Page 39 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

T he wind is screaming in my ears, the roar of the bike swallowing everything else. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been riding—just gunning it down the open stretch, leaning into the curves, letting the speed strip me bare. The faster I go, the less room there is in my head for her words.

I don’t mean to end up here.

The bike idles to a stop at the edge of the old airport, the place I brought her. Our spot. The one I’ve never shared with anyone else. The one where, for a little while, I thought I’d found something I didn’t even realize I was missing.

My chest feels like it’s going to split right down the middle.

It couldn’t have been fake.

You can’t fake that.

You can’t fake heat so sharp it burns through you, or the kind of fire that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.

You can’t fake the quiet after, when her head was on my shoulder and I finally—finally—felt like I wasn’t just existing anymore.

I felt whole. Whole, after years of being nothing but splintered pieces.

My phone chimes.

The sound snaps me out of it, my gaze dragging to the screen.

CLARA - GALLERY: Let me know when you’re coming to pick up Cassidy’s pieces.

They’re amazing.

I blink, the words taking a second to register. The paintings. I almost forgot about those.

Another message pings before I can reply.

CLARA - GALLERY: If she’s interested, there’s a few buyers lined up.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I don’t know if I’m doing this for her or for me. Maybe both. Maybe I just need some part of her that isn’t poisoned by whatever the hell happened today.

Finally, I type back.

JAXON: I’ll be there in a few.

I pocket the phone, fire up the bike again, and pull away from the airstrip. But the truth is, no matter how far I ride, I’m still there—with her—in that moment when everything felt like it was ours.

And I’m not ready to let it go.

T he bell over the door gives a soft chime as I step inside the gallery. The smell of fresh varnish and coffee hits me first, the air too still, too clean.

Clara’s behind the counter, bright smile already forming. “That was quick.”

I force something that might pass for a smile. “Yeah. Just…figured I’d get it done.”

She chats as she walks me through, telling me she’ll wrap everything carefully, that Cassidy’s work has gotten a lot of attention. I nod at the right places, pretending I’m listening, pretending I’m alive.

When she disappears into the back, the pretense falls away.

The room feels cavernous without anyone in it. I head for the space where her pieces were displayed—where I’d planned to surprise her. It had been perfect in my head. It ended in disaster.

The largest one is still hanging, dominating the wall. I drop onto the bench in front of it, my elbows braced on my knees.

Cassidy downplays her art. Calls them silly paintings, nothing serious. But they’re not. They’re her. The parts she hides. The beauty, the chaos, the raw, unfiltered emotion she locks away from the world.

I stare until my eyes blur. And then something starts to feel…off.

Not wrong. Not bad. Just…not right.

I tilt my head. The composition looks strange, unbalanced. Then it hits me—the damn thing is upside down.

I’m on my feet before I can think, fingers finding the frame. I ease it off the wall, careful not to damage it, and rotate it.

And the second it’s upright, it slams into me like a train.

It’s Cassidy. No doubt in my mind.

A bride, bleeding out on the steps of a cathedral. Her white veil dissolves into a river of red that snakes down the stairs.

It’s not abstract. It’s not open to interpretation. It’s intentional. Specific.

The air gets sucked right out of the room. My lungs forget how to work.

I take out my phone, snap a picture, and run it through my AI engine. I don’t build the most powerful tech on the planet for nothing.

I isolate the chapel windows—tall, ornate, stained glass. Restrict the search to New York. Nothing.

Expand to the US. Still nothing.

Then it clicks—Jon’s been in the UK.

I run it again and… bingo.

There it is. Clear as day.

My knees hit the floor in front of the painting before I realize I’ve moved, like I’m praying to it.

Her brother sold her off to be someone’s bride… so she sold off a piece of herself first. On her terms.

That’s it. That has to be it.

The rage comes fast, soldering the cracks in my heartbreak into something solid. Unshakable.

I stand and hit Lucian’s number.

“Well, that was quick,” he answers.

“How fast can you have someone in London?” My voice is steady. Deadly.

“Send me an address. They’ll be there before dinner.”

“I’ll have an address soon.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

I hang up, already calling my senior engineer.

“Get the interns into a war room and spin up a bridge,” I order as I push out of the gallery, the door swinging shut behind me. I swing a leg over my bike, and it rumbles to life under me.

“We’re going hunting,”