Auctioned for a Dollar, Claimed by the Billionaire Chapter 11

At 2:59 p.m., I walked into the Sterling Group boardroom.

Twelve board members sat around the long walnut table. Half of them couldn’t look at me. Half of them couldn’t stop.

Ryan stood at the head of the table, in my father’s spot. His right hand was in a splint. His face was carefully sad, like a man at a funeral he’d paid for.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said gently. “This isn’t easy for me. I love Ava. But love means telling the truth.”

He clicked a remote.

My old photo filled the screen. Me in the hoodie. The cheeseburger. My swollen eyes.

“This was Ava for three years,” Ryan said softly. “Binge eating at two in the morning. Panic attacks in parking garages.

Suicidal ideation, according to her own therapist.”

A board member winced. Another one wrote something down.

“Last night, she threw champagne in my face. She broke a family heirloom. She went home with my biggest business rival after knowing him for five minutes.” Ryan shook his head. “I’m not angry. I’m worried. A woman this unstable cannot hold sixty percent of a billion-dollar company. I’m asking the board to appoint a guardian for her shares. Me.

Until she recovers.”

The room went quiet. Heads turned to me.

My hands were shaking under the table. Damien’s knee pressed against mine. Steady. Warm. He didn’t speak for me. He just let me know he was there.

I stood up.

“Everything Ryan just said is true,” I said.

Ryan blinked,

“My father died, and I fell apart,” I went on. My voice wobbled once, then steadied. “I ate in the dark because it was the only thing that felt like comfort. I had panic attacks, I gained seventy pounds. I hated myself.”

I looked at every face around that table.

“And then I got help. I went to therapy twice a week for a year. I ran every morning until I stopped running from myself. I finished my degree. I launched a collection in Paris that sold out in four hours.” I held up my chin. “So yes. I was broken. And I fixed myself. If that makes me unfit, then every person in this room who has ever buried a parent is unfit

too.”

Margaret Ellison set down her pen. “Hear, hear.”

Ryan’s sad mask slipped. “Nice speech. It doesn’t change her records.”

“No,” said a voice from the door. “But this might.”

Maya walked in holding a thick binder. Behind her came a gray-haired man in a navy suit.

“Harold Brennan,” Damien said, finally standing. “Forensic accountant. I hired him the day Ryan was named interim

CEO.”

Ryan went pale.

Harold set a document on the table and slid copies down both sides. “Over the past eight months, fourteen point two million dollars of Sterling Group marketing budget was paid to Whitmore Creative LLC. For ‘influencer brand

partnerships.’ Whitmore Creative is owned by Sloane Whitmore. It has one employee. Her.”

The board members flipped pages. Faces darkened.

“There’s more,” Maya added sweetly, and pressed play on her phone.

Ryan’s voice filled the boardroom. The clip from the VIP lounge. “Daddy’s dead. After tonight, so is she. At least in this

city.”

Dead silence.

Margaret Ellison rose to her feet. “I move to remove Ryan Hale from all positions at Sterling Group and refer this matter

to the district attorney. All in favor?”

Twelve hands went up.

Ryan stared at them. His splinted hand trembled. Then his face twisted into something I’d never seen before.

Something cornered and vicious.

“You think he’s your savior?” He swung around and pointed at Damien. “You want to talk about people who can’t be

trusted? Ask your hero where he was the night your father died.”

The room froze.

“I saw the security logs,” Ryan hissed. “Damien Cross was the last person in Richard Sterling’s study. Forty minutes

before his heart stopped. Go on, Ava.” He smiled. “Ask him what they talked about.”