Three For trouble

Chapter 9 The Morning Of

I woke up to gray light filtering through my thin curtains.

My eyes fluttered open, heavy and gritty from a night of crying. The first thing I registered was the unfamiliar weight on my chest—a gentle pressure that grounded me to reality. I looked down.

A blanket was draped over me. I didn't remember putting it there.

I slowly lifted my head, my neck stiff and sore from sleeping upright on the floor. My back was pressed against the side of the couch, my legs stretched out across the worn rug. I blinked, trying to piece together the fragments of last night.

The phone call. The contract. The knock on the door.

And then Matt.

I turned my head.

He was lying on my tiny couch, his body twisted in an awkward, cramped position. His legs were dangling off the armrest, his feet nearly touching the floor. One arm was thrown over his face, shielding his eyes from the morning light, and his chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths.

He had stayed.

I stared at him, my heart tightening in my chest. The hoodie he had worn last night was bunched up under his neck, revealing the lean, tanned lines of his collarbone. His blond hair was completely disheveled, sticking up in every direction, and his lips were slightly parted. He looked young. He looked peaceful. He looked like he belonged here, in my tiny, broken apartment.

I watched him for a long moment. Something stirred in my chest—something warm and terrifying. I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know if I had the right to feel it.

I slowly pushed myself to my feet, careful not to wake him. The floorboards creaked under my weight, and Matt stirred slightly, grumbling under his breath. I froze. But he didn't wake. He just shifted, his arm falling from his face, and settled back into sleep.

I walked to the kitchen, my legs heavy, and poured myself a glass of water. The contract was still on the table. The pen was still sitting beside it. The smudged tears had dried into faint blue stains on the paper.

I stared at it.

Today was Friday. The deadline.

My phone was lying on the table, the screen dark. No new messages from Greg. No new messages from my father. The silence was deafening, like the calm before a storm.

I took a sip of water and tried to think.

I couldn't sign the contract. That much I knew. If I signed it, I would become Greg's property. I would be trapped in a cold, loveless marriage, bound by legal words and gray eyes that stripped me bare.

But I also couldn't let my father die. Richard Vance was a monster, but he was still my father. And the weight of his blood on my hands would crush me.

There had to be a third option.

I heard a rustle behind me. I turned around.

Matt was sitting up on the couch, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. His hair was even messier now, sticking up like a rooster's comb. He looked at me, his blue eyes hazy with sleep, and a slow, tired smile spread across his face.

"Morning," he rasped. His voice was rough, low, completely unguarded.

"Morning," I said quietly.

He stretched his arms above his head, his back arching with a soft groan. The hem of his hoodie lifted, revealing a sliver of his stomach—lean, tanned, and lightly dusted with golden hair. I quickly looked away, my cheeks warming.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked.

"A little," I admitted. "You?"

"On that couch? About as well as you'd expect." He grinned, but the smile faded when his eyes landed on the contract on the table. He stared at it for a long moment, his expression shifting into something serious.

"You're still thinking about it," he said. It wasn't a question.

I nodded, my throat tight. "I have to sign it today."

"No, you don't."

"Matt, you don't understand." I turned to face him, my hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. "If I don't sign it, a man will die. He's not a good man. He's actually a terrible man. But he's still my father. And I can't live with that guilt."

Matt was quiet for a moment. He stood up slowly, running a hand through his messy hair, and walked toward me. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell the lingering scent of rain on his hoodie.

"So you're going to hand your life over to a stranger?" he asked quietly. "You're going to walk into a cage just to save someone who never saved you?"

"It's not that simple."

"It's exactly that simple." He took a step closer. His blue eyes were fixed on mine, soft but intense. "Look at me, Emma. What do you want?"

I stared at him. The question hit me like a wave. What did I want?

I wanted to be free. I wanted to raise my baby without fear. I wanted to wake up in a world where I wasn't a bargaining chip.

But I also wanted him. I wanted the warmth of his presence, the safety of his arms, the easy smile that made my heart skip.

"I want to be in control of my own life," I whispered.

Matt nodded slowly. "Then let's go take it back."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

He reached out and gently took the contract off the table. He folded it neatly, slid it into the pocket of his hoodie, and looked at me with steady, unwavering eyes.

"You said the deadline is today. So let's go see him."

I blinked. "See Greg?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, his expression calm. "You don't have to do this alone, Emma. I'll go with you. You can talk to him face-to-face. Tell him you're not signing. And if he threatens you, I'll be right there."

I stared at him, my chest tightening. "Matt, you don't understand what you're offering. He's dangerous. He's rich, he's powerful, he has people everywhere. If you get involved, he could—"

"I don't care." His voice was low, steady, and completely certain. "I don't care who he is or what he has. I care about you. And I'm not letting you walk into a trap alone."

The tears threatened again. I blinked them back fiercely.

"You barely know me," I said, my voice cracking.

"I know enough." He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. "I know you're brave. I know you're scared. And I know you deserve a life that doesn't feel like a prison."

He lifted his hand and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was soft, tender, and it sent a shiver down my entire spine.

"Let me help you," he whispered. "Please."

I looked into his blue eyes. There was no hesitation in them. No fear. Just pure, unguarded sincerity.

I nodded, a single tear slipping down my cheek. "Okay."

He smiled. It was small, gentle, and it made my heart ache.

We didn't say much as we left the apartment. Matt drove—an old, battered sedan with a cracked windshield and a lingering smell of dog fur. The car was nothing like Greg's sleek black luxury vehicle. It was humble, worn, and completely unpretentious.

I gave him the address. He typed it into his phone's GPS.

The drive was silent. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past. The buildings grew taller, the streets grew cleaner, the people on the sidewalks grew richer. We were driving into Greg's territory.

Matt pulled up to a massive, glass-fronted skyscraper in the heart of the financial district. The building was sleek, modern, and intimidating. It reflected the gray sky like a mirror, cold and unfeeling.

He parked the car and turned to me.

"I'll wait right here," he said. "If you're not out in an hour, I'm coming in."

I looked at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked on mine. He was scared. I could see it in the tension of his shoulders. But he was hiding it for me.

"Thank you," I said softly.

"Just be careful."

I nodded, opened the door, and stepped out into the cold morning air.

The lobby of the building was pristine, polished, and completely silent. A receptionist in a crisp white blouse looked up as I approached, her eyes scanning my plain clothes with barely concealed judgment.

"I'm here to see Greg," I said. My voice was steady, even though my heart was racing.

The receptionist raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Greg doesn't have unscheduled appointments."

"Tell him Emma is here. He'll see me."

She hesitated. Then, she picked up the phone and murmured something into the receiver. A moment later, she set the phone down and nodded.

"Forty-second floor. He's expecting you."

I walked toward the elevator, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The doors slid open with a soft chime. I stepped inside, pressed the button for the forty-second floor, and watched the doors close.

The elevator began to rise.

My reflection stared back at me in the polished steel doors—pale, tired, my eyes rimmed with red. I looked like a ghost. But there was something else in my gaze. Something I hadn't seen in weeks.

Fire.

I wasn't going to sign the contract. I wasn't going to let Greg win.

I was going to stand my ground.

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open, revealing a sprawling, open-plan office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city.

And in the center of it, standing behind a massive glass desk, was Greg.

He was wearing a navy suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, his gray eyes already fixed on me as I stepped out of the elevator. He didn't smile. He didn't move. He just stood there, watching me like a hawk watching its prey.

"Emma," he said. His voice was low, smooth, and laced with quiet amusement. "Right on time. I was beginning to think you wouldn't show."

I walked toward him, my legs steady despite the earthquake in my chest. I stopped on the other side of his desk, meeting his gray eyes with my own.

"I'm here," I said. "But I'm not signing."

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

Greg didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to my hands, then rising back to my face.

"I see," he said softly. "Then we have a problem."