When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 11

Ethan

I was about to close my laptop when my secretary's voice came through the intercom. "Mr. Black, your grandfather is on line one. He insists it's urgent."

The call wasn't unexpected. Those tabloid stories I'd orchestrated had been circulating for days. Headlines about Manhattan's most eligible bachelor spotted with a high-end escort at Blue Note were exactly what I needed to maintain my cover, but I knew my grandfather wouldn't see it that way.

"Tell him I'll be right over," I replied.

"Michael," I called to my assistant as I grabbed my coat. "Car. Now. We're heading to my grandfather's estate."

During the drive, I composed a mental script. I'd explain this was merely strategic misdirection, necessary for my ongoing operation. What I couldn't tell my grandfather was that Viktor's people had started watching me more closely since my sudden marriage to Elizabeth Thompson's daughter. The playboy image was the perfect smokescreen.

George was waiting in his study when I arrived, his silver hair catching the evening light. On his desk lay several newspapers and his iPad, all displaying my tabloid exploits in vivid detail.

"What game are you playing?" His voice cut through the room's silence, sharper than I'd heard in years.

"It's a business strategy, Grandfather. Nothing to—"

He raised his hand, cutting me off. "You just got married, and now you have to deal with the humiliation of your husband cheating?"

I kept my expression neutral. "Our arrangement is purely transactional. She hasn't expressed any concerns about—"

"I promised William I'd look after her," he interrupted, rising to stand by the window. "Your behavior is insulting her."

This was unexpected. I'd assumed my grandfather had arranged this marriage solely to fulfill some old debt. The genuine concern in his voice suggested something deeper.

"The Black family has a responsibility to protect her," he continued. "Even a contract marriage deserves basic respect."

I remained silent, recalculating. George knew more than he let on—he always did. But I couldn't afford to have my cover compromised, even for him.

"If you terminate this marriage prematurely, I'll reconsider transferring that thirty percent stake to you," he added, his gaze drilling into mine.

A power move. Typical.

"I'll handle it," I replied coolly, turning to leave.

"And Ethan," he called after me, "apologize to her tonight."

In the car, I sent an encrypted message to my FBI handler: [Any new intel on Thompson family connections to Viktor Group?]

This marriage was supposed to be my way into Elizabeth Thompson's financial records through her daughter. Now it was becoming unnecessarily complicated.

Near midnight, the Bentley entered the Upper East Side neighborhood where my apartment—our apartment—was located. Michael drove slowly through the rain-slicked streets when something caught my eye.

"Michael, stop. Lights off," I commanded, spotting a blue sedan being cornered by two black SUVs.

My first instinct was to drive past. Street crime wasn't my jurisdiction, and revealing myself could jeopardize months of undercover work. But as a woman stepped out of the sedan, the streetlight illuminated a familiar face.

"That's Amelia," I said quietly, surprised to see my "wife" in this situation.

"Should I call the police?" Michael asked, already reaching for his phone.

"Wait," I instructed, studying the scene. Something wasn't right. Amelia wasn't panicking. Her posture was calm, controlled—nothing like the demure doctor I'd been observing.

I activated my phone's recording function, focusing on the confrontation unfolding fifty yards away.

What happened next left me speechless. Amelia Thompson—the quiet, professional OB-GYN—moved with the precision of someone with extensive combat training. Her first strike was textbook perfect, targeting the solar plexus of the larger attacker. The second man swung wildly with what appeared to be a stun baton, but she ducked effortlessly beneath it, redirecting his momentum in a move I recognized from advanced self-defense courses.

"Are you seeing this?" Michael whispered, his voice a mix of disbelief and admiration.

I nodded silently, mentally revising everything I thought I knew about Dr. Amelia Thompson. The FBI file described her as a successful physician with no remarkable skills beyond her medical expertise. Nothing in our intelligence suggested she had this level of training.

"Get lost. You'll get nothing from me. These tricks won't work," her voice carried clearly through the night air as she stood over her would-be attackers.

The men retreated to their vehicle and quickly drove away. Only then did I notice Amelia's hands were shaking slightly—adrenaline aftermath, the only sign that what had just happened wasn't routine for her.

"Interesting," I murmured. A woman of hidden depths. The question was, why would a gynecologist need combat training? And more importantly, how did this connect to her mother and Viktor Group?

When we pulled into the garage beneath our building, I instructed Michael to go ahead and find out everything he could about those men and the car Amelia was driving.

I waited in the garage, timing my "coincidental" arrival at the elevator just as Amelia approached.

"Working late?" I asked casually, studying her composed expression. No visible injuries. No signs of distress beyond the slight tension in her shoulders.

"Yes," she replied curtly, avoiding eye contact.

The elevator ascended in silence. I noted how she kept her breathing even, controlled. Professional training.

"You seem... tense," I observed, pressing our floor button.

She let out a bitter laugh. "Just tired of work."

In the apartment, Amelia immediately disappeared into her room. Michael was waiting in the living room.

"Anything on those guys?" I asked quietly.

"Nothing. They were professionals—no plates, no identifying markers."

"And the car she was driving?"

"Registered to Julian Bennett. Olivia Bennett's brother."

I glanced toward Amelia's closed door, pieces of a new puzzle forming in my mind. Our gynecologist had unexpected connections to the Bennett family, advanced combat skills, and was now being targeted by professional operatives.

"Seems Dr. Amelia Thompson and that celebrity friend of hers are closer than we thought," I said, pulling out my phone to text James. [Need to talk. Tomorrow, at the bar.]

This investigation had just become significantly more complex.