Three For trouble

Chapter 3 The Intruder

I froze in my doorway.

The man standing in my hallway was tall—well over six feet. Broad shoulders. Dark, perfectly styled hair. He wore a suit that cost more than my entire apartment building, and he held a sleek leather binder in his hands. His jaw was sharp, his posture rigid, and his eyes—cold, piercing gray—were fixed on me like I was a target.

“Ms. Vance,” he said. His voice was deep, smooth, and completely devoid of warmth. “My name is Greg.”

My blood turned to ice.

Greg. That was the name on the contract. The man my father had sold me to. The faceless stranger I had run away from.

He wasn't faceless anymore. He was standing right in front of me, looking like a marble statue that had somehow come to life.

I stepped back, my hand instinctively gripping the edge of the door. “How did you find me?”

He didn't answer. He just looked past me, into my tiny, cramped apartment, his eyes scanning the worn-out furniture and the peeling paint with the detached curiosity of someone inspecting a storage unit.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asked.

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold. Your father didn't mention you had a spine.”

My stomach twisted at the mention of my father. Richard Vance. The man who had traded me like a used car. The man who had signed a contract sealing my fate to a stranger I had never even seen.

“I don't care what my father mentioned,” I said. My voice shook, but I forced it to stay steady. “Whatever you think we have—we don't. I'm not marrying you.”

Greg looked at me for a long, silent moment. He didn't look angry. He didn't look offended. He just stood there, staring at me, like he was waiting for me to say something stupid.

Then he stepped forward.

I stumbled back, my breath hitching, and he walked right past me into my apartment. He moved with the confidence of a man who had never been told 'no' in his life. He walked into my tiny living room, looked around, and took a seat on the edge of my worn-out thrift store couch.

He looked ridiculous. A king sitting on a plastic throne.

He placed the leather binder on the coffee table in front of him and opened it. The sound of the pages turning felt deafening in the silence.

“Sit down, Emma.”

“I'll stand.”

He looked up at me, his gray eyes unreadable. “I'm not asking.”

The command in his voice sent a shiver down my spine, but I refused to let him see it. I crossed my arms and stayed exactly where I was, pressing my back against the wall near the door.

Greg sighed. It was a low, bored sound, like dealing with me was an inconvenience he had already predicted. He pulled out a stack of papers from the binder and laid them out on the table.

“Your father signed an amendment three days after you ran,” he said. “The dowry was doubled. The timeline was accelerated. And the breach-of-contract clause? It was completely rewritten.”

I stared at the papers like they were a venomous snake. “I don't care what the papers say. I didn't sign them. You can't force someone to get married.”

“I'm not forcing you,” he said, his voice flat. “Your father is. He sold you, Emma. Literally. He took the money. He signed the papers. He handed you over to me with a smile and a handshake. The only thing left is your signature.”

I shook my head, my chest tightening. “Why?” I whispered. “Why would you even want me? You don't know me. I'm a stranger. You could have any woman in this city. So why me?”

Greg leaned back on the couch, his eyes narrowing slightly. For a moment, something sharp flickered across his face—something almost human, almost vulnerable. But it was gone before I could catch it.

“Because I don't lose,” he said. “When I make a deal, I expect it to be honored. You ran. You made me look like a fool in front of people I respect. And I don't tolerate that.”

“So this is about your ego?”

“This is about control,” he corrected. “You are a variable I did not account for. And I do not like variables.”

He stood up, towering over the coffee table. He didn't walk toward me this time. He just stood there, adjusting his cufflinks, looking at me from across the room.

“I will give you one day,” he said. “Twenty-four hours to process what I have just told you. Then, I will come back. And you will sign this contract.”

“What if I run again?”

He smiled. It was a cold, terrifying smile. “I will find you. It took me a month this time. It will take me a week the next. Your father is a very loud man with a very fragile network of contacts. If I cut him off, he will be dead within a month. And then his blood will be on your hands.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

He had just threatened to kill my father. Not directly—but the implication was clear. Richard Vance was in deep with dangerous people. If Greg cut off his safety net, my father would be eaten alive.

Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black card. He walked toward me slowly, deliberately, and stopped a foot away. He held the card out to me, his fingers steady and unshaken.

“Take it.”

I didn't move.

“Take the card, Emma.”

My hand trembled as I reached out and took it from him. The plastic was cold, smooth, and felt like the weight of a thousand pounds in my palm.

“That is my private number,” he said. “If you change your mind and want to talk. Or if you decide to run. You won't need to call. I'll know anyway. But maybe, for your own sake, you'll reconsider.”

He looked down at me, his gray eyes studying my face. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the overwhelming presence of him blocking the light from the hallway. But he didn't touch me. Not yet.

“Tomorrow evening,” he said. “Six o'clock. I will pick you up. We will have dinner. You will smile, you will act like a gracious future wife, and then you will sign the contract in front of me.”

“And if I refuse?”

He tilted his head. “I don't believe in failure.”

He turned around and walked out of my apartment. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence rushed back into the room like a wave.

I stood there, frozen, holding the black card in my trembling palm. My legs were shaking so hard I thought they would give out. I slowly slid down the wall and sat on the floor, the cold wood pressing against my back.

I was trapped.

And the worst part? When he had looked down at me, his presence suffocating and his eyes piercing, a part of me—a dark, terrified part—had felt something other than fear. Something I hated to admit.

I didn't know if I was more afraid of Greg, or more afraid of what I was starting to feel.