Three For trouble

Chapter 4 The Hold

The next twenty-four hours were the longest of my life.

I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Greg’s gray eyes staring at me from across the room. I saw the cold curve of his smile when he threatened my father. I felt the weight of that black card in my palm, burning a hole through my skin.

I spent the day in a daze. I went to work because I didn't know what else to do. I sat in my cubicle, typing numbers into spreadsheets, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. My coworkers talked around me, their voices muffled and distant, like I was underwater.

Nicole, my best friend from college, had somehow gotten my new number despite my attempts to disappear. She sent me a text around noon: "Emma, I know you're hiding. I won't ask where you are, but please tell me you're okay."

I stared at the message for a long time. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to scream into the void and have someone catch me.

But I didn't. I typed back: "I'm fine. Just busy. I'll call you soon."

I turned my phone face-down on the desk and didn't look at it again.

At exactly five-forty-five, I clocked out. I walked home in a daze, my feet moving on autopilot. The city was loud, chaotic, full of people heading home to warm dinners and warm beds. I felt like a ghost drifting through their world, invisible, untouchable.

When I reached my apartment building, I stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs.

A sleek black car was parked at the curb. It was the kind of car that didn't belong in my neighborhood—smooth, expensive, so polished it reflected the orange glow of the streetlights.

The driver's door opened. A man stepped out. Not Greg. An older man in a crisp black uniform, with silver hair and a calm, professional expression.

"Ms. Vance?" he said. "Mr. Greg sent me to pick you up. He's waiting."

My stomach twisted. He had sent a driver. Of course he had. Greg didn't do things himself if he could pay someone else to do them.

I wanted to turn around and run. I wanted to disappear into the dark alleys of the city and never come back. But the black card in my purse felt heavier than lead. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice reminded me that running would only make things worse.

I got in the car.

The ride was silent. The driver didn't speak, and I didn't ask questions. I watched the city blur past the tinted windows as we left my crumbling neighborhood behind and drove deeper into the wealthy part of town. The buildings grew taller. The streets grew cleaner. The people on the sidewalks looked richer, happier, more important.

The car pulled up to a private restaurant. It wasn't a chain. It wasn't even a building with a sign. It was a discreet, elegant brownstone tucked between two towering high-rises, with a single brass plate by the door that read: By Invitation Only.

The driver opened my door. "Mr. Greg is waiting inside. Table two."

I stepped out, my heels clicking against the cobblestone. My dress—a simple black number I had bought from a thrift store—felt cheap against the opulence of the street. I felt like a fraud walking into a palace.

The inside of the restaurant was even more intimidating. Low lighting. Velvet chairs. The faint hum of classical music playing from hidden speakers. A hostess in a flawless silk dress smiled at me and led me through a winding hallway to a private booth in the back.

And there he was.

Greg was already seated. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit with a dark maroon tie, his sleeves rolled up just slightly, revealing the sharp lines of his forearms. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw freshly shaved, his gray eyes fixed on a menu in his hands.

He looked up when I approached. For a second, just a second, something flickered in his gaze. Appreciation, maybe. Or surprise. Then it vanished, replaced by that same cold, unreadable mask.

"Emma," he said. His voice was low, smooth, like velvet over steel. "You came."

I slid into the seat across from him, keeping my back straight and my hands in my lap. "You gave me no choice."

"There's always a choice," he replied, setting the menu down. "You just chose the option that was easiest for you."

"Don't pretend you know me."

He smiled. It was small, faint, and dangerous. "I know more about you than you think, Emma. I know your father uses you as a bargaining chip. I know you haven't spoken to your mother in six years because she chose him over you. I know you graduated top of your class but couldn't get a real job because his name blacklisted you."

I froze.

He looked at me, his eyes steady. "I know you're terrified of being alone. And I know you ran from our wedding because you thought you could outrun your own life."

My hands were shaking. "How do you know all that?"

"Because I pay people to tell me things," he said. "When you're a billionaire, information is currency. And you, Emma Vance, are a very interesting investment."

The waiter appeared, silent and polite, and took our orders. Greg ordered a steak. I ordered a glass of water because I didn't trust my stomach to handle food.

When the waiter left, the silence between us was heavy. Greg didn't fill it with small talk. He just watched me, his gray eyes studying my face, my hands, the way I shifted in my seat.

I felt exposed. Naked. Like he was peeling back layers of me without even touching me.

"Why did you come?" I finally asked. "You could have sent the papers to my door. You could have made this all business. Why dinner?"

He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his broad chest. The movement stretched his suit jacket across his shoulders, and I caught myself watching the way the fabric pulled. I quickly looked away.

"Because I want to see what I'm dealing with," he said. "I don't buy a car without driving it first. I don't sign a contract without meeting the asset."

"I'm not an asset."

"No," he agreed. His voice dropped lower. "You're not. You're a liability. But liabilities are interesting. They have fire. They fight back."

I felt the heat creeping up the back of my neck. He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve, and it made my skin prickle.

The food came. I barely touched mine. Greg ate slowly, deliberately, cutting his steak into precise pieces. He was calm, collected, completely in control.

And yet, every few seconds, his eyes would lift to meet mine.

It wasn't a casual glance. It was a hold. A deliberate, magnetic connection that pinned me in place. Every time our eyes met, the air between us seemed to thicken. I could feel the weight of his attention, the heat of his gaze traveling down my neck, across my collarbone, settling on my chest.

I was struggling to breathe.

"You're nervous," he observed.

"I'm trapped."

"Same thing, different word." He set his fork down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His gray eyes locked onto mine, and the distance between us shrank. "Tell me something true, Emma. Something no one else knows."

"Why would I tell you anything?"

"Because I asked nicely."

I laughed. It was a hollow, bitter laugh. "You don't know how to ask nicely, Greg. You just take. You just demand. You just—"

"I just what?"

He was leaning closer now. I could smell his cologne again—dark, smoky, intoxicating. His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second, then back up. My heart hammered so violently I was sure he could hear it.

"I just don't know why you're trying so hard," I whispered. "You're handsome. You're rich. You could have anyone. Why waste your time breaking a broken girl?"

The word "broken" hung in the air between us.

Greg's expression shifted. The cold mask cracked, just barely, and underneath it, I saw something raw. Something almost hungry.

He reached across the table. His fingers brushed against mine. The touch was featherlight, barely there, but it sent a shockwave through my entire body. My breath caught.

"Because I don't want anyone," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want you. And I don't know why yet. But I'm going to find out."

His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand. The touch was deliberate, gentle, and completely devastating. My skin burned where he touched me. I wanted to pull my hand away. I wanted to lean into it.

I did neither. I just sat there, frozen, watching him, as the silence stretched on and on.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. I don't remember eating. I don't remember paying. I don't remember leaving the restaurant.

All I remember is the car ride home. Greg sat in the backseat with me this time, his thigh inches from mine, his presence filling the entire space. He didn't touch me again. But he didn't have to. The heat radiating off him was enough to keep me dizzy.

When the car pulled up to my building, I scrambled to get out.

"Emma," he said, stopping me.

I turned.

He was looking at me from the shadows of the backseat, his gray eyes dark and unreadable. "Tomorrow. Same time. Same place."

I nodded, unable to speak, and practically fled into my building.

I climbed the stairs on shaky legs, unlocked my door, and collapsed onto my bed. My hand was still tingling where he had touched me. My chest was heaving. My mind was a hurricane of confusion and shame.

I hated him. I hated what he represented. I hated that he had trapped me like a bird in a cage.

But the worst part—the part that made me want to scream—was that I couldn't stop thinking about his eyes. The way they burned when he said "I want you."

I stared at the ceiling, my heart racing.

And then, I reached for my purse.

I pulled out my phone. The unknown number was still sitting in my inbox. Matt's text. The man from the bar.

"Hey. It's me. From the bar. I know this is weird, but I can't stop thinking about you. Can we meet?"

I stared at the message for a long time. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Greg was a threat. Matt was a ghost.

One was danger. One was peace.

I didn't know which one I needed more.

I put the phone down, rolled over, and buried my face in my pillow.

And I didn't sleep at all.