Auctioned for a Dollar, Claimed by the Billionaire Chapter 04

At 7:59 p.m., four hundred of Manhattan’s richest people were waiting to watch me get weighed on stage.

Ryan had rented an industrial livestock scale.

Sloane had my mother’s sapphire around her throat.

And somewhere in the shadows of that ballroom, the most dangerous billionaire in New York was waiting for me with a paddle in his hand and a secret I didn’t know yet.

But that afternoon, the chat exploded first.

Ryan posted a photo of the stage: a steel livestock scale wrapped in pink ribbon, under a banner that read LOT 13

WEIGH-IN.

[Rented from a farm upstate. Only thing in New York that can handle her.]

Sloane followed with a photo of a five-tier cake topped with a fondant pig in a white wedding veil.

[Dessert for the bride-to-be! Hope Lot 13 saves room!]

“I’m going to commit a felony,” Maya hissed, slamming down a makeup brush. “A real one. With a sentence.”

“Later,” I said. “Hair first.”

Three hours. Two stylists. One makeup artist who had dressed queens.

A sharp, smoky wing stretched my eyes into something dangerous. A midnight-blue velvet gown hugged every line of my body, with a thigh-high slit that showed a leg built by three hundred dawn runs. My collarbones caught the light like porcelain. My hair fell in glossy waves down my bare back.

At 6:00 p.m., Maya’s cousin, who worked catering at the gala, sent us a live video from the VIP lounge.

Ryan, in a custom Tom Ford tux, was clinking champagne with Sloane. She leaned against his chest, her fingers playing with my mother’s sapphire.

“She actually bet fifty grand she’d show,” Ryan laughed. “When she squeezes through that door, this room is going to lose it. Cross will laugh, sign, and Sterling Group is mine for good.”

“Don’t be too mean, baby,” Sloane purred. “She’s still Daddy’s little girl.”

“Daddy’s dead.” Ryan’s smile turned cruel. “After tonight, so is she. At least in this city.”

I closed the video.

Maya looked at me. “You okay?”

“Never better.” I picked up my clutch. “Let’s go to a funeral.”

At 7:45 p.m., my car pulled up in front of The Pierre. Photographers lined the red carpet three deep. The moment my heel touched the pavement, the flashes stopped.

Then they doubled.

“Who is that?”

“Miss! Miss, over here! Who are you wearing?”

I didn’t answer. I walked past the cameras, past the security guards whose jaws had literally dropped, and into the private elevator to the Grand Ballroom.

Outside the gold double doors, I could hear everything. The music. The laughter. Ryan’s voice on the microphone.

“Two minutes left, everyone! Lot 13 is either stuck in the elevator or stuck in a Krispy Kreme drive-thru!”

The room roared.

Sloane’s voice floated after him. “Maybe she’s out in the hallway catching her breath!”

More laughter. Louder.

I lifted my hand to push the doors open.

“Ava.”

A deep voice came from the shadows beside me. Low. Controlled. Rough at the edges.

I turned.

A man stepped out of the darkness in a black tuxedo that fit him like it had been cut onto his body. He was tall. Absurdly tall, Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, dark hair pushed back from a face that belonged on a coin. His eyes were nearly black, and they were locked on me as if nothing else in the building existed.

Damien Cross.

He radiated the kind of power that made rooms go quiet. But the way he was looking at me wasn’t cold.

It was the way you look at something you’ve lost and finally found.

“Mr. Cross,” I said.

“Damien.” He stopped one step away and offered me his arm. “If you want to leave, my car is downstairs. If you want to go in, I walk in behind you.”

Inside, Ryan began counting down.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

I smiled at the billionaire beside me.

“Behind me,” I said. “I want to see their faces.”

“Three! Two!”

I put both hands on the gold doors and pushed.