Page 5 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

I watch him from the kitchen window.

Jaxon moves with the same cocky swagger he’s had since we were kids. Arrogant. Infuriating. The kind of man who’s always had too many girls, too much charm, and not nearly enough accountability.

He hasn’t changed a bit.

Six-four with shoulders build to rest your legs on them.

His body is carved from stone and he’s always wearing that smirk that’s probably trademarked by now.

He’s not just some kid who came to our house with his mom when we were little.

He’s Jaxon fucking Kane . Master of his own tech domain, and girls who clearly don’t care about being discarded the next morning.

I scoff and toss yesterday’s tabloid in the trash. Face down, so I don’t have to look at Jaxon with yet another picture-perfect model on the cover. I swear he has a life goal to never be seen with the same woman twice.

And yet…

As he swings one leg over the seat of his bike and leans forward to fire up the engine, I wonder—just for a second—what it would feel like to climb on behind him.

To wrap my arms around his waist, press my face against the back of his leather jacket, and feel the hum of the road vibrate through my bones.

Jesus.

I shake the thought out like it’s poison, disgusted with myself.

God knows how many other girls have sat on that seat. It probably needs to be bleached.

You’d think I’d be over him by now. It’s been six years since he humiliated me. Six years since he shattered whatever leftover feelings I had into dust and ash. I told myself I was done that night—done with him, with everything he stood for. I’ve stuck to that.

Mostly.

Except for when he shows up here like nothing ever happened, like he didn’t twist the knife in my gut and smile while he did it.

Still. That doesn't stop me from watching him leave. Doesn’t stop me from feeling something warm in my chest when he looks up at my bedroom window. The one I used to sit at and draw.

He straps his helmet on and guns the engine, kicking up gravel as he disappears down the drive. Popping a wheelie while several of the horses dart after him, racing down the fence line.

God, I hate him.

But I hate myself more for remembering how much I used to love him. Or at least thought I did.

The sound of the kitchen side door opening jolts me out of the thought.

Shanae steps in, balancing two cloth tote bags on her arms and kicking the door shut with her heel. “Got your oat milk, fresh ginger, and those weird probiotic gummies she likes.”

“Thanks,” I say, moving to help her unload. “She managed a few bites of soup earlier. Kept it down.”

Shanae hums, setting the bags on the counter. “Then tonight’s mission is orange marmalade. I’m thinking hot biscuits, maybe a little bone broth to sip with it. Sweet and savory—she won’t be able to resist.”

“She might,” I murmur. “She didn’t sleep much last night. She’s tired.”

Shanae pauses, watching me carefully. “Which is exactly why you should take the night off. Go be twenty-three. Go be a little reckless. Put on something short and make bad decisions.”

I let out a weak laugh. “You are such a bad influence.”

“You need one. Otherwise you’ll shrivel into an old crone before your time.”

I smile at her teasing and turn to the bread drawer to make myself a quick sandwich—but the smile drops the second I see what’s hidden inside.

Wedged behind a half-empty bag of rye, is a stack of unopened envelopes. The one on top I recognize. The results from my doctor’s exam.

The other’s, the return address reads Delancey Mortgage Services .

My stomach drops.

We don’t have a mortgage.

This house—this land—was paid off decades ago.

Dad built it from the ground up for my mom after they got married.

She sketched the dream on a napkin in a diner booth—the wraparound porch, the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the pasture, a kitchen big enough to feed half the county and smell like cinnamon every morning.

And he made it real. Poured the foundation with his own hands. Framed the bones of the house like it was a living thing, meant to hold generations of Hayes’.

I glance at the framed napkin on the wall. It still hangs under the photo of Mom and Dad in his truck, both of them grinning like love-struck fools.

Mom hasn’t smiled like that in years.

With shaking hands, I pull the envelopes free, and rip open the first. Then, the second. By the time I get to the third, I can’t feel my hands.

Notice of Default.

Notice of Intent to Foreclose.

Property Scheduled for Public Auction – Friday at 9:00 AM.

Oh my God.

I flip through the papers like if I move fast enough, the words will change. Like I’ll find some fine print that makes it all go away. But it’s there in black and white, over and over again.

This house. Our house. It’s going to be taken. Sold. Stripped from us like it was never ours to begin with.

The horses.

I can’t breathe.

What will we do with the horses?

“Cassidy?” Shanae’s voice is soft behind me.

I don’t respond. I can’t. The walls feel like they’re pressing in. My vision swims.

“Cass?” she asks again, gentler now. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say too fast. My voice cracks halfway through the lie. “Just… just mail.”

She knows it’s bullshit but she doesn’t press.

I force a tight smile, press the papers flat, and slide them back into the envelopes.

“I’m gonna see how Jonathan’s packing is coming along,” I say, my voice robotic.

Shanae watches me, but she doesn’t stop me.

Jonathan took over everything after Dad died. The business, the finances, the estate. We never talked about it. I didn’t think we had to. I always thought—no, trusted —that he’d honor what this house meant. That he’d protect it, protect Mom.

And now I know the truth.

He’s been hiding this. Letting it all collapse.

And I don’t know what hurts more—the betrayal or the realization that, maybe, I never should have trusted him to begin with.

J onathan’s bedroom door is open.

Of course it is. He’s never needed boundaries—never once respected mine.

The sight of him packing punches me in the gut. Polished slacks folded with military precision, dress shirts lined up like he’s inspecting his troops. His silver Rolex ticks softly with every motion. Calm. Unbothered.

The envelope edges bite into my fingers as I watch him, rage climbing up my throat like acid.

He’s really doing it. He’s leaving.

Not just the country—he’s leaving while the house gets auctioned off. While strangers walk the halls of our childhood, bid on our mother’s dream.

And he was never going to say a word.

I cross the threshold without thinking.

“When were you going to tell us?”

His back stiffens, but he doesn’t turn. Doesn’t stop folding his navy suit into the suitcase like I’m just a breeze passing through.

He looks over his shoulder a moment later, the flicker of recognition passing across his face like a shadow. Then it’s gone. He clocks the envelopes in my hand. The crumpled edges. My shaking grip.

But still, no apology. No shame. Just mild irritation—like I’ve interrupted something more important.

“You weren’t, were you?” I say quietly. “You were just going to leave.”

My voice wavers, and I hate the way it cracks. But I press forward anyway, because if I don’t say this now, I’ll never get another chance.

“You were going to run off to London while Mom’s house— our house—is handed over to the highest bidder. And you weren’t even going to tell her. Or me.”

He stops folding.

A long breath leaves his chest, slow and heavy. Like I’m the one exhausting him.

“Looks like Daddy’s little princess finally figured out the world isn’t all sunshine and roses.”

I see red.

“No,” I snap, stepping into the room. “I’m just realizing how much of a coward you really are.”

That gets his attention. He turns, slowly, a sick sort of calm tightening his features.

“You want to say that again?” he asks, stepping forward.

I take a reflexive step back. My heel hits the edge of the doorframe.

He smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

My pulse hammers, but I have to hold my ground, even as my fists tremble around the papers.

“You think this is handling it?” I throw the stack of notices into the room. “You think hiding foreclosure notices behind a loaf of bread is leadership?”

He glances down at the papers as they scatter across the floor, then back up at me with a shrug.

“You want the truth?” he says, moving back to his suitcase. “We’re liquidating non-essential assets to protect the core. It’s strategic. Temporary.”

“This is our home ,” I bite out. “The place Mom brought me to after I was born. The place Dad built with his own hands?—”

“And she won’t be needing it much longer.”

The words don’t hit all at once.

They slither in. Curl around my ribs.

I stare at him, stunned. My stomach flips, then drops into nothing.

“You don’t mean that.”

His face gives nothing away. “She’d want us to save the company. She’s not stupid.”

I shake my head, tears burning behind my eyes now. “She’s dying, Jonathan. And you’ll stripped away everything she ever loved. Her house. Her legacy. Her horses?—”

“Those horses don’t feed anyone,” he snaps.

“Those horses are her heart and soul!” I can’t help the tears streaming down my face now. “She and I took those horses to races and made them champions and you’re just going to?—”

“Oh, give me a fucking break, Cassidy. You’ve never worked a day in your prim little life of delusion and sketch books.” He slams a drawer harder than necessary. “Anyone can tell a horse to run.”

“She’s not just anyone,” I cry. “She’s our mother .”

The final thread holding my voice together snaps, but I don’t care.

“I’m the one that came home from college to take care of her. I have watched her fight every day to live. To smile through pain. To hold on for us. While you ruin everything you touch.”

Like a storm breaking free of its restraints, he turns and surges toward me. I don’t even have time to flinch before his hand snaps out.

He grabs my face, his fingers crushing my cheeks, forcing my gaze to his.

“You want to play hero?” he hisses. “You think you’ve got what it takes to fix this?”

My back hits the wall hard, breath catching as his grip tightens.

“Then fix it , Cassidy. Go on. Save the fucking house.”

He lets go with a sharp shove, and I stumble sideways. My shoulder slams into the doorframe. The pain flashes down my arm, but I don’t cry out.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He sneers down at me, pure ice in his eyes. “Do something useful for once in your life.”

I press my hand to the wall to steady myself.

He adjusts the cuffs on his shirt like nothing happened.

Then he nods toward the hallway. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

I don’t move. Can’t. My feet are rooted, chest heaving, heart crashing against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. I want to scream, to fight, to make him understand what he’s doing—but the words catch behind the burn in my throat.

But I stay standing because fuck him.

Someone has to say it.

My voice shakes, but I make sure it’s loud enough to carry. “You don’t deserve this family.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrow before he’s on me in a blink.

“I said, get the fuck out of my face,” he growls, stepping forward again. “Before I put you on the auction block too.”

His hand shoves hard into my shoulder. My feet slip out from under me, and I crash to the ground just outside the threshold, my hip catching the edge of the hallway runner. Pain flares sharp and hot, but before I can do more than gasp, the door slams shut behind me.

The sound is deafening.

Final.

I lie there for a breath. Then another.

The hallway is silent now—no footsteps, no apologies. Just me and the echo of everything I didn’t say.

I push myself up, one palm braced to the floor, the other gripping my ribs.

He’s really going to let it happen.

He’s going to let strangers strip this house bare. Let Mom’s dreams turn to dust. Let her die without the only place that’s ever felt like home.

Unless I stop him.

And I will.

No matter what I have to do, I won’t let her lose this place.