When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 114

Ethan

"You should leave now," Amelia said, turning away.

"I'm not leaving," I stated firmly. This wasn't a request or an offer—it was a decision already made. "I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

"Whatever. Do what you want."

She walked to her bedroom without another word, her shoulders slumped in defeat. I remained standing in the living room, listening to the soft thud of her body hitting the mattress. She hadn't even bothered to change clothes or wash up.

After confirming that security had been increased around the entire Black family with Michael, I made my way to Amelia's bedroom.

As expected, she had simply pulled the comforter over herself, still fully dressed. I sat on the edge of the bed and gently pulled back the covers. She looked small and fragile, nothing like the confident doctor who commanded respect in hospital corridors.

Without hesitation, I slipped my arms beneath her and lifted her from the bed. She was lighter than I remembered, and the realization sent a pang through my chest.

"What are you doing?" She struggled against my hold, but her movements lacked conviction. "Put me down!"

"You need a shower," I said, keeping my voice gentle but firm as I carried her toward the bathroom. "You'll feel better."

"I don't need to feel better." She pushed against my chest, her anger a pale shadow of the fiery resistance I'd expected. "I just want to sleep. Put me down, Ethan."

I set her on her feet in the middle of the bathroom but maintained my grip on her shoulders, studying her face. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her skin had a pallor that worried me.

"Are you going to shower on your own, or do I need to help you?"

A flicker of her usual spirit flashed in her eyes. "I can do it myself. I don't need you. Get out."

I nodded, relieved to see even this small spark of defiance. At least she wasn't completely broken. I released her and stepped out, closing the door behind me.

Standing in the hallway, I leaned against the wall and listened for the sound of running water. When I heard the shower start, I allowed myself to relax slightly. She was functioning, at least. That was something.

I made my way to the living room and dialed James again. He answered on the first ring.

"Any updates?" I asked without preamble.

"The driver is dead," James replied, his voice tight with frustration.

"That was fast," I remarked, my tone hardening. "Your efficiency seems to be slipping lately."

"There are a few odd things about the scene; it doesn’t look like just a simple accident," James said, his voice dropping.

"Keep digging out," I ordered before hanging up.

Thirty minutes had passed, and the shower was still running. I knocked on the bathroom door, concern overriding propriety. "Amelia? Are you alright?"

When there was no response, I was about to open the door when it finally swung open. Amelia emerged wrapped in a robe, her hair dripping wet. The sight of her hit me harder than expected—her vulnerability was almost palpable, and something protective and fierce surged inside me.

"You were in there for half an hour," I said carefully, controlling my voice. "I was about to check on you."

She brushed past me. "I'm fine."

But she wasn't fine. Anyone could see that. Her eyes were vacant, her movements mechanical. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the wall while water dripped from her hair onto her shoulders.

Without asking permission, I retrieved a towel and her hair dryer. Some battles weren't worth fighting, and her wet hair was an easy problem to fix compared to everything else.

"You'll catch cold if you sleep with wet hair," I said, sitting beside her and gently wrapping the towel around her head.

She didn't protest as I began to dry her hair, my fingers working through the damp strands with as much gentleness as I could manage. I'd never done this for anyone before, but the simple, domestic act felt strangely right. The drone of the hair dryer filled the silence between us, making the intimacy of the moment somehow less overwhelming.

As I worked, I felt her body gradually relax, leaning back against me. Her breathing slowed, and I realized she was falling asleep. I continued until her hair was mostly dry, then carefully guided her to lie down. She was already half-asleep as I pulled the covers up to her chin and moved around the room, turning off lights.

I stepped out onto the balcony, needing a moment to collect myself. The cool night air helped clear my head as I lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and exhaling slowly. The city lights sprawled below, millions of lives continuing while ours had been thrown into chaos.

My phone vibrated with a text from Michael: [Mrs. Wilson awake. Moved to regular room. Bodyguard still unconscious.]

At least that was something. I took another drag of my cigarette, then stubbed it out. I was about to head back inside when I heard Amelia's voice, high and panicked, calling for Lucas.

I rushed back into the bedroom to find her thrashing in her sleep, tears streaming down her face. "Lucas!" she cried out, reaching into the darkness. "Lucas, where are you?"

I sat on the edge of the bed and gripped her shoulders. "Amelia, wake up. It's just a dream."

Her eyes flew open, wild with panic until they focused on my face. Tears continued to stream down her cheeks, and her breathing came in short, sharp gasps.

"Lucas—" she started, fresh fear rising in her eyes.

"Is safe," I assured her, moving my hand to smooth her hair away from her forehead. The gesture felt natural, necessary. "He's with my grandfather, remember? And Mrs. Wilson woke up about an hour ago. She's been moved to a regular room. Michael just texted me."

Relief washed over her face, momentarily displacing the grief. I continued to stroke her hair, an action that seemed to soothe her as much as it did me.

"Sleep now," I murmured, wiping her tears from her cheek with the pad of my thumb. "I'm right here. I won't leave."

I expected her to protest, to insist that she didn't need me. The Amelia I knew prided herself on her independence. But tonight, she simply closed her eyes, surrendering to exhaustion and perhaps, just for this moment, allowing herself to accept my presence.

I moved from the bed to the chair beside it, settling in for the night. I wouldn't leave her alone—not tonight, not when nightmares lurked at the edges of her consciousness.

As I watched her drift back to sleep, I made a silent promise: I would find whoever was responsible for this. And they would pay.