Page 30 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

I ’m in love with her.

I haven’t fully said it to myself—not out loud, not even in my own head without qualifiers—but it’s been there for a long time. Maybe forever.

I’ve danced around it. Convinced myself it was too soon, too messy, too dangerous. But the truth? There’s no one else. There never has been.

I know I need to tell her everything. About that night at the party six years ago. Why I did what I did. That I love her. That I don’t want these thirty days to end.

I don’t give a damn about the contract. I never have. I just want her.

So tonight, I’ve planned something. A night out, and a surprise.

I texted her earlier: Be ready at 8 p.m.

She immediately tried to pry for details, but I didn’t give an inch.

When she pushed harder, I teased her: Tell me the secret ingredient, and I’ll tell you the surprise.

Of course, she stayed stubborn, refusing to cave.

Fine, I told her. I’ll send something to the penthouse for you.

The dress arrived less than an hour later—a deep emerald that will make her eyes burn brighter than the city lights. The cut will hug every curve I can’t stop thinking about, like it was sewn for her and only her.

Now I’m waiting on the rooftop of Ember and Ash, a swanky, exclusive steakhouse tucked inside a lavish hotel one of my buddies owns. The whole space is lit in a soft golden glow—overhead fixtures humming low and steady, fire torches flickering against the warm summer night.

My phone buzzes from my driver with a text they’ve arrived.

A few moments later, the hotel’s ma?tre d’ leads her through the glass doors and into the rooftop’s open air.

And fuck… I wasn’t ready for her.

She’s a vision.

More beautiful than I even let myself imagine.

She steps out onto the rooftop, the soft light catching on every glimmer of that dress, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

“Jesus, Cricket… you’re beautiful.” My voice is low, reverent. “More than beautiful.”

Her lips curl into a smile. “You clean up nice yourself, Kane. All black, huh?” Her gaze slides down me, slow and deliberate. “Trying to look dangerous?”

I smirk. “No trying necessary.”

She laughs, and I take her hand, bringing her knuckles to my lips. “I’ve been staring at this dress all day in my head. You managed to make it look better.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush. The ma?tre d’ appears with perfect timing, and I release her hand only long enough to pull out her chair.

The first course arrives—plated like art, flavors that hit like fireworks. I expect nothing less from one of Manhattan’s richest men… after me, of course.

Dinner flows easily. No pretense, no roles, no games. Just her and me. We talk, we laugh—easier than I thought possible—and somewhere between her biting into a perfectly seared steak and me stealing the last roasted carrot from her plate, I know it with certainty.

She’s it.

I need to make her mine. Forever.

But every time I think about starting the conversation—about telling her what happened six years ago and why I did it—the words get stuck. I tell myself I’ll wait for the right moment.

After dessert, the low hum of music drifts through the rooftop speakers. I know the playlist by heart—I made it. Which is why I’m already grinning before she even tilts her head and says, “Is this… the Glee soundtrack?”

I shrug. “Might be.”

She laughs, shaking her head, but then Marry You starts, and I can’t resist. I catch her wrist and pull her to her feet before she can protest.

“I don’t dance,” she says, already trying to dig her heels in.

“Good thing I do.” I spin her once, then pull her close, while I sing along. She’s stiff at first, hesitant, but a few steps later she’s laughing, letting me twirl her again.

When the song slows toward the end, I pull her back in, lowering my voice.

“’Cause it’s a beautiful night. We’re looking for something dumb to do. Hey baby…”

She’s smiling at me, waiting for me to say the line.

I think I wanna marry you.

But I don’t. I lean in and kiss her instead.

The city stretches out below us, lights glittering like spilled diamonds. She leans on the railing, catching her breath as the wind teases her hair, and I can’t stop watching her.

When the last sip of wine is gone and the night air has cooled just enough to make her shiver, I take her hand and lead her toward the exit.

Her heels click against the stone until we reach the street. My driver waits beside the limo.

I open the door, but instead of letting her in, I spin her around and pin her gently against the sleek black frame. Her breath catches, eyes wide, right before I kiss her—slow and deep, tasting wine and something far sweeter.

When I pull back, my voice is rough. “Let’s get going, beautiful.”

She turns to climb in, but I can’t resist. My hand slides over the curve of her ass, giving it a deliberate squeeze. She squeals, swatting at me as she ducks into the car.

I follow, grinning like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.

God, I hope I don’t fuck this up.

T he limo slows, pulling up in front of an old brick building wedged between a taller one that’s just as aged and a sleek glass-front structure on the other side. No signage. No flashing lights. Just brick, shadows, and curiosity tightening her features.

I step out first, offering my hand to help her down. “It’s an art gallery,” I tell her. “There’s a special artist being featured tonight.”

Her brows lift slightly, and I guide her toward the door where Clara waits, sharp as ever in a fitted black dress. Clara’s work fills the front of the exhibit—bold, unapologetic pieces that demand attention.

Clara’s a former Ledger Companion, retired and on fire in the art world now, with Lucian as one of her biggest contributors.

“Cassidy, meet Clara,” I say, watching their hands clasp.

“It’s a pleasure,” Clara says warmly. “Enjoy the featured works in the back. They’re… worth it.”

Cassidy drifts inside like the space belongs to her, eyes catching on every canvas. She walks slow, studying each piece, taking in the brushstrokes, the layers, the texture. I can see the gears turning—how she’d paint it, how she’d mix the colors.

I’ve been waiting all night for what’s coming.

We round the corner into the back gallery, and she’s talking to me about the last painting’s technique, her hands gesturing as she explains.

Then she sees them.

Her paintings.

Her mouth parts, eyes wide, her gaze locking on the display like she’s seeing ghosts.

“I had some help from Shanae picking a few out,” I say, stepping closer, ready to watch her light up.

But she doesn’t.

She’s not amazed—she’s… horrified.

Her eyes fix on the largest canvas. The one she’s been hiding away, working on in the studio I set up for her.

Tears pool instantly, shimmering in the gallery light. “Why would you do this?”

“Baby, what—” My confusion hits like a brick. This is not how I saw tonight going.

Her gaze darts to the people milling about, glancing at her work. Her hand clamps over her mouth like she’s holding in a sob, and the tears break free, sliding down her cheeks.

Fuck.

“Cassidy, I’m sorry?—”

“How could you do this to me?” Her voice is soft but laced with a gut punch that nearly knocks the air from my lungs.

She turns, moving fast, and I’m right on her heels.

She bursts outside into the cooler night air, but I catch her arm, turning her toward me. “Talk to me.”

Her arms fold across her chest, her whole body curling in like she’s bracing against something. “Those are private, Jaxon.”

The words slice clean. She looks so much smaller like this, and I hate it—hate that I put that expression on her face.

“Cass, I’m sorry,” I say, reaching to smooth my hands down her arms, desperate to pull her back into me—into the warmth we had all night.

But she flinches like my touch burns. Turns away, hugging herself. Shutting me out.

“Can we just go home?”

The words are quiet, but they gut me.

I stand there for a beat too long, trying to process how the hell this all went sideways. I’d pictured her lighting up when she saw the walls filled with her work—beaming, proud, maybe even a little overwhelmed, but in a good way. I wanted tonight to be special. Something she’d never forget.

I guess I got the unforgettable part right. Just not the way I intended.

“Is this about… I know there is something you’re not telling me, baby.”

I search her face for a crack in her armor, for any sign that maybe this is just initial shock and I can explain. But her expression is locked down tight—hurt, angry, something deeper I can’t put my finger on.

“Cass…” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to, almost pleading. “It wasn’t about showing them off to anyone else. It was about showing you what I see when I look at you. What you’re capable of. You don’t know how fucking good you are?—”

Her head shakes once, sharp. “Please, Jaxon. Just… take me home.”

That please isn’t soft. It’s a wall slamming shut.

My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. My hands curl at my sides because if I touch her again and she pulls away, I’m not sure I can take it.

I swallow the hundred things I want to say—explanations, apologies, the truth about why I wanted this night, about how long I’ve loved her. None of it will land right now.

I give her one last look, committing every detail of her to memory in this moment—not the one I wanted, but the one I’ve got—then I nod.

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

I open the limo door for her, letting her slide inside first. The driver catches my eye in the rearview, but I shut the door on whatever question he’s got sitting on his tongue.

Tonight was supposed to be hers.

And now I’m terrified it still is—just for all the wrong reasons.