Auctioned for a Dollar, Claimed by the Billionaire Chapter 09

“It’s fake.” Ryan’s hands shook so hard the pages rattled. “You forged this! Richard would never-”

“Notarized in London. Witnessed by two board members.” Damien’s voice carried across the silent ballroom. “Richard Sterling knew exactly who you were, Hale. Sixty percent of Sterling Group goes to his daughter on the day she returns to New York, healed and ready, at her own pace. Until then, it’s held in trust. By me. You were an interim CEO. A placeholder. And the codicil says any placeholder who acts against her interests is removed. Effective immediately.”

Margaret Ellison stood up at table one. “I was one of the witnesses,” she said crisply. “And I’d say auctioning her by the

pound counts.”

The ballroom detonated.

“Ava owns Sterling Group?!”

“Richard left it all to her!”

“So Ryan was a babysitter in a nice suit? And he just put his own boss on a livestock scale?”

Ryan’s knees buckled. He dropped to the marble, pages scattering around him.

“Ava.” He crawled toward my heels. Actually crawled. “Three years. I loved you. You can’t let a piece of paper erase

three years.”

Damien stepped between us.

“Three years,” he repeated, looking down at him. “And you priced her at one dollar. Don’t you dare say the word love.”

Ryan had nothing left.

I turned toward the doors. “Let’s go, Damien. The air in here is cheap.”

“Ava! Wait!” Ryan lurched up.

“Ryan, stop!” Sloane grabbed his arm, sobbing. “Forget her! You still have me! We still have my brand deal, we can-”

“Get OFF me!” he roared. “You did this! You and your whale jokes!”

He swung his arm wildly. Sloane shrieked, tripped over her own stiletto, and went face-first into the five-tier cake.

The fondant pig in its wedding veil landed on top of her head.

The ballroom lost its mind. Phones came up from every table. Her own followers were going to see it in ten minutes.

Outside, the November wind cut straight through my gown. Fifth A

chest felt light.

Something warm settled over my shoulders. Damien’s tuxedo jacket, still holding his heat.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. His eyes had dropped to my wrist, to the angry red marks Ryan’s fingers had left.

Something dark and pained passed over his face.

“Does it hurt?” He touched the edge of the bruise with one fingertip, like I might break.

“I’m fine.” I studied him. “Why are you doing all this? The trust. The bid. Tonight. Is it really just because my father asked you to?”

He was quiet for a long time.

“Do you remember Greenwood Academy?” he asked finally. “The alley behind the gym. Fifteen years ago.”

I froze.

“I was the scholarship kid,” he said. “My mom cleaned offices at night. I was skinny, sick half the time, and I wore the same blazer every day. Three seniors used to drag me behind that gym after school. One day, I honestly thought they were going to kill me.”

My heart began to pound.

“Then a chubby little girl in pigtails came tearing around the corner with a field hockey stick, screaming like a banshee.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “One of them shoved her into the brick wall. She split her eyebrow open. She got back up anyway and swung until they ran.”

My hand drifted to the scar.

“Then she went to the vending machine, spent all her lunch money on a pack of Band-Aids, slapped one crooked on my forehead, and said, ‘This is my school. Nobody touches you anymore. I’ve got your back.””

The memory burst open in my mind. A bleeding boy. Huge dark eyes. A Band-Aid with cartoon stars on it.

“That was you?” I breathed.

“I still have the box,” he said quietly. He looked at me, and his eyes were the softest thing I had ever seen.

“And Ava, that bid tonight wasn’t for one night.”