Page 13 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

S omething’s wrong.

I know it before I even open my eyes.

A high pitch warning going off in an endless shriek that pulls me from sleep.

There’s a weight in the air—thick and bitter—that scratches at the back of my throat and makes my nose wrinkle. Not the soft, warm scent of detergent and cologne that lulled me to sleep last night. This is something darker. Smokier.

Something is on fire.

My eyes snap open.

I jolt upright in bed, coughing once, then twice. The scent hits harder now. Smoke—undeniable and aggressive. Not the faint kind from a blown-out candle. The oh shit, the house is on fire kind.

I throw the blanket off, stumble to my feet, and rush for the door, nearly tripping over my duffel bag on the way out. My heart is hammering now, fully awake and fueled by panic. I don’t even think to grab a robe.

The hallway is hazy—soft gray streaks wafting through the morning light. Somewhere up ahead, there’s the unmistakable whoosh of a fire extinguisher being triggered and a string of muttered curses.

I follow the sounds, barefoot and wide-eyed, and round the corner into the kitchen and promptly stop dead in my tracks.

Jaxon Kane. Shirtless. Barefoot. Holding a bright red fire extinguisher like it’s an extension of him.

The stove is a literal inferno . Orange flames dance up the backsplash, licking toward the ceiling as smoke billows upward. He sprays the extinguisher at the base of the flames, eyes narrowed in concentration, face flushed with effort. Muscles tense, jaw tight, hair a mess.

He looks like a firefighter calendar shot gone very, very wrong.

He finally gets the fire under control—foam now coating half the kitchen—and lowers the extinguisher with a groan, panting, covered in a sheen of sweat and disaster.

He looks up, breathing hard. His hair is a mess. His tattoos glisten. His eyes meet mine—and even through the haze, I swear I see amusement crack the surface of his exasperation.

Then he nods toward the smoldering mess behind him and mutters, “Well... breakfast is ready.”

I blink at the scorched scene in front of me.

There’s nothing salvageable. Not a single pan or piece of food that doesn’t look like it crawled out of hell.

A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it—half amusement, half disbelief. “What was this supposed to be?”

Jaxon steps back and gestures vaguely at the wreckage, like he’s unveiling a masterpiece. “Eggs?” he says, hopeful.

I giggle again, covering my nose as he moves to the far wall and pushes open what I thought were just floor-to-ceiling windows.

But they glide outward on hidden hinges, turning into massive glass doors that disappear into the wall.

Suddenly, the smoke has somewhere to go—and the balcony becomes part of the living room, flooding the space with fresh air and sunlight.

“I’ve never in my life seen anyone catch eggs on fire,” I say, still staring at the battlefield of his stove.

He shrugs, not even a little embarrassed. “I’m a man of many talents.”

His eyes drop, trailing down the length of me. I suddenly remember I’m standing in nothing but an oversized t-shirt—no bra, no pants, and definitely no defense against the heat in his gaze. The air between us tightens, charged with something I know better than to touch but can’t help breathing in.

His brow arches. “Turn around.”

“No.”

This isn’t just any shirt and we both know it. I suddenly want to kick myself in the ass for wearing it but I didn’t even think of it. Because I sleep in this shirt more than anything else.

He steps forward slowly, a predatory glint in his eye. “Turn around, or I swear to God I’ll force-feed you the charcoal eggs.”

I back up a step, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Reluctantly I turn because it would look ridiculous if I tried to walk backward all the way to my room. I nearly feel his gaze on me just as hot as the fire a moment ago.

“Is that…” he pauses, voice a little hoarse. “You sleep in my shirt, Cricket?”

God I’m so fucking stupid.

I glance over my shoulder. “It’s just an old shirt.”

We know it’s not. It’s his. His old baseball shirt with his name on the back. “KANE” and the number “18”. My birthday.

I’ve always wanted to ask if he picked the number or if they gave it to him. But I’d die first.

Jaxon had bought a house for himself and his mom, Sandy. I was barely thirteen and he was celebrating with a pool party. Jonathan pushed me in at night when the swimming was over. My clothes were soaked, and he gave me this shirt. A pair of boxers too.

Our parents came to pick us up and he told me to keep them. And I did.

He takes another step closer. “Just an old shirt huh?”

“Yup.” I swallow hard, crossing my arms over my chest to hide my nipples that are hardening with each second. “I didn’t even pay attention when I put it on.”

Another step. “Sure you didn’t.”

His eyes drop again, and for a second, I think he might kiss me—right here in the smoke-scented kitchen, with the fire extinguisher still on the counter and a burned pan still hissing behind us.

But instead, he backs off, and leans against the kitchen island. Stomach muscles flexing as he’s still calming his breathing.

“Get dressed,” he nods toward my bedroom door. “I’ll take you to breakfast.”

B ack at Jaxon’s apartment, he disappears behind his office door, mumbling about a few meetings and that he won’t be long.

I head to the guest room—the one that’s mine for the next thirty days—but I barely make it past the bed before my phone buzzes with an alert.

I freeze when I see the bank notice of a deposit.

$500,000,000.

I blink, then blink again, thinking maybe my eyes are playing tricks. Maybe there's a glitch. Maybe the comma’s in the wrong place. But no—it’s real. All of it.

Half a billion dollars.

And change.

In my name.

It doesn’t even register at first. I sit down, phone still in hand, and try to catch my breath.

And this is only half.

Half of what my virginity was apparently worth.

That thought alone is enough to send me spiraling. But I don't let myself go there. I can’t. Not right now.

Because this money—this unimaginable, world-altering amount—could fix everything.

Not just the house but… everything.

I pull myself together, change into jeans and a t-shirt, and send Jaxon a quick message letting him know I’ll be out for a bit.

By the time I pull up to the house, my nerves are a wreck. It looks the same as it always has—but at the same time it doesn’t. It looks different.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in my veins. Or maybe it’s the task I’ll have to carry out soon that enabled me to have this money.

I make a beeline straight to the art studio, where I hid the mortgage papers.

After I threw them on Jonathan’s floor, and he left for the UK, I went back in there for them. That was careless to just leave them around for someone to find. To take to mom and give her stress she doesn’t need.

He had taken the letter with my doctor’s exam with him and I clinch my jaw remembering it was gone.

My heart clenches as I call the mortgage company and start the transfer. The process is mechanical—routing numbers, security codes, verification steps—but my hands shake the entire time. Every second feels like a countdown. Like someone’s going to call and say it’s too late.

But then…the transfer is complete.

And just like that, the mortgage is gone. Paid. Cleared. No more foreclosure notices. No more threats. No more shame.

I press my palms to my face and let out a shuddering breath. Tears burn at the edges of my eyes—grief and relief tangled up in one overwhelming release.

This house was never just a structure. It’s memories. It’s safety. It’s my mother’s final years.

And for a terrifying moment, I thought I’d failed her. And my dad.

I allow myself to cry—just for a moment. For what we almost lost.

But I hear Ben downstairs with Grace and I suddenly feel so selfish. Since finding those papers, I’d only been worried about this house. About us. I hadn’t even thought of Ben.

He lives here too. For decades, he’s lives on the property and taken care of the horses.

If Jonathan stopped paying the bills, he probably hasn’t pain Ben either.

Ben is brushing Grace when I find him, her pale-blonde coat glinting under the late sun. He glances up with a crooked smile as I approach.

“I didn’t know you were here, Cass.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say, running a hand down Grace’s neck. She nuzzles me, always so sweet and aware.

There’s a knot forming in my gut but I have to ask.

“Has Jonathan been behind on your pay?”

Ben hesitates, eyes drifting to the horizon. “Well… yeah,” he admits, voice quiet. “Last few months have been a little light. I figured, with everything going on with your mama, maybe it just slipped through the cracks.”

It didn’t slip.

It was ignored.

I swallow the rage and the guilt, pull out my phone, and open the banking app again. “I’m paying you today. The full amount. Plus a bonus.”

He protests, of course. Says it’s not necessary, says I don’t have to do that.

But I do.

I do because it’s the right thing. Because he’s earned it a hundred times over. Because he stayed when everything else was falling apart.

He grips my shoulder after the transfer goes through and says something about my father being proud. I can’t look at him when he does. I think if I do, I’ll cry again.

Inside the house, I find Shanae in the kitchen.

Her expression shifts the second I ask the same question. She doesn’t try to lie. Just smiles that knowing, tired smile and tells me not to worry.

I pay her too. Quietly. No fanfare. And I make her promise not to tell my mother.

“She doesn’t need the stress,” she agrees, squeezing my hand. “And I already knew. Don’t worry—I’ve been keeping it from her.”

We go over the care schedule for next week since I won’t be around much.

She asks about my art commission and I change the subject to ask her to arrange another overnight nurse to help fill the gaps. She’s already on it.

It shouldn’t surprise me, how on top of things Shanae is. It never does. But it still makes me grateful every damn time.

My mother is sitting by the window when I check on her, a book in her lap and her eyes on the pasture beyond. The horses move slowly in the golden light, grazing near the fence.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says softly, looking up.

“Hi, Mama.” I lean down, kiss her forehead, and settle the blanket around her legs. “You good here for a bit?”

She nods. “I’ve got everything I need.”

I stay there a little longer, just to breathe in the comfort of her presence. Of her voice. Of this moment that could’ve so easily slipped through my fingers.

When I finally pull away, I head back to the studio—my space, my sanctuary.

That feeling of drowning is threatening to pull me away. And there is only one place I can let it all go.