Three For trouble

Chapter 5 The Stranger

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay in bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, replaying the dinner in my head on a loop. Greg’s gray eyes. The low rumble of his voice. The way his thumb had traced a slow, deliberate circle on the back of my hand. I could still feel the ghost of his touch, warm and electric, lingering on my skin like a brand.

I hated it. I hated that I couldn't stop thinking about it.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, another voice was whispering. It was softer, warmer, completely different from the cold authority of Greg’s tone.

“Hey. It's me. From the bar.”

Matt.

I picked up my phone at three in the morning, the blue light illuminating my tired face. I had typed and deleted a reply five times. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking mockingly at me.

I didn't know what I wanted to say. I didn't know what I could say. I'm pregnant with your baby? I'm trapped in an arranged marriage to a billionaire? I'm a mess and I don't know how to fix it?

I just typed: “I remember you.”

I hit send before I could overthink it.

The reply came almost instantly. “I was starting to think you’d ghost me.”

I smiled. It was small, tired, but it was the first genuine smile I had cracked in weeks.

“I'm not a ghoster. Just complicated.”

“Complicated is my favorite flavor. Can we meet? I want to see you.”

I hesitated. My stomach turned, but not from sickness this time. It was nerves. If I met him, I would have to look him in the eye and decide if I was going to tell him the truth. But the thought of his warm laugh, his messy blond hair, the way he had looked at me in that dim bar like I was the only person in the world—it was like a lifeline in the middle of a dark ocean.

“Where?” I typed.

“There's a small diner on 5th and Maple. It's quiet. I'll be there at 9 AM. If you show, you show. If you don't, I'll understand.”

I stared at the message. He was giving me an out. He didn't know my name. He didn't know my history. He was just a stranger who had shared one night with me, and yet, he was offering me a safe place to land.

I typed back: “I'll be there.”

I fell asleep at four-thirty, clutching my phone to my chest.

---

The morning came fast.

I woke up groggy, my eyes heavy and my head throbbing. I forced myself out of bed, took a cold shower to wake up, and threw on the most presentable clothes I owned—a plain white blouse and dark jeans. I didn't bother with makeup. I didn't have the energy.

The diner on 5th and Maple was exactly as he had described.

It was tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, with a faded neon sign that flickered in the gray morning light. The windows were foggy from the warmth inside, the smell of stale coffee and frying bacon drifting out onto the sidewalk.

I pushed the door open. The bell above it jingled.

And I saw him.

He was sitting in a booth by the window, his back to the door. He was wearing a simple gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the lean, tanned lines of his forearms. His blond hair was slightly disheveled, like he had just rolled out of bed, and a half-eaten plate of pancakes sat in front of him.

He turned when he heard the bell.

His blue eyes met mine, and a slow, warm smile spread across his face. It was the same smile from that night—uncomplicated, easy, completely disarming.

"Hey," he said. "You came."

My throat tightened. I felt the nerves flood my chest, but they were different from the nerves I felt with Greg. Greg's presence was suffocating. Matt's presence was like stepping into a warm room on a cold day.

I walked over and slid into the booth across from him. "I said I would."

"Most people say they'll show up," he replied, pushing his plate aside. "They don't usually mean it."

"I'm not most people."

He tilted his head, studying my face. His gaze wasn't sharp like Greg's. It was soft, curious, full of quiet affection. "You look tired, y'know."

I let out a dry laugh. "I've been sleeping terribly."

"Me too." He leaned back, his arms crossing behind his head. "I've been thinking about you. A lot. I know that sounds crazy. One night in a bar, right? But I don't know. Something about you stuck with me."

I felt a pang in my chest. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to say, I'm pregnant, and the baby is yours, and I'm trapped in a nightmare. But the words lodged in my throat like a stone.

"You don't even know my name," I said quietly.

"Then tell me."

"Emma."

He repeated it softly, testing the sound. "Emma. That's a pretty name."

"And you?"

"Matt." He grinned. "Just Matt. No fancy last name. No hidden agenda. Just a guy who loves pancakes and weirdly beautiful women who run away from things."

I laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised out of me. "You make me sound like a secret agent."

"Maybe you are," he said, leaning forward. His blue eyes sparkled. "But I'm a pretty good investigator. I'd find you eventually."

The words hit me like a punch. "I don't know if that's a good thing."

His smile faltered slightly. He caught the shift in my tone, the weight in my voice. "Hey," he said quietly. "Are you okay? For real?"

I looked down at the table. The wood was scratched and worn, covered in the ghosts of a thousand conversations. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to cry, to lean across the table and let him hold me.

But I couldn't. The words felt too heavy.

"I'm in a tough spot," I admitted. "I don't really have anyone right now. And I'm trying to figure out how to get out of it."

He didn't push. He just nodded, his expression soft and understanding. "Well," he said, "I've got a car, a decent job, and two ears that are really good at listening. If you ever need a friend, I'm here."

"You barely know me."

"I know you threw back whiskey like a champ. I know you have a good laugh. And I know you're scared of something." He shrugged. "That's enough for me to start with."

My chest ached. He was so warm. So different. A complete stranger, and yet, he was offering me more kindness than my own father had ever shown me.

I opened my mouth. The truth was sitting on the tip of my tongue. "Matt, I need to tell you—"

My phone buzzed violently on the table.

I looked down. The screen was lit up with a name that made my blood run cold.

Greg.

The message was short, cold, and devastating: "I know you're not home. Where are you?"

My heart stopped.

I looked up at Matt, who was watching me with a curious, concerned expression. "Everything okay?" he asked.

I grabbed my phone, my hands shaking. I could feel the walls closing in. Greg had eyes everywhere. He had said he would know if I ran. And now, even though I hadn't run, he was tracking me.

"I have to go," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"What? Emma, we just—"

"I'm sorry."

I slid out of the booth, grabbed my purse, and practically ran toward the door. The bell jingled overhead as I burst out into the cold morning air.

I didn't look back. I couldn't.

I stood on the sidewalk, hugging my arms around myself, staring at the phone in my trembling hand.

Greg’s text was waiting for me.

Another one came through immediately. "Don't make me come find you, Emma. I told you. I don't like variables."

I shoved my phone into my purse, took a shaky breath, and started walking.

I had no idea what I was going to do.

I just knew that Greg was watching. And Matt was still sitting in that diner, completely unaware that the woman he had just met was carrying his child and running from a monster.