The auction house was buzzing with anticipation, the air thick with the musky scent of livestock and freshly turned earth. As I shuffled through the paperwork, a sense of unease settled in my stomach. Beneath the standard auction agreement was a document I hadn’t expected—my name inked on a property deed. The auctioneer, a gruff man with a perpetual scowl, avoided my gaze when I approached him. “This isn’t right,” I said, holding up the deed. His response was a dismissive shrug, “It’s all in the terms.” But those terms hadn’t been disclosed. I scanned the room, catching the eye of a woman in a blue blazer who quickly turned away, her expression unreadable. It was clear I was in over my head, and the truth was buried somewhere in the fine print.
