Three For trouble

Chapter 8 The Deadline

Thursday night.

I sat at my rickety kitchen table, staring at the white envelope. The plain, unmarked envelope that Greg had slipped under my door two days ago. The contract was inside, the one I was supposed to sign by Friday. Tomorrow.

The clock on my wall ticked loudly, each second drumming against my eardrums like a countdown.

I hadn't touched the envelope since I had shoved it into the drawer. But tonight, I had pulled it out again. I had spread the papers across the table, smoothing out the creases, reading the small, dense print. It was cold, clinical, full of legal jargon that made my head spin. Sole custody of assets. Financial liability. Rights of possession.

I was a piece of property. That's what the contract said. I was an exchange for money, an asset to be transferred from my father to Greg Hawthorne.

And tomorrow, if I didn't sign it, my father would pay the price.

I ran my fingers over the blank signature line, the paper cold and smooth beneath my touch. The pen was sitting beside it—a cheap blue ballpoint I had picked up from the office.

I picked up the pen. My hand was trembling.

I thought about my father. Richard Vance. The man who had never hugged me. The man who had looked at me like a transaction from the day I was born. He had used me, sold me, abandoned me. And yet, the thought of him dying—of his blood being on my hands—made my stomach churn.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't let a man die, even if he didn't deserve to live.

But I also couldn't sign. I couldn't hand my life over to Greg. His gray eyes flashed in my mind, cold and commanding. The way he had looked at me at dinner, like he was dissecting me. The way his thumb had traced circles on my hand, making my skin burn. I hated him. I hated the way he made me feel small. But a part of me, a dark and terrifying part, remembered the heat in his gaze when he said "I want you."

I squeezed my eyes shut. The pen hovered over the paper.

I have to do this, I thought. I have to—

My phone buzzed violently on the table.

I jumped, the pen clattering against the wood. I looked at the screen. The name made my blood run cold.

Richard Vance.

My father.

I stared at the screen, my heart hammering. He hadn't called me since I had run away. He hadn't texted. He had sent Greg to do his dirty work. And now, on the night before the deadline, he was calling me.

I answered the call on the second ring, my hand shaking as I pressed the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Emma."

His voice was sharp, cold, and laced with pure venom. I could picture him standing in his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his face twisted with rage.

"You're going to sign that contract tomorrow," he said. "Do you hear me? You are going to sign it, and you are going to marry Greg Hawthorne, and you are going to stop ruining this family."

I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles white. "You sold me, Dad. You literally sold me. I'm not ruining the family. You are."

"Don't you dare talk to me like that," he snarled. "I built this family from nothing. I gave you a roof, food, an education. And this is how you repay me? By running away like a coward? By putting my life at risk?"

"Your life?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You don't care about your life. You care about your money. Greg has money, and you want it. That's all this is."

"You're a selfish, ungrateful little—"

"I'm pregnant."

The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

Silence. Dead, heavy silence. I could hear my father breathing, sharp and ragged, on the other end of the line.

"What?"

"I'm pregnant," I repeated. My voice was steady, stronger than I expected. "And Greg knows. He doesn't care. He wants to marry me anyway. So go ahead and threaten me. Go ahead and tell me I'm ruining your life. It doesn't change the fact that I'm carrying a child, and I'm going to raise it without you, without Greg, without anyone."

The silence stretched on. When my father finally spoke, his voice was lower, colder, more terrifying than I had ever heard it.

"If you don't sign that contract," he said, "I will make sure you lose that child. I will make sure you lose everything. I will drag you through the mud until there is nothing left of you. Do you understand me?"

My chest tightened. My eyes burned. But I didn't cry.

"I understand," I whispered. "I understand that you've never loved me. And I'm done waiting for you to start."

I hung up.

The phone clattered onto the table, the screen glowing with my father's name before fading to black.

I stared at it, my hands trembling, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The tears I had been holding back finally broke free. They rolled down my cheeks, hot and heavy, dripping onto the contract, smudging the ink of the signature line.

I didn't wipe them away.

I picked up the pen again. My hand was shaking so violently I could barely hold it.

I couldn't do this. I couldn't sign. But I also couldn't let my father destroy me.

I placed the tip of the pen on the paper. The blue ink touched the line.

Knock, knock, knock.

I froze.

The sound was sudden, heavy, echoing through my tiny apartment. Three sharp raps on the door.

I looked up, my eyes wide, my heart hammering. I glanced at the clock. It was almost ten. Who could possibly be knocking on my door at ten at night? Greg?

I slowly set the pen down. My legs were shaking as I stood up and walked to the door. I pressed my eye against the peephole, my breath held tight in my chest.

I nearly choked.

It was Matt.

He was standing in the dim hallway, his hands shoved into the pockets of his gray hoodie, his blond hair messy and slightly damp from the night air. His blue eyes were fixed on the door, his jaw tight, his expression a mix of concern and determination.

I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

"Matt?" My voice cracked. "What are you doing here? How did you find—"

"Nicole," he said simply. "She gave me your address after I called her. Told me you needed someone tonight."

I stared at him, my lips parting. Nicole. Of course. She had been suspicious since the diner, and she had clearly decided to meddle.

Matt looked past me, his eyes landing on the papers spread across the kitchen table. The contract. The pen. The smudged tears.

His expression hardened. "What's that?"

"It's nothing."

"Emma." His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it. "I'm not an i***t. What's going on?"

I opened my mouth to lie, to tell him to leave, to push him out of this nightmare before he got dragged into it. But the words wouldn't come. My body wouldn't move.

Matt stepped forward. He didn't push past me like Greg had. He moved slowly, carefully, his hand reaching out to touch my arm. His fingers were warm, gentle, grounding.

"I'll ask you one more time," he said quietly. "What's going on?"

I broke.

The tears I had been holding back came flooding out. My knees buckled, and I started to collapse, but Matt caught me. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his chest, holding me like I was the most fragile thing in the world.

He smelled like fresh rain and clean laundry. He smelled safe.

"I'm scared," I sobbed into his hoodie. "I'm so scared."

He didn't ask questions. He didn't demand answers. He just held me, one hand on the back of my head, his chin resting on my hair.

"I've got you," he whispered. "You don't have to explain tonight. But I'm not going anywhere."

I clung to him, my fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie. I wanted to tell him everything. The contract. Greg. My father. The baby.

But I was too tired. Too broken.

So I just cried. And he just held me.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel completely alone.