was the final push.

I’m not just doing this to save our home—I’m doing it to make a statement. A defiant, furious fuck you to the person who left me to clean up his mess.

Eve finds me backstage as the current lot winds down. She’s dressed in a deep crimson gown, every detail immaculate, her presence quiet but commanding. The kind of beauty that turns heads and holds them. And she’s nothing like I expected.

Kind. Grounded. Even gentle.

She and another Companion, Sienna—closer to my age—spoke with me this morning. It wasn’t a sales pitch. It felt more like a soft checkpoint. They asked the right questions. Made sure I understood what I was walking into. And at every step, they reminded me I could walk away.

But I didn’t.

I never mentioned Jaxon. I couldn’t risk it.

He said this kind of thing wasn’t for him—that he wouldn’t be here. And I made sure it stayed that way. I shut off my location, silenced every notification, and put my phone on airplane mode before the Ledger team got to work.

And they didn’t hold back.

A full-body wax I wasn’t emotionally prepared for. A massage with oils I wanted to bottle and hoard. Then came the glam—hair, makeup, everything curated with precision. And finally, the red dress collection.

Gowns in every shade of scarlet, worn only by Companions beginning or ending contracts. Symbols, I’m told.

The one I chose—or maybe the one that chose me—fits like a secret. All shimmer and movement, as if I were dipped in heat and starlight.

It’s no wonder this place commands what it does. It’s not just luxury—it’s power. The exclusivity alone gives me hope that someone might pay enough to keep the bank from taking everything.

Hope that this choice, reckless as it feels, might still mean something more than shame.

The moment comes and I’m led toward the stage, but the curtain shields me from view.

I can hear the crowd—restless and humming with anticipation.

Voices overlap, a low thrum of wealth and want.

The lights beyond the velvet glow too bright to see past, but I catch a glimpse of tuxedos and tailored suits. Men with money. With appetites.

And they’re all waiting for me.

The auctioneer’s voice cuts through the noise, smooth and confident.

“She’s twenty-three years old. Smart. Stunning. A first-time Companion offering something this stage has never seen before.”

He lets the silence stretch, lets the tension tighten like a drawstring.

“This is a limited, one-time-only experience. No repeat bookings. No extensions. A singular, unforgettable event.”

My breath catches. My knees threaten to give way.

Eve steps beside me, her hand warm on the small of my back.

“Good luck, honey,” she says, soft and steady, and somehow, that helps.

The curtain rises and the lights blind.

I start my walk—each step carrying me deeper into the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

“Please welcome to the block…” A pause. “…Cassidy Hayes.”

The curtain lifts, and as the lights flood over me, a hundred hungry eyes lock on—my breath catches, knees nearly buckling under the weight of being watched, wanted, and appraised.

And the bidding begins.

Ten thousand.

It hits like a slap.

Not because it’s offensive—but because it’s real . This is happening. I’m standing on a stage in a designer dress, auctioning off the one thing I swore I’d never give away this way…to someone that doesn’t matter… and it starts at the cost of a used car.

A flick of a paddle and it jumps to twenty.

Then thirty.

I try to stay steady, rooted to the center mark just like Eve instructed. Don’t pace. Don’t fidget. Don’t act like prey.

But all I can think is— five million.

That’s what the farm is worth. The land.

The stables. The house my mother sketched on a napkin the week after she married my father.

Every inch of that property holds something sacred.

And if I want to keep it—if I want to give my mother a home to come back to when her next round of treatment is over—I have to reach that number.

Five million dollars.

That’s the prayer. The bargain I’m silently offering up to any god who might be listening.

Forty thousand.

Fifty.

The auctioneer’s voice rolls steady, and the bids trickle in like water building to a boil.

But they’re still crawling. I’ve seen the numbers from the earlier lots.

Most hovered in the tens of thousands. A few cracked six figures.

Eve broke two million, but it was a weeks-long contract and she has a following. A reputation.

I have none of that.

I’m just the hype piece. The mystery virgin. The final lot, saved for the end in hopes the novelty alone might make someone curious—or stupid—enough to bid higher.

Seventy-five thousand.

A hundred.

I force myself to breathe through it. To keep my expression soft and blank, my eyes drifting over the room like I’m above it all. But my heart is pounding so hard I feel it in my teeth.

I scan the space the best I can past the lights, looking for something— anything —to ground me.

And that’s when I see a silhouette, moving slowly up the center aisle. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders square. Casual. Purposeful.

At first, I think it’s just another bidder making his way toward the front for a better view.

But the closer he gets, the more the shape starts to crystallize.

The swagger. The build. The sleeves pushed to the elbows.

My stomach drops.

No.

No no no no no?—

Fuck.

He steps into the light, and my entire body goes still.

White button-down, open too far. Tattoos curling down his arms like smoke. The kind of fury in his eyes that turns blood cold.

Jaxon.

My worst-case scenario made flesh.

He’s not supposed to be here. He wasn’t coming . I shut off my location. I turned off my phone. I did everything to keep him from knowing.

And yet—here he is.

Looking at me like I’ve betrayed him.

Looking at me like I’m not a girl on a stage anymore… but a woman he intends to claim.

A man stands near the front and yells out, “Two hundred and fifty thousand!” like he’s announcing a Super Bowl touchdown.

Jaxon turns his head, slowly, toward the voice.

The guy’s grinning like he’s just started something. And maybe he has. Because there’s something loaded in the way he stares back at Jaxon—like they know each other. Like he wants to be seen. Like this isn’t about me at all.

My chest tightens.

Jaxon says nothing. Doesn’t flinch. Hands still in his pockets, jaw tight, gaze unreadable.

Then he turns back to me.

I can see that calm, careful rage simmering just beneath his skin. The kind that doesn’t explode—it erupts .

“Five hundred thousand,” he says flatly.

And just like that, I know the gloves have come off.

The other man throws back seven-fifty. Then a million.

Every number he throws out, Jaxon doubles.

Two million.

Four.

Eight.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can't look anywhere but him.

Because Jaxon never takes his eyes off me. Not even when the auctioneer recites the totals with more and more disbelief. He’s locked in, throwing out numbers like they don’t matter. Like they’re loose change.

The room has gone silent around us, except for the gasps and murmurs. No one expected this and Christ, neither did I.

“Fifty million,” Elijah calls, his voice sharp and triumphant.

The entire audience loses it. People are whispering, stunned. Someone actually chokes on their drink and coughs.

I take a shaky step forward, lips parting. “Jaxon?—”

But he doesn't move. He’s planted like a monument of fury, every muscle coiled tight beneath that white shirt.

“One hundred million.”

“ Two hundred million.” The competitor boasts and that does it.

Jaxon exhales through his nose—slow, measured—then, to my utter horror:

“One billion dollars and…”

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, cracking it open like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Let’s see,” he says, pulling out cash fanning through the bills. “Two hundred and thirty-three dollars and…”

He pauses to dig in his pocket.

Yes. His actual pocket.

The man pulls out change.

“…Seventy-four cents.”

And then— he throws it.

The bills flutter like confetti as they scatter to the ground at the man’s feet, coins hitting the marble with a metallic clatter.

The room erupts .

Gasps. Laughter. Someone in the back actually yells, “Holy shit.”

Jaxon turns his body fully toward his competitor, hands shoved casually back in his pockets.

“Say another fucking number,” he growls, voice low and sharp as a knife. “And I’ll double it again, Elijah. Fucking try me.”

The guy opens his mouth—then closes it. Swallows hard.

Jaxon has him and he knows it.

Everyone does.

The auctioneer—who’s been riding this chaos like it’s the Kentucky Derby—steps in with perfectly timed drama.

“Going once…”

Silence.

“Going twice…”

The tension cracks like thunder.

“…Sold.”

His voice rings out like a gavel.

“To Mr. Jaxon Kane.”