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

SIX YEARS LATER

T he tires crunch over the gravel as I turn off the main road and onto the long, winding drive I’ve known since before I even understood what roads were.

The Hayes estate always did feel like more than someone else’s home—it was part of my childhood. My second backyard. My second kitchen. My second family.

The horse pastures stretch out on either side of the drive, wide and open, dotted with fences that seem to go on forever. Late summer sun bathes the fields in gold, and like always, a few of the horses trot up to the fence to race me in.

Retired racers, still full of fire.

One of them breaks into a full gallop just for the hell of it, and I can’t help but grin as I downshift and keep pace.

Fitting.

This place has always been about speed. Strength. Power you can’t bottle.

I roll to a stop in front of the house, just outside the wide double doors, and kill the engine.

The silence afterward feels heavier than it should.

I swing a leg off the bike and pull off my gloves, tucking them into the side compartment before unhooking my helmet. My hair sticks to my forehead, sweat and heat pressing down after the ride, and I swipe a hand through it before turning toward the house.

My gaze lifts automatically to the second story window on the right—the one where the curtains were always drawn back.

Always occupied.

It’s empty. Has been for years now yet I still look.

I pull my backpack off, unzip it, and take out the bouquet—bright, obnoxiously colorful wildflowers that look like they were picked in a field by someone with no taste.

I balance them on the seat of my bike while I shrug off my jacket. The leather’s still warm from the road, and I sling it over my forearm before grabbing the flowers again.

“Hey, Ben!” I call out, raising my voice over the breeze as I spot the oversized caretaker leading a horse toward the stables.

Big Ben lifts a hand in acknowledgment, pausing just long enough for me to catch the familiar gleam of Dominion’s coat—the prize of the farm. All black, sleek as oil, with a stride that still looks like it could break records.

The fourteenth horse to win the Triple Crown, he’s a living legend.

I nod to both of them, then head toward the front door, twisting the handle and stepping inside without knocking.

“Honey, I’m home,” I call out, already knowing where they’ll be.

Sure enough, I hear the answer from the back room, Jonathan’s voice echoing down the hallway. “We’re in here, dickhead.”

A beat later, I hear Mrs. Hayes’s soft, familiar scolding—too quiet to make out the words, but I don’t need to.

Jonathan’s response is louder. “Sorry, Ma.”

I smile and shake my head, letting the door close behind me as the smell of vanilla and old wood settles into my chest.

I pause in the doorway of the library.

She’s right where she always is.

Lilly May Hayes.

Seated in her wheelchair by the tall arched window, blanket tucked neatly across her legs, posture proud even when her body refuses to be.

She looks smaller than the last time I saw her. More fragile. Her cheekbones sharper, her hands thinner, but her eyes—still sharp. Still hers.

It punches something right in the center of my chest.

I take a breath and throw on a grin, the kind I used to use to get out of trouble when I broke a lamp in this house.

“Well, Miss Lilly May Hayes ,” I say, laying it on thick with my worst Southern drawl as I step inside. “Still the prettiest lily in the bunch.”

Her lips curve faintly. Not much, but enough.

I kneel down beside her and hold out the bouquet, bright and messy, with a few pink lilies tucked in on purpose.

She places one thin hand on my cheek and pats it softly.

“Thank you for bringing the horses with you, Jackie.”

I follow her gaze to the window, where three of the mares still linger at the fence line, swishing their tails and sniffing the air like they’re waiting for a treat.

“Anything for my best girl,” I murmur, giving her a wink as I rise to my feet.

Heavy footsteps accompanied by the unmistakable clink of a tray announces the arrival of my biggest fan.

Cassidy Hayes enters carrying soup like it’s a weapon and her eyes lock on me the second she crosses the threshold.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just lifts her brows and offers me a spectacularly exaggerated eye roll—classic Cassidy, the human embodiment of unimpressed.

She places the tray in front of her mother with practiced precision, adding a glass of water and a tiny cup of pills like it’s a ritual.

“Mom,” she says gently, “please try to eat something, okay?”

She plucks the flowers from her mother’s lap without acknowledging me further and walks to the far cabinet to grab a vase.

I lean against the bookshelf, arms crossed. “So... you’re still using that ‘resting bitch face’ as a full-time personality trait, huh?”

She turns just enough to look at me, her eyes flat. “You still pretending you’re charming?”

“Ouch.” I press a hand to my chest. “You wound me.”

“Not nearly enough.” she fires back, plucking the stems and snipping the ends like she’s imagining it’s my neck instead.

“I have a pair of scissors in my hand, Jaxon.”

I hold up my hands in surrender, laughing as I take a step back.

Before she can say something sharper, Jonathan pushes through the opposite door at the far end of the library, flipping through some papers in a dark blue leather ledger.

“I figured I’d find you two in a standoff.”

“Three guesses who started it,” I’m talking to him but keeping my eyes on her.

Cassidy snips the shears at me like a threat. I wink back.

“Don’t need three,” he mutters, coming to a stop. “She eat anything yet?” He nods toward his mother.

Cassidy shakes her head, returning her attention to the flowers. “Not yet.”

We all fall quiet, the kind of silence that never really settles—just hangs heavy between the walls like smoke.

When someone you love is dying slowly, silence stops being peaceful. It becomes a place where all the unspoken things sit. The thank-you’s you haven’t said. The apologies you keep telling yourself you’ll get to. The grief you haven’t earned yet but feel anyway.

Jonathan clears his throat. The sound is short, clipped.

“Make sure she does.”

His voice is flat—curt—like he’s giving a directive to one of his junior associates and not his sister. Not the woman who wakes up in the middle of the night to adjust their mother’s blankets, who learned how to change IV lines off YouTube and heartbreak.

Cassidy doesn’t flinch.

She just nods once and keeps arranging the flowers.

Jonathan looks at me next, all steel and tension in his stance. “Come on. I need to talk to you.”

He’s already heading toward the other side of the library, toward the room that used to be their dad’s study and now doubles as Jonathan’s home office whenever he’s here.

I offer Cassidy a slow, mocking kiss from the air—fingers to lips, hand tossed wide like I’m onstage—and her eye roll is sharp enough to draw blood.

Worth it.

I follow Jonathan through the arched doorway, stepping into the cool quiet of the study.

He leaves the door mostly shut but not fully, as if that keeps things less serious somehow. Like cracked doors can soften hard conversations.

The room’s barely changed. Dark paneled walls. Overfilled bookshelves. The smell of scotch soaked into the floorboards.

Their dad died two years ago. Massive heart attack. Dropped right in his study chair, if I remember right. No warning. No second chance. One minute he was pouring bourbon, the next, gone.

Now their mother is slipping too, but slower—piece by piece.

Whether it’s the cancer or the chemo, no one can really say. The doctors go in circles while Lilly May fights tooth and nail with a soft smile and bones that look like they might splinter in a strong wind.

Jonathan takes a seat behind the desk and gestures toward the chair across from him.

I drop into it, sprawling like I own the place. “So, what’s the emergency? You finally need a tech guy to fix your printer?”

Jonathan doesn’t rise to it.

“I’m headed to the UK in a few days. Might be gone a few weeks.”

“Fancy CEO shit?” I ask, propping one ankle over my knee.

“London arbitration.”

“Sounds miserable.”

“It is.”

He opens a drawer and pulls out a stack of paperwork, sets it aside, and then finally looks at me.

“I need you to keep an eye on the house—on Cassidy while I’m gone.”

“Excuse me?”

Jonathan’s gaze stays fixed on the decanter as he pours himself a drink. Doesn’t even bother looking at me when he says, “Cassidy. Keep an eye on her while I’m gone.”

“No, I heard you.” I narrow my eyes. “Just trying to figure out why you think your grown sister needs a babysitter?”

“She’s been getting… reckless.”

I huff a laugh. “Cassidy?”

“She’s acting out,” he continues, voice flat. “Showing up late. Picking fights. Getting mouthy with people who don’t deserve it.”

I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “So… like she always has?”

Jonathan finally looks up at me, his expression unreadable. “I don’t want this stress falling on Mom. She doesn’t need any more of it.”

“And what exactly do you think I’m going to do? Ground her?”

“She listens to you more than she does me.”

I bark a short laugh. “She also can’t stand the sight of me. So if this is your plan for peace and quiet, you’ve officially lost it.”

Jonathan just takes another sip like he’s already somewhere else.

“She respects you,” he says flatly. “Even when she’s pissed.”

“That’s generous. She growls when I breathe too loud.” I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So what’s this really about? You scared she’s going to throw a rager while you’re gone?”

He cuts me a look over the rim of his glass. “I’m asking you to keep an eye on her. Stop by and check on mom and the house a few times. That’s all.”

“But why?” I press, my voice light, curious. “She’s not a kid. She’s a grown woman. Doesn’t exactly need a leash.”

I narrow my eyes, straightening off the wall. “She’s not stupid, Jonathan.”

“I didn’t say she was.” His tone sharpens just enough to warn me off. “I said she’s being impulsive. And that’s a risk I won’t leave unattended—not with Mom in the condition she’s in.”

I let the silence stretch a beat too long, then shrug. “Fine. I’ll babysit. But when she figures it out, I’m not stepping in when she starts swinging.”

“I trust you’ll manage.”

Oh, I will. And I plan on enjoying every second of it.

He turns away, back to whatever paperwork he’s pretending to read.

I pause at the door. “You sure there’s nothing else I should know?”

His pen doesn't stop moving. “Just keep her in line, Jaxon. That’s all I’m asking.”