Auctioned for a Dollar, Claimed by the Billionaire Chapter 07

I hit his chest like a wall of warm steel. He smelled like cedar and cold air and something darker underneath.

“Last chance,” Damien murmured against my ear. His voice was rough, barely controlled. “Say stop, and this ends. No

dance. No kiss. You owe me nothing.”

“Mr. Cross.” I tilted my head back until my lips almost brushed his jaw. “I never back out of a deal. And this party’s just getting started.”

The whole room held its breath.

Something flared in his eyes. Without letting go of my waist, he reached past me, picked up a silver fork from the dessert table, and cut a piece of dark chocolate torte. He lifted it to my lips.

I opened my mouth slowly and took it. My lips brushed the tips of his fingers.

His entire body went rigid. His jaw flexed.

I took the fork from his hand, cut a small piece, and held it up to him. “Your turn.”

He held my gaze, leaned down, and took the fork into his mouth. Under his dark hair, the tips of his ears turned bright

red.

The most feared billionaire in New York was blushing.

“Rule one,” I whispered. “Done.”

“Rule two.” His voice dropped to gravel. He nodded once to the string quartet.

The music changed. Something slow and aching.

His palm slid down my arm until his fingers laced through mine. He gripped my hand like he was afraid I would vanish.

His other hand settled low on my back, warm through the velvet, and he led me into the center of the floor.

We moved. He was a ridiculous dancer. Smooth, precise, effortless. Every turn kept me pressed against him. Every step, his eyes never left my face.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“I’ve waited a long time to stare,” he answered quietly.

Above us, the giant LED screen lit up with a live feed of our dance. The cameras zoomed in on our laced hands and his

face, softened in a way no one in New York had ever seen.

Every phone in the ballroom buzzed. The gala chat had gone nuclear.

[DAMIEN CROSS IS SLOW DANCING. I REPEAT. SLOW DANCING.]

[Who is she?? Wait, that’s LOT 13??]

[Ryan Hale put a SUPERMODEL on the block for one dollar and handed her to his biggest rival?]

[He didn’t just lose the merger. He gift-wrapped his fiancée.]

[Ryan Hale: biggest clown in Manhattan history. Frame this.]

Laughter rose from every table as people read their screens.

Ryan stood at the edge of the dance floor, phone in his hand, watching the insults scroll. Watching Damien’s hand on

my back. His face went from red to purple. His eyes were wild.

He snapped.

He shoved through the dancers and grabbed my wrist so hard I gasped.

“Enough! Ava, we’re leaving! Now!”

“Let go,” I said, ice in every syllable.

“No!” He turned on Damien, pointing at his face, his voice cracking. “The lot is canceled! I donated her, I’m withdrawing

her! She’s mine! Get your hands off my fiancée!”

Sloane hovered behind him, trembling. “Mr. Cross, please, it was just a silly little joke. No need to make it ugly-”

“A charity pledge is legally binding.” Damien didn’t even look at Ryan. “Ask your lawyer. He’s at table six, trying very hard

to become invisible.”

At table six, a man in glasses sank lower in his chair.

“You don’t get to withdraw a woman,” Damien went on, and finally he turned his head. The look he gave Ryan could have frozen the Hudson. “She was never yours to donate.”

With one smooth movement, he pried Ryan’s fingers off my wrist and pushed him back. Ryan stumbled into a cocktail

table. Glasses crashed to the floor.

Damien turned back to me. All that ice melted the second his eyes met mine.

He lifted his hand and cupped my face, his thumb brushing the scar through my eyebrow, slow and careful, almost reverent. Like he knew exactly how I got it.

“Rule three,” he said, loud enough for the entire ballroom to hear.

The big screen zoomed in on us.

“Ten seconds. Somebody start counting.”