Auctioned for a Dollar, Claimed by the Billionaire Chapter 01

The day I came home, my fiancé put me up for auction.

Lot 13. Starting bid: one dollar.

He used my fattest photo.

Four hundred of Manhattan’s richest people laughed.

And I bet fifty thousand dollars they’d regret it.

My plane had barely touched down at JFK when my phone started screaming. Forty-seven notifications, all from the private group chat for the Sterling Midnight Gala, the most exclusive charity auction in New York. The one my late father founded.

Pinned at the top in gold letters:

[LOT 13: One Night with My Fiancée, Ava Sterling. Starting Bid: $1. Donated with love by Ryan Hale.]

Below it was a photo.

Not a recent one. A photo from four years ago, taken the week after Dad’s funeral. Me at 190 pounds, puffy-eyed, in a stained gray hoodie, mid-bite into a cheeseburger in my car at two in the morning. I hadn’t known anyone took it.

Ryan had.

My fiancé of three years. The man who kissed me goodbye at this exact airport twelve months ago and promised he’d count every single day.

The comments were a bloodbath.

[One dollar is generous lmao]

[Does the winner get a forklift?]

[Ryan, you’re a saint for putting a ring on that.]

[Paris must have fed her well. She’s 250 by now, easy.]

Then Sloane Whitmore, three million followers and a smile like a paper cut, dropped a heart.

[Guys, stop!! Ava’s sweet!! She’s just… a LOT of woman. Ava babe, if you’re nervous, I’ll stand next to you on stage so you don’t feel alone.]

My phone buzzed. A voice note from Ryan. His voice was lazy, a little drunk, completely careless.

“Babe, relax. It’s a bit. Damien Cross is coming tomorrow night, and I need him laughing, not suspicious, before he signs the merger. Everyone loves a self-deprecating moment. You’re Sterling’s daughter. Take one for the company. Wear something… forgiving. And don’t make this weird.”

Take one for the company.

My father’s company. The one Ryan had been running as interim CEO ever since we buried him.

I stopped in the middle of the jet bridge. My knuckles went white around the phone. Three years. I had given him three years, my trust, and my father’s empire. And he had given me a starting bid of one dollar.

Then someone launched a side pool in the chat.

[BETTING TIME: Will Lot 13 actually show her face tomorrow night?]

Ryan didn’t hesitate.

[$30K says she hides in her apartment eating her feelings.]

Thirty crying-laughing emojis followed.

I walked into the first-class lounge restroom, locked the door, and stood in front of the mirror. Slowly, I unbuttoned the shapeless camel coat I had worn on purpose. I wanted to surprise him.

The woman in the mirror wore a white silk slip dress. Sharp collarbones. A waist you could circle with two hands. Long, toned legs from a year of five a.m. runs along the Seine. 118 pounds.

That year in Paris, I didn’t just lose seventy-two pounds. I lost the fear. I saw a therapist twice a week. I finished my jewelry design degree and became the youngest designer ever to show a collection at Paris Couture Week.

I came home thinking I was walking into a wedding.

Turns out, I was walking into a war.

I wiped away one tear. Just one. He didn’t deserve two.

Then I opened the betting pool, linked my card, and typed:

[$50,000 — She shows up.]

The chat froze.

[WAIT. Who just dropped fifty grand?!]

[Is that… HER account?]

My fingers didn’t shake as I sent my first message in a year.

[I’ll be there at eight. Save me a paddle.]

I was reaching for my luggage when the screen flashed gold.

A new pre-bid had just landed on Lot 13.

[$1,000,000 — Bidder: Damien Cross.]

The entire chat went dead silent.

Because Damien Cross had never bid on anything in his life.

And he was the one man in New York my fiancé was terrified of.