Page 17 of The Auction
Jonathan’s bedroom door is open.
Of course it is. He’s never needed boundaries—never once respected mine.
The sight of him packing punches me in the gut. Polished slacks folded with military precision, dress shirts lined up like he’s inspecting his troops. His silver Rolex ticks softly with every motion. Calm. Unbothered.
The envelope edges bite into my fingers as I watch him, rage climbing up my throat like acid.
He’s really doing it. He’s leaving.
Not just the country—he’s leaving while the house gets auctioned off. While strangers walk the halls of our childhood, bid on our mother’s dream.
And he was never going to say a word.
I cross the threshold without thinking.
“When were you going to tell us?”
His back stiffens, but he doesn’t turn. Doesn’t stop folding his navy suit into the suitcase like I’m just a breeze passing through.
He looks over his shoulder a moment later, the flicker of recognition passing across his face like a shadow. Then it’s gone.He clocks the envelopes in my hand. The crumpled edges. My shaking grip.
But still, no apology. No shame. Just mild irritation—like I’ve interrupted something more important.
“You weren’t, were you?” I say quietly. “You were just going to leave.”
My voice wavers, and I hate the way it cracks. But I press forward anyway, because if I don’t say this now, I’ll never get another chance.
“You were going to run off to London while Mom’s house—ourhouse—is handed over to the highest bidder. And you weren’t even going to tell her. Or me.”
He stops folding.
A long breath leaves his chest, slow and heavy. Like I’m the one exhausting him.
“Looks like Daddy’s little princess finally figured out the world isn’t all sunshine and roses.”
I see red.
“No,” I snap, stepping into the room. “I’m just realizing how much of a coward you really are.”
That gets his attention. He turns, slowly, a sick sort of calm tightening his features.
“You want to say that again?” he asks, stepping forward.
I take a reflexive step back. My heel hits the edge of the doorframe.
He smirks. “That’s what I thought.”
My pulse hammers, but I have to hold my ground, even as my fists tremble around the papers.
“You think this is handling it?” I throw the stack of notices into the room. “You think hiding foreclosure notices behind a loaf of bread is leadership?”
He glances down at the papers as they scatter across the floor, then back up at me with a shrug.
“You want the truth?” he says, moving back to his suitcase. “We’re liquidating non-essential assets to protect the core. It’s strategic. Temporary.”
“This is ourhome,” I bite out. “The place Mom brought me to after I was born. The place Dad built with his own hands?—”
“And she won’t be needing it much longer.”
