When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 101

Amelia

I closed the office door and let out a long sigh. The message from Ethan still lay quietly on my phone, but I didn’t want to deal with it for now. A few days of uninterrupted vacation were waiting for me, and nothing was more important than that.

Despite the exhaustion from my shift, the thought of uninterrupted time with kids lifted my spirits as I walked toward the parking garage. I glanced up at the sky—it had been temperamental all day, flipping between sunshine and threatening clouds like it couldn't make up its mind. Now dark clouds loomed overhead, but I figured I could beat any serious downpour.

Reaching my car, I realized my umbrella was still in my office drawer.

"Screw it," I muttered, unlocking my car. "It'll hold until I get home."

I was spectacularly wrong. Halfway through my drive, the skies unleashed not just rain, but a vengeful deluge that rendered my windshield wipers nearly useless. Traffic crawled to a standstill, and my good mood evaporated with each passing minute stuck in the downpour.

When I finally pulled into my building's garage, I faced another problem—the thirty-foot dash to the elevator would leave me soaked. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my bag and made a run for it. The moment I stepped out, the rain hit me with shocking force, drenching my blouse in seconds. By the time I reached the elevator, I was completely soaked, my hair plastered to my face, water squishing in my shoes.

"Shit," I hissed, watching a puddle form around my feet as the elevator climbed to my floor.

The doors opened to reveal Mrs. Wilson waiting anxiously in the hallway.

"Dr. Thompson! You're soaked through!" She hurried toward me, alarm written across her face. "Let me get you a towel right away."

"Thanks, Mrs. Wilson." I stepped inside, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floor. "Is Lucas already having dinner?"

"Yes, Mrs. Garcia made his favorite pasta tonight." She returned with a fluffy towel and wrapped it around my shoulders. "You're shivering! You should get out of those wet clothes immediately."

I nodded, feeling a chill settling into my bones. Lucas came running from the dining room, his face lighting up when he saw me.

"Mommy! You're all wet!" he giggled, stopping short of hugging me.

"I am, buddy." I smiled despite feeling increasingly uncomfortable. "Mommy needs to take a shower first, okay? I'll come read you a story after."

He nodded enthusiastically before running back to finish his dinner. Mrs. Garcia appeared from the kitchen, clicking her tongue disapprovingly at my drenched state.

"Hot bath for you, Dr. Thompson. I'll prepare some tea with honey and lemon."

I thanked her and headed to my bathroom, peeling off my soaked clothes and dropping them in a soggy heap on the floor. The hot water in the tub was heavenly, and I sank into it gratefully, feeling my muscles relax. But as I soaked, I noticed a dull ache behind my eyes and a heaviness in my limbs that seemed more than just fatigue.

"It's nothing," I told myself. "Just tired. After giving birth, my body always seemed to remind me in this way that it was no longer young."

After my bath, I wrapped myself in a plush robe and immediately sneezed—once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

"Damn it," I muttered, reaching for tissues. My throat felt scratchy, and my head was definitely starting to pound.

I rummaged through my medicine cabinet, finding some cold medicine. As I swallowed the pills, another sneeze escaped me. Sighing, I grabbed a face mask from my stash—a habit from my medical training. No need to share whatever this was with Lucas.

"Mrs. Wilson," I called, walking into the kitchen with my mask on. "I think I'm coming down with something. Would it be possible for Lucas to stay in the guest room with you tonight? Just to be safe."

"Of course, Dr. Thompson." She immediately understood. "Ella is already asleep."

"Thank you." I gratefully accepted the steaming mug of tea Mrs. Garcia handed me. "I'm going to turn in early. Hopefully, this is just a twenty-four-hour thing."

I kissed Lucas goodnight through my mask, explaining I had "doctor germs" that I didn't want to share. He seemed excited about the impromptu sleepover, asking if they could build a fort with pillows. I smiled weakly and retreated to my bedroom, collapsing onto my bed with a groan.

Sleep came quickly but brought no relief. I woke in the dead of night, my body burning like a furnace. My pajamas clung to my sweat-soaked skin, and even the cool air from the AC felt like it was scorching my lungs. Disoriented, I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers clumsy and uncooperative.

"Frank," I rasped when the bodyguard Daniel had arranged answered. "I need help. Fever's really high..."

I drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of time passing. The next thing I clearly remembered was voices in my room—unfamiliar ones.

"Temperature 39.5 Celsius. She's severely dehydrated." A male voice, clinical and detached. "We'll start an IV and administer antipyretics."

I forced my eyes open to see a middle-aged man in a white coat and a tall woman in a nurse's uniform standing by my bed. Frank hovered anxiously in the doorway.

"We're going to help bring your fever down," the man explained, preparing an IV line.

I nodded weakly, too exhausted to speak. The female nurse moved efficiently around the room, setting up equipment. I noticed she never spoke, communicating only through gestures and nods to the doctor.

The cold rush of fluids into my veins made me shiver violently. The doctor adjusted my blankets and spoke quietly to Frank before gathering his bag.

"The nurse will stay to monitor you and change the IV when needed," he informed me.

After he left, the room fell silent except for the soft beeping of the portable monitor they'd attached to me. The nurse moved a chair closer to my bed and sat down, her movements graceful and precise. In my fever-induced haze, there was something oddly familiar about her, though I couldn't place it.

"Water," I managed to croak. My throat felt like sandpaper.

She nodded and disappeared from my field of vision. When she returned, she did something unexpected. Instead of simply handing me a glass, she locked my bedroom door, then sat on the edge of my bed. With surprising gentleness, she lifted me slightly, cradling me against her shoulder, and brought a spoon to my lips, feeding me water in tiny sips.

The tenderness of the gesture was so at odds with the clinical setting that I found myself staring up at her face, trying to focus my blurry vision. As she tilted the spoon to my lips again, she whispered something that cut through my feverish daze.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely audible. Her eyes held mine for a long moment, filled with what looked like regret and longing.

I wanted to ask what she meant, why she was apologizing, but darkness closed in again, pulling me back into feverish dreams.