When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 106

Amelia

When I returned to the apartment, I went out onto the balcony to see if Robert had already left. But I noticed footprints on the balcony—they clearly weren’t made by any of us. This is the 30th floor. If it was a thief, how did he get in? Unless my neighbor next door climbed over from his balcony.

I scanned my bedroom quickly. Jewelry box untouched. Laptop still on my desk. Nothing seemed to be missing.

"Mrs. Wilson?" I called out, keeping my voice steady as I walked into the kitchen.

"Yes, Dr. Thompson?" She looked up from the pancake batter she was mixing.

"Did you or anyone else go out on my balcony last night or this morning?"

"No, ma'am. Not at all." Her brow furrowed with concern. "Is something wrong?"

"The balcony door was unlocked. I'm certain I locked it before bed."

Her eyes widened. "Should I call building security?"

I considered it for a moment. If someone had managed to bypass my lock without leaving evidence, building security probably wouldn't help much.

"No," I decided. "Let's not worry them yet."

Throughout the day, the footprints nagged at my mind. By evening, I had formulated a plan. If someone wanted to break in, they'd likely try again. And this time, I'd be ready.

---

At midnight, I sat in darkness, watching the city lights through my bedroom window. The children were safely tucked away in the guest room with Mrs. Wilson—I'd invented an excuse about needing to rearrange furniture.

Suddenly, the apartment went completely dark. Not just my room—the digital clock on my nightstand blinked out too. The entire building had lost power.

I slipped behind the heavy curtains, gripping a small kitchen knife in my right hand. My heart hammered against my ribs so loudly I feared it might give away my position.

Minutes passed in silence. Then I heard it—the whisper of the balcony door sliding open. A silhouette appeared against the faint glow from the city below. Tall and slender, wearing what looked like a black dress and beige trench coat. Long hair cascaded down their shoulders. A woman?

The intruder moved toward my bed with unusual grace, clearly expecting to find me sleeping there. Finding it empty, they turned to leave.

I launched from behind the curtain, aiming my knife at their chest. The intruder spun with surprising speed, dodging the worst of my attack, but I felt the blade connect. A distinctly masculine grunt of pain followed.

"Shit!"

That voice. I knew that voice.

We fought in the darkness, trading blows with practiced precision. I landed several solid hits, but so did they—though it felt like they were holding back.

"Want your kids to lose their father before they even get to know him?" the intruder hissed.

I froze mid-strike. The voice. The comment.

Fumbling for my emergency flashlight, I clicked it on, directing the beam at their face.

"Ethan?!"

There he stood in a black dress and beige trench coat, white sneakers on his feet, wearing a long-haired wig and—was that an earring? The absurdity of the moment hit me all at once.

"Your fashion choices are certainly more adventurous than I remember, Mr. Black," I said, lowering my knife.

He squinted against the light, looking more uncomfortable than I'd ever seen him. His usual composed demeanor completely shattered.

"Think it's funny?" he muttered, adjusting the wig that had gone askew during our scuffle.

"Immensely." I couldn't help but smile. "Care to explain why you're breaking into my apartment dressed like this?"

I noticed him wince slightly and remembered my knife. Directing the flashlight toward his chest, I spotted a small bloodstain spreading on the black fabric.

"You're bleeding. Sit down." My doctor instincts kicked in despite myself.

"I'm fine," he insisted, but I pushed him toward the edge of my bed.

"How did you even get up here? We're on the 30th floor."

He sighed. "I climbed over from the next building."

"You WHAT?" I stared at him in disbelief. "And it's you who lived next door!"

"I had to see you. That bodyguard watches you like a hawk."

I snorted. "So you thought the logical solution was to dress as a woman and scale a high-rise?"

"Women are less likely to be seen as threats," he said with a straight face.

"That's your justification?" I shook my head, retrieving my first aid kit from the bathroom. When I returned, he was examining the cut through a tear in the dress.

"I need to clean that wound. I'll have to cut the dress open." I paused, holding back another laugh. "I'll buy you a new one tomorrow, though I'm not sure I can find your size."

"Go ahead and laugh," he said darkly. "Looks good on me, doesn't it?"

As I cleaned his wound, a realization struck me. "The night I had that fever... the 'nurse' who took care of me. That was you, wasn't it?"

He didn't answer immediately, then nodded once.

"Why, Ethan?" I asked quietly. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Why do you hate me so much?" he countered.

I finished bandaging his cut before answering. "I don't hate you. I just don't understand you. You were the one who pushed for divorce. You kept drawing lines between us, making it clear we were nothing but a business arrangement."

"I was wrong," he said simply.

I stared at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. "What really bothers me is that I found out you're helping Ashley. Why?"

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, then careful consideration.

"I'm sorry. I just see her like a sister, and I didn't think she’d do something so outrageous to you," he finally said.

He shifted uncomfortably. "When we were married... seeing you with Julian bothered me. The way you laughed with him, how comfortable you were. It drove me crazy."

I blinked, momentarily thrown by this change of subject. "Are you saying you were jealous? Three years ago?"

He didn't answer directly, but his expression told me everything. Was he suggesting he'd had feelings for me even then?

The lights suddenly flickered back on, illuminating Ethan in his full ridiculous outfit. In the brightness, the absurdity of the situation hit me anew, but something had shifted between us—a tension that wasn't entirely unpleasant.