Page 14 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

T he Italian takeout is going cold on the counter, untouched, the smell turning my stomach the longer it sits. Her favorite place. The one she used to beg for when we were younger—extra garlic knots, creamy pasta, the kind of food that sticks to your ribs and tastes like home.

But the box is still closed. The food untouched.

And the girl it was meant for is still not fucking here.

I call her again.

Straight to voicemail.

Again.

I pace the length of the kitchen, jaw clenched so tight I can feel the tension pulsing behind my teeth. Every step is a fight not to let this get under my skin.

It was hours ago when she texted she was going out.

I didn’t see it and then when I replied and asked about dinner, she didn’t answer. No big deal. I can make a decision without her.

I ordered food while maintenance erased the rest of the evidence that I nearly burned the entire building down this morning. Only a few cabinet doors needed to be replaced so no big deal.

It was fine until my mind started working against me. Where she was. If she had another date. What is going on that’s she’s hiding. Refusing to tell me why she did all this to begin with.

When the door finally opens, I don’t think—I just react .

She strolls in like nothing’s wrong and hums some quiet tune under her breath as she kicks off her shoes.

Like I haven’t been pacing this fucking apartment for hours wondering where she was.

“Where the hell have you been?”

She blinks at me, eyebrows lifting like I just accused her of murder. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been calling you.”

Her arms fold across her chest, slow and deliberate. “And?”

“And you didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to report for parole, officer.”

I stare at her, stunned at the calmness in her tone. At the sheer audacity of it. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant,” she shoots back, stepping further into the kitchen for a bottle of water.

“You were gone for hours, Cassidy.”

She takes a drink of water, clearly set on ignoring me now.

I shake my head, jaw tight. “You don’t get to ghost me like I’m no one.”

Cassidy whirls on me, eyes narrowed like she can already see the fight coming. “I didn’t ghost you. I went out.”

“Without telling me.”

“I didn’t know I needed your permission.”

“You don’t,” I snap. “You just needed to say something.”

She throws her hands up. “Why? Why do you care so much?”

I don’t answer.

Because I can’t say what I’m actually thinking. That I was worried. That every minute she was gone felt like a punch to the gut not knowing who she was with. That I hate how easily she can still make me feel like I’m helpless and pissed off and obsessed.

But I don’t say any of that.

Instead, I fall back on the one thing I know she can’t argue with.

“Look—if this isn’t working for you, Cricket…” I pause, letting the silence stretch. “Feel free to cancel the contract. Give the money back.”

Her expression shifts.

Sharp. Wounded. Defensive.

She crosses her arms, hugging herself like it’s the only thing keeping her from throwing something. “Are you serious right now?”

“You don’t want to be here? You have a way out.”

“I’m not giving the money back,” she says, every word coated in fury.

“Then I own you, Crick.” I step into her space making her look up at me. “I own this body.” I run the back of my finger down her cheek.

She parts her mouth and I zero in on it. My finger continuing the light trail I’m blazing down her. Touching her in a way I never have before.

“I own your time.”

My finger slides over her full lip and I want to take it between my teeth. I keep going down her neck, over her collarbone before I flatten my hand on her chest. Dragging back up her neck, I reach around and grab and fistful of hair at the base of her skull and pull.

“And soon,”

I step into her fully, my body flush against hers and I can see her pulse racing at her neck. I drag my nose up the column of her throat and when she gasps, my cock twitches.

“Soon, I’ll own this pussy.” I step back and look her dead in her green eyes, full of fire and now… also arousal.

“So you can answer a fucking text message.”

Her jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle ticking.

“Got it, Cricket?” I let go of her hair but I don’t step away.

She holds my stare, letting me feel the full extend of her anger before she finally answers—through gritted teeth—“Fine. I’ve got it.”

I nod once, cold and sharp. “Good.”

She turns, storming toward the bedroom, but tosses the last word over her shoulder like a live grenade.

“Good.”

The door slams shut behind her.

I smell bacon before I even round the corner.

For a split second, I think maybe she’s trying to make peace but when I step into the kitchen, that hope dies a quick, brutal death.

She’s at the stove, moving with slow, deliberate ease—like she has all the time in the world and not a single thought about me. Her back is to me. No greeting. No glance. Just that same infuriating silence that’s hung between us since last night.

And on the island is one plate.

One fork.

One cup of orange juice.

One cup of coffee already poured and waiting.

Everything about it screams intentional.

She finishes plating her food and moves past me without even brushing my shoulder. Takes her spot at the counter, slides onto the stool, and eats like I’m not standing five feet away watching her pull a power play with scrambled eggs.

Wow. You can make eggs without turning them into a nuclear bomb.

Whoop-de-fuckin’-doo.

I grab a bowl from the cabinet, fill it with the first cereal I see, splash some milk in the bowl and lean against the fridge like I couldn’t care less.

And I don’t. I don’t even want bacon.

We exist like that for a while—her slowly slicing into her toast with unnecessary precision, me making sure the fridge doesn’t escape while I crunch through my breakfast like I’m chewing nails.

When she finally stands, I think maybe she’s done with this little game—maybe she’s ready to apologize before retreating back to her room.

But instead of walking away, she turns to the coffee pot.

She pours the last cup—I didn’t get any coffee yet, but whatever—and wraps both hands around the mug like she’s savoring a private victory. Her movements are slow, precise, like she knows I’m watching and wants me to feel every second of it.

Then she glances at the fridge.

The creamer’s behind the door. She knows it. I know it.

Still, I stay exactly where I am, shoulder propped lazily against the stainless steel, bowl of cereal in hand, doing my best impression of someone utterly unbothered.

She doesn’t say a word.

Neither do I.

I lift another spoonful to my mouth, focusing on the sugary swirl of colors and the dull scrape of metal against ceramic—anything but the fact that I can feel her next to me. She’s standing close enough to reach the handle, but not quite close enough to push me out of the way.

For a moment, I think maybe she’ll give up. Maybe she’ll wait.

But no.

She opens the other fridge door.

It swings wide—faster than it needs to—and clips my elbow right as I bring the spoon to my mouth.

The impact jolts my arm and launches a full arc of cereal into my face. Cold milk splashes across my chest, dripping in lazy trails down my abs before hitting the floor in a slow, humiliating patter.

A fluorescent-colored ring sticks to my cheek. A purple one lands in the waistband of my sweats.

There’s a bright green one perched on my knuckle like a silent witness to me being slapped in the face by some fucking cereal.

She remains completely silent.

Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pause as she reaches into the opposite door, takes the creamer from its place, and pours it into her coffee like nothing happened.

And I just stand there, staring over the top of her head as she moves. My face still wet. Milk sliding down my side. Cereal clinging to my skin like a goddamn garnish.

She returns the bottle to its spot in the door, gently closes it, and walks away without so much as a glance in my direction.

Her steps are unhurried. Her mug is full. Her expression remains unreadable.

And I don’t say a thing.

Not because I’m not pissed—I am. I’m fucking furious, and sticky, and dangerously close to launching this entire bowl into the sink.

But I’m not going to break.

She’s the one who started this. She’s the one who walked away yesterday. And I’m not giving her the satisfaction of thinking I’ll be the one to cave.

Not a fucking chance.

I’ll choke on this fucking cereal if I have to but she’s going to be the one that cracks first.