The Auction

Sage Whitmore tightened her grip on the rusted doorknob of Bluebird Café and took a deep breath before stepping outside. The August sun was relentless, beating down on the cracked asphalt and glaring off the peeling sign above the café. The place had seen better days—so had Sage—but it was hers. Or at least, it had felt that way until this morning.

She’d read the notice three times before her brain had truly absorbed the words. “Property auction: foreclosure effective immediately. Bidding to begin Monday, 11:00 AM.” Just like that, the place where she'd poured every ounce of her pride, sweat, and stubbornness was going to be sold off to the highest bidder.

Now, Sage stood in the shadow of her small dream, watching as black SUVs rolled into the parking lot. Her heart sank as she saw the men in tailored suits and sharp dresses emerge, talking into their phones, clutching leather portfolios as though they were weapons. These weren’t people who cared about the smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls or the way the sun warmed the diner’s windows in the mornings. They were sharks, and Sage was a small fish with nowhere to swim.

“Big day, huh?”

Sage turned to see her friend and coworker, Maggie, leaning against the café’s doorframe, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Maggie had the hardened smile of someone who’d seen too much of life to be surprised by it anymore. Her greying hair was tied back with a bandana, and her apron bore coffee stains that refused to wash out.

“Big day for vultures,” Sage muttered.

“Say the word and I’ll toss sugar syrup on their fancy loafers,” Maggie offered, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Sage cracked a smile, but her insides knotted with anxiety. “Appreciate it, Mags. But I need someone to keep the place standing while I try to fight for it.”

She patted the café door for luck—an old habit—and crossed the parking lot to the community hall across the street, where the auction would take place. Her old boots scuffed against the pavement, a reminder that she didn’t belong in this polished, high-stakes world.

The hall was packed when she entered. Rows of folding chairs were already filled with bankers, developers, and men in slick suits who smelled like money and arrogance. At the front of the room, a podium stood beneath a massive banner that read “Summit Real Estate & Holdings.” Sage knew the name—it was plastered on the notices pinned to the café’s windows.

She forced herself to sit in the back row, feeling invisible among the wealth around her. She hated the way her hands shook in her lap, hated that she cared so much about a piece of property. But Bluebird Café wasn’t just a business—it had been her lifeline.

The hum of conversation quieted as a man approached the podium. He was tall, his black suit flawless against the white of the banner. But it wasn’t his clothes that caught Sage’s attention—it was his presence. The air shifted when he stepped forward, like gravity itself was bending in his favor. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, his dark hair brushed back in a way that made him look untouchable.

But it was his eyes—ice-blue and emotionless—that held her captive. They swept over the crowd as if he were cataloging every person in the room, and for the briefest second, they landed on her. Sage shivered involuntarily.

The man spoke, his voice smooth and commanding. “Good morning. I’m Damian Cross, CEO of Cross Global Enterprises. Summit Real Estate, as many of you know, is a subsidiary of my corporation. Today’s auction will proceed swiftly and efficiently. I expect no interruptions.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd at the name. Sage felt her stomach drop. She’d heard of Damian Cross—everyone had. Billionaire mogul, destroyer of small businesses, and a man whose face graced magazines alongside headlines like “The King of New York” and “Cold as Steel, Rich as Sin.”

So why was he here? Why would a man like Damian Cross care about a rundown café in a no-name Kentucky town?

The auction began with properties Sage didn’t recognize. One by one, the names of buildings and lots were called out, and developers raised their paddles with robotic precision. The numbers being thrown around were absurd—five hundred thousand, a million, three million.

Sage clenched her fists. The café wouldn’t go for anywhere near that. It wasn’t worth it. But to her, it was priceless.

Finally, the auctioneer called the name she’d been dreading.

“Lot 12: 432 Sycamore Street—Bluebird Café.”

Sage stood up before she could stop herself. “I object!”

The word burst from her mouth like a cannon blast. The room turned in unison, a hundred pairs of eyes locking onto her. At the front, Damian Cross raised a single brow, unimpressed.

The auctioneer blinked at her. “Miss, this is a legal foreclosure auction. You can’t ‘object.’”

“It’s my café,” Sage said, her voice clear despite the tremor in her chest. “I’ve worked there for five years, poured every penny I have into keeping it alive. I just—I need time.”

A few people in the crowd smirked. Someone whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “pathetic.”

Damian Cross didn’t smirk. Instead, he tilted his head, studying her as though she were a particularly confusing math problem. “You’re Sage Whitmore, I presume?”

She stiffened. “How do you know my name?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced at the auctioneer. “Proceed with the bidding.”

Rage boiled up in her throat. “Wait! I’m not done—”

“Miss Whitmore,” Damian said, his tone clipped, “your sentiment is admirable, but business isn’t won on feelings. If you want the café, then bid.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room, but Sage’s cheeks burned. She turned to the auctioneer. “How much do I need to start?”

The man glanced at his papers. “Opening bid is fifty thousand dollars.”

Fifty thousand. She didn’t have fifty cents to spare. Sage’s shoulders sagged as the first developer raised his paddle. “Fifty thousand.”

“Seventy-five,” another voice called.

“One hundred,” someone else chimed in.

Damian Cross remained silent, hands steepled before him, gaze unwavering. He was watching her.

By the time the bids hit one hundred fifty thousand, Sage wanted to scream. This wasn’t a competition—it was a bloodbath, and her café was the prize.

“One seventy-five,” a sleek-haired woman said, holding her paddle up high.

The auctioneer’s voice echoed. “One hundred seventy-five going once—”

“Two hundred thousand,” Damian Cross said.

The room fell silent.

Sage’s breath caught as every head turned to look at him. Damian didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked bored, as though he were bidding on a paperclip instead of her livelihood.

The auctioneer glanced nervously at the other bidders. “Two hundred thousand. Do I hear two twenty?”

No one moved.

“Two hundred thousand going once… going twice…”

“Wait!” Sage blurted. “You can’t just—”

“Sold,” the auctioneer said, slamming his gavel.

The room erupted into murmurs, but Sage’s ears were ringing. Damian Cross had just bought Bluebird Café.

For a long moment, Sage couldn’t move. She stared at him as he stood and adjusted his cufflinks, exuding the kind of confidence that could flatten mountains. Before he turned to leave, he looked directly at her and said, “Miss Whitmore, meet me outside. We have much to discuss.”

He disappeared through the double doors, leaving Sage trembling with fury and confusion. Her café was gone, snatched away by a man who already had everything. But she wasn’t about to let Damian Cross win—not without a fight.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered under her breath as she followed him out into the sunlight, her heart pounding.

She didn’t know it yet, but her life had just collided with his, and nothing would ever be the same.