Page 106 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

PORTIA

The steering wheel burned under my white-knuckled grip as I drove through town, my vision blurring with fresh tears. There was only one person I could talk to. One person I trusted to give me advice that wasn’t biased or what I wanted to hear but what I needed to hear. My car turned down familiar streets on autopilot, carrying me toward the only person who could possibly understand.

The screen door creaked when I pushed it open. The thing always creaked. No matter how much WD40 was sprayed on the hinges, it was determined to act like a security alarm. No one was getting in or out of the house without anyone knowing.

The house smelled like lemon, telling me Mom had recently dusted. From the TV room, the familiar dun-dun of Law and Order echoed. The sound alone took me back fifteen years to me coming home from school or soccer practice. I knew exactly what I would see when I walked into the room.

Dad muted the TV the moment he saw me. “Sweetheart?”

That was all it took. The dam broke.

He was across the room before the first sob fully escaped, gathering me into arms that had steadied me through every skinned knee and broken heart. His flannel shirt scratched my cheek as I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of Old Spice.

“Come on,” he murmured, guiding me to the kitchen. “Let’s get some tea in you.”

Mom appeared at the top of the stairs, her worried gaze flickering between us. Dad gave her a small shake of his head as if to say he had the situation handled. With the quiet understanding of thirty years of marriage, she retreated. “Call if you need me,” she said softly before disappearing.

The kettle whistled as I slumped into a chair at the worn oak table—the same one where I’d done homework, celebrated birthdays, planned my escape to New York. It was grounding to be here. I felt like I was spinning, but the moment I sat down at the table, I had something tangible to hold on to.

A few minutes later, Dad set a steaming mug in front of me, the chamomile scent curling into the air between us. It was hotter than hell outside, but tea was necessary.

“Alright, what’s going on?”

I stared down at the tea, watching the steam rise. My hands trembled as I wrapped them around the warm mug.

“I got a job offer,” I said finally, my voice hoarse. “San Francisco. Six figures. Partnership track. Everything I thought I wanted.”

Dad nodded slowly, his hands folded on the table between us. He didn’t speak, just waited for me to continue. That was Dad—never pushing, always patient.

“I told Dean about it.” My voice caught. “And he… he just shut down. Completely.”

“Shut down how?” Dad asked quietly.

I laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. “He basically told me to take the job and that what we had was just ‘fun.’ Like the past few weeks meant nothing.” I blinked back fresh tears. “He acted like he couldn’t care less if I left.”

Dad sighed, his eyes soft with understanding. “That boy.”

“I know he cares, Dad. I know he does. I’ve seen it in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. In the way he shows up for me without being asked.” I took a shaky breath. “But the moment I mentioned San Francisco, it was like some switch flipped. He completely shut me out.”

“Dean Jackson has spent his entire life believing he’s not worth sticking around for,” Dad said quietly.

I looked up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Dad leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant. “His dad was a mean drunk. His mom took off when the boys were young. Seth was always in trouble, and Dean was always left picking up the pieces.” He shook his head. “That kind of life teaches you that people leave. Always.”

“But I wasn’t—I didn’t say I was leaving,” I protested. “I just wanted to talk about it. Figure things out together.”

“And that scared him more than anything,” Dad said. “Because if you stayed for him and regretted it later?”

“He’d blame himself,” I finished softly.

Dad nodded. “He’d rather push you away than risk you resenting him down the road.”

I wiped at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “So what do I do? I can’t force him to fight for us if he won’t.”

“The question isn’t what Dean wants,” Dad said, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his. “It’s what you want. If that job in San Francisco disappeared tomorrow, what would you choose? Think long and hard about that.”

I did. All the thoughts had been bouncing around since I got the call yesterday. “It’s everything I thought I wanted.”