Page 12 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

I t’s move-in day with Jaxon Kane.

A sentence I never thought I’d think to myself.

Not even in some long-lost daydream or “what if” fantasy. Certainly not like this—after standing on a stage and selling my virginity to the highest bidder.

God.

I still can’t believe it happened.

Can’t believe I looked up, in the middle of that blinding spotlight, and saw him walking down the aisle—storm in his eyes, fury in his stride.

It felt like being caught red-handed in the middle of the most reckless decision I’ve ever made.

Now, less than twenty-four hours later, I’m supposed to live with him for a month.

What the fuck am I doing?

I pull out my phone and open the banking app, checking to see if half a billion dollars has hit my account yet.

Of course it hasn’t.

Not that I expected it immediately, but still—I can’t help the flutter of nerves in my chest. The contract said half now, half at the end. After… we’ve…

I can’t even finish the thought without my stomach doing anxious cartwheels.

Jaxon Kane. One billion dollars. For my virginity.

It’s absurd. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

And I’m the one who made it happen.

I try not to think about what comes next. About what it means once the second half is paid. About what I will have to do.

Instead, I focus on packing.

One large suitcase for clothes. A duffel bag for shoes. My cosmetics bag, and my backpack with all the essentials—laptop, sketchbook, headphones, and three half-read books I won’t finish but bring anyway.

Once it’s all packed in the trunk of my car, I make my way inside for breakfast with my mom.

Or rather, I eat while she sips at her tea.

She looks well this morning. Slept better than usual, but there’s something off, something that makes her seem smaller. Paler. Could be the dark head wrap or the oversized black sweater swallowing her frame, but still… I notice.

The hair loss has been hard on her. The cold that never seems to leave her bones, even harder.

But her face lights up when she sees Saving Grace in the pasture, grazing with Dominion.

“Still think it was genius,” she says softly, cupping her mug. “Breeding those two. You’ll lock in the best bloodlines in the league.”

I smile as I chew, then swallow. “That was the idea.”

She nods, eyes distant for a moment.

“Cass… when I’m not here anymore…”

I stop breathing.

She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her gaze fixed on the horses.

“When that time comes, I want you to keep them going. Even if you don’t race them. Just… keep them. Take care of them. Make sure they’re loved.”

“Mom,” I say, too fast, too defensive. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m just saying?—”

“You’re not going anywhere.” My voice breaks, and I have to look down at my plate to pull it back together. “You’re going to get better. And when you do, we’ll race them together like we always have.”

She finally looks at me. Her smile is soft. Sad. But she nods.

“I’d like that.”

Not long after, she tells me she’s tired and heads back to bed. I help her to her room, tuck the blanket around her shoulders, and kiss her temple before slipping out again.

But I can’t leave yet.

I can’t face him yet. Not with a fucking hurricane swirling in my stomach.

So, instead of driving to his building, I head for the stables.

I climb the worn stairs to the second story—the old hay loft Daddy converted into my art room six years ago. It smells like pine and dust and acrylic paint, and the second I step inside, I breathe a little easier.

The emotions are piling up, too many to hold at once, so I pick up a brush.

Because painting is the only thing that makes me feel like I still belong to myself.

The strokes are bold. Chaotic. The colors clash—deep reds slashing across pale yellows, streaks of dark green cutting through swaths of violet.

It doesn’t look like it should make sense.

But it does to me.

I can see it, even if no one else ever will.

The gaping mouth. The fists tangled in long black hair. The motion in the blurs of paint, like wind or movement or panic caught mid-breath.

It’s a woman screaming.

Not outwardly—but from the inside.

It’s me, bleeding my inner turmoil onto canvas in broad, unrestrained brushstrokes.

I don’t know how long I’ve been painting.

When I finally step back, my legs are tight from standing too long, my hands are speckled in dried paint, and the sun has shifted halfway across the sky.

Shit.

It’s mid-afternoon.

I was supposed to leave hours ago.

If I don’t get going soon, Jaxon will probably send a damn SWAT team to find me. I wouldn’t put it past him.

I scrub my hands on a paint-stained towel and check on Mom before heading back to my car. I already staged the lie—told her I got commissioned for a piece by some downtown gallery. My first one.

Said they were setting me up with a furnished apartment for the month so I could focus and hit the deadline.

Her face lit up when I told her and that made my guilt increase tenfold. She’s the only one that supported my art. Told me I could do anything. How much talent I had. Made Daddy build the studio and buy me every color of paint available.

My brother always said it was a waste. Made me feel like the pictures in my mind were pointless. That going to college for my art was a hobby until I got married. Because that’s all I could be good for.

Being married and becoming a mom. Like my life had nothing else to offer but that.

Mom always wanted me to see how far I could go.

She was genuinely upset when I moved back in to take care of her. She wanted me to live my life. Not be stuck in limbo while she fights cancer.

How on earth would she ever think I could leave her like this. Especially with Daddy gone barely two years.

Even now, I want to stay. To tell Jaxon to fuck off and that I’m not leaving her. That I need to spend as much time with her as I can in case I never get to again.

But this is the only shot I have to fix what’s coming. To save the only home we’ve ever known.

That if she does close her eyes one day, if cancer wins, the last thing she’ll see is this place she loved so much.

With one look back at the house, I blow a kiss hoping the soft breeze carries it to Mom.

And then I leave before I can change my mind.

T he city rises up around me like a steel mirage. Towering glass and polished concrete, the buzz of wealth radiating from every corner.

I’ve never been inside Jaxon’s penthouse before. Just heard stories. Seen the occasional background in a photo from an afterparty or one of Jonathan’s rare humble-brag mentions.

But the building itself is massive. Intimidating. The kind of place that doesn’t just whisper money—it screams it through Italian marble and staff that anticipate your every need.

I pull up to the valet and barely roll down my window before someone steps forward and says, “Good afternoon, Ms. Hayes. Mr. Kane let us know you’d be arriving. We’ll take care of your bags.”

Of course he did.

They already know my name. Know my car. Like this is some kind of luxury hostage situation.

A uniformed man grabs my suitcase and duffel while another opens the driver’s side door. “We’ll park it in Mr. Kane’s private garage.”

Private garage.

Of course.

I climb out, smooth my shirt, and take a long, calming breath before stepping through the sleek glass doors. The lobby is all shadow and shine—dark granite floors, cascading lighting, minimalistic furniture that costs more than my entire wardrobe.

An attendant leads me to a private elevator at the back. Not just exclusive. Personal.

Because why wouldn’t Jaxon has his own elevator?

I roll my eyes as the doors glide shut behind us, sealing me in with the uncomfortable weight of my own reflection and the polite man seeing to my bags.

We begin the smooth, silent ascent to the top.

To him. To the man that is going to take my virginity.

My brother’s best friend. The man I once loved.

The elevator doors glide open, and I instantly hate it.

Not the penthouse.

The penthouse is… breathtaking.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire far wall, flooding the space with sunlight and a panoramic view of the city skyline. The furniture is modern but somehow comfortable—sleek lines, deep colors, oversized pillows arranged in curated chaos.

It smells like him.

Like cedar and bergamot and sinful confidence. Like he bottles his cologne and pumps it through the air vents. Or lights candles made from his ego and masculine rage.

Everything is warm wood and polished steel. There’s a living wall of greenery in one corner, an open kitchen that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine, and—of course—a breathtaking infinity pool on a private balcony.

Because what self-respecting man-child billionaire doesn’t need a pool for an endless rotation of bikini-clad houseguests?

Then I hear footsteps. That lazy gait I know better than I should. He comes out from the hallway wearing absolutely nothing but black jeans and a motorcycle helmet.

Tattoos crawl over his chest and arms like inked temptation. His skin gleams with a light sheen of sweat, his abs tight.

I lift my eyes back up and find he’s removed the helmet. His smug mouth halfway to a smirk.

I swear my ovaries try to claw their way out of my body.

“You shower in that thing?” I manage, proud I got the words out without openly drooling.

“Aww,” he teases, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “You trying to see me naked already, Crick?”

I narrow my eyes as he tips the valet a crisp hundred without breaking stride.

“Please. Don’t make me vomit.” We both know I’m a fucking liar. He’s gorgeous.

His smirk widens. “You’re just mad you liked the view.”

“I’ve seen better,” I lie.

Jaxon starts the tour like he’s hosting a real estate show.

“This is the living room. The balcony doors open fully. Whole indoor-outdoor thing. This”—he points to the glass-walled room filled with gym equipment—“is where I pretend to work through my daddy issues instead of going to actual therapy.”

“Impressive,” I say, dry. “Do you have a spreadsheet for emotional suppression, or is that just muscle memory by now?”

He leads me to the kitchen with the reverence of a man showing off a Lamborghini.

“I’m a danger in the kitchen so a chef keeps this stocked a few times a week,” he says, opening the fridge.

Glass jars line the shelves—layered salads with vibrant vegetables, little containers of dressing on the side. More glass containers with prepared meals, ready to heat and eat.

Every shelf is perfectly aligned, color-coordinated, and terrifyingly organized.

“You’re actually a serial killer, aren’t you?” I ask picking up a jar and inspecting it. “You even have OCD salads.”

He grins. “And yet you’re still here.”

“Under duress.”

Jaxon grabs my suitcase and duffel like they weigh nothing and heads toward a bedroom that’s on the other side of the penthouse to his.

The moment the door swings open, my breath catches.

All my stuff is already here.

My framed photos. My books. My clothes hanging in the closet—perfectly organized by color. My brush on the vanity. My favorite plush blanket draped over the foot of the bed.

“What the hell?”

“You were taking forever,” he says, shrugging. “Figured you needed help packing.”

“You went and got my things?”

“Pshht. No, I sent someone.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “And you’re welcome.”

“You realize this is only for thirty days, right?”

“Sure.” He shrugs but doesn’t look at me.

Just drops my duffel next to the bed and lingers in the doorway, arms crossed. Watching me.

“I want to know why,” he says eventually.

“Why what?”

“Why you did it. Why you went up there.”

I avoid his gaze, setting my cosmetics bag on the vanity. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I could hack you,” he says casually. “I could find out.”

“No, you won’t.” I turn and hold his stare. “You won’t invade my privacy like that. Idle threats don’t suit you.”

He grinds his jaw. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’re not exactly easy-breezy yourself.”

The air grows thicker. Every second that passes coils tighter between us.

I stare down at the bed, fidgeting with the zipper on my bag.

“So, um,” My voice is smaller when I finally ask, “When do you want to, um... do this?”

Theres a long pause but I can feel the shift in him. Like he went from Captain Annoying to Rico Suave in a blink.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he says, voice like silk-wrapped gasoline. “Can you be specific?”

“Seriously?” I snap, glaring at him. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I?” he tilts his head, pure menace and mischief.

“You’re infuriating.” I huff and I know I sound like a pouty brat. “You probably just plan on holding me hostage until the month is over, don’t you?”

He steps closer. Close enough that the heat from his body ghosts over my skin.

“Oh, I intend to get what I paid for, Cricket.” He steps behind me, his hands go to my arms and slide up them. I feel his nose in my hair as he takes a deep inhale, then lowers his mouth next to my ear.

His voice drops, dark and deliberate. “And you’ll beg me to do it.”

I lift my chin, refusing to back down as I turn and face him. “I won’t beg you for a single thing.”

His smirk is slow. Dangerous.

“Keep telling yourself that, baby.”