Auctioned for a Dollar, Claimed by the Billionaire Chapter 10

Before I could ask what he meant, tires screeched behind us.

Ryan burst out of the hotel doors, his tux soaked in champagne, his hand wrapped in a napkin, car keys clutched in his good fist.

“Ava! Please! Let me drive you home. Just five minutes. We can fix this!”

Damien stepped sideways. Just one step. His broad frame filled the space between Ryan and me like a closed door.

“She has a ride,” he said. “And starting tonight, she owns the company you work for. Worked for.” His mouth curved, cold. “Go home, Hale. Ice your hand. Update your résumé.”

He opened the door of his black Maybach for me. I slid inside. Through the tinted glass, I watched Ryan shrink in the side mirror until he was nothing but a dark smudge on Fifth Avenue.

By morning, Manhattan had a new favorite story.

LOT 13 SOLD FOR $50 MILLION.

CEO PUTS SECRET HEIRESS FIANCÉE ON LIVESTOCK SCALE, LOSES COMPANY IN ONE NIGHT.

The video of Sloane face-down in the pig cake had twelve million views. Her biggest sponsor, a skincare brand, dropped her before noon. Her follower count was bleeding by the minute.

My phone rang nonstop from a dozen new numbers. Ryan, every time.

[Ava please pick up.]

[I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything.]

[I was scared of losing you so I pushed you away. That’s psychology. Ask your therapist.]

[I still love you.]

I blocked every number without reading past the first line.

At ten, I opened my apartment door to grab the newspaper.

A line of black SUVS stood at the curb. Damien leaned against the first one in a charcoal coat, holding a coffee cup.

He walked up the steps and handed it to me. Iced oat latte. Extra vanilla. Light ice.

My exact order. The one I’d never posted anywhere.

“How do you know that?” I narrowed my eyes.

He looked away toward the street, trying very hard to be the cold billionaire who scared senators. The tips of his ears

went red again.

“I pay attention,” he said. “I always have.”

My heart flipped over.

We drove to Sterling Tower together. The lobby staff stood up when I walked in. Some of them had worked for my

father for twenty years. A security guard named Luis, who used to sneak me lollipops when I was six, wiped his eyes

and said, “Welcome home, Miss Sterling.”

For one perfect hour, I thought it was over.

Then my email chimed.

The subject line was in all caps.

[EMERGENCY BOARD MEETING: MOTION TO DECLARE AVA STERLING MENTALLY UNFIT TO HOLD CONTROLLING

SHARES.]

My blood went cold.

Filed by: Ryan Hale.

Attached were three PDFs. I opened the first one and the coffee cup slipped out of my hand.

It was my therapy file. My private psychiatric records from the year after Dad died. Diagnosis: major depressive

disorder. Binge eating disorder. Grief-induced panic attacks. My therapist’s notes, in her handwriting. “Patient

expresses feeling worthless. Patient reports eating to fill silence.”

The second attachment was a list of photos. Me crying in the parking garage. Me in the car at two a.m.

Ryan had been documenting my breakdown. For years,

The third attachment was a link.

Page Six. Published four minutes ago.

STERLING HEIRESS’S SECRET PSYCH RECORDS: IS LOT 13 TOO UNSTABLE TO RUN A BILLION-DOLLAR EMPIRE?

The worst moments of my life were on the front page of the internet.

Damien was on his phone before I could speak, his voice like a blade. “Get every lawyer we have to Sterling Tower.

Now.”

I barely heard him.

Because at the bottom of the email, Ryan had added one personal line.

[You wanted to humiliate me in public, babe. Let’s see how the world likes the real you. Vote’s at 3 p.m. Bring tissues.

You’ll need them.]