Page 132 of The Auction
CLARA - GALLERY: Let me know when you’re coming to pick up Cassidy’s pieces.
They’re amazing.
I blink, the words taking a second to register. The paintings. I almost forgot about those.
Another message pings before I can reply.
CLARA - GALLERY: If she’s interested, there’s a few buyers lined up.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I don’t know if I’m doing this for her or for me. Maybe both. Maybe I just need some part of her that isn’t poisoned by whatever the hell happened today.
Finally, I type back.
JAXON: I’ll be there in a few.
I pocket the phone, fire up the bike again, and pull away from the airstrip. But the truth is, no matter how far I ride, I’m still there—with her—in that moment when everything felt like it was ours.
And I’m not ready to let it go.
The bell over the door gives a soft chime as I step inside the gallery. The smell of fresh varnish and coffee hits me first, the air too still, too clean.
Clara’s behind the counter, bright smile already forming. “That was quick.”
I force something that might pass for a smile. “Yeah. Just…figured I’d get it done.”
She chats as she walks me through, telling me she’ll wrap everything carefully, that Cassidy’s work has gotten a lot of attention. I nod at the right places, pretending I’m listening, pretending I’m alive.
When she disappears into the back, the pretense falls away.
The room feels cavernous without anyone in it. I head for the space where her pieces were displayed—where I’d planned to surprise her. It had been perfect in my head. It ended in disaster.
The largest one is still hanging, dominating the wall. I drop onto the bench in front of it, my elbows braced on my knees.
Cassidy downplays her art. Calls them silly paintings, nothing serious. But they’re not. They’re her. The parts she hides. The beauty, the chaos, the raw, unfiltered emotion she locks away from the world.
I stare until my eyes blur. And then something starts to feel…off.
Not wrong. Not bad. Just…not right.
I tilt my head. The composition looks strange, unbalanced. Then it hits me—the damn thing is upside down.
I’m on my feet before I can think, fingers finding the frame. I ease it off the wall, careful not to damage it, and rotate it.
And the second it’s upright, it slams into me like a train.
It’s Cassidy. No doubt in my mind.
A bride, bleeding out on the steps of a cathedral. Her white veil dissolves into a river of red that snakes down the stairs.
It’s not abstract. It’s not open to interpretation. It’s intentional. Specific.
The air gets sucked right out of the room. My lungs forget how to work.
I take out my phone, snap a picture, and run it through my AI engine. I don’t build the most powerful tech on the planet for nothing.
I isolate the chapel windows—tall, ornate, stained glass. Restrict the search to New York. Nothing.
Expand to the US. Still nothing.
