When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 115

Amelia

I woke up with a start, my first conscious thought being about Mrs. Wilson. The events of yesterday crashed over me like a wave—the accident, Mrs. Garcia's death, Mrs. Wilson's surgery. I needed to get to the hospital immediately.

As I shifted to get up, I noticed someone sitting in a chair to the right of my bed. Ethan. He was still in yesterday's clothes, his suit jacket draped over his shoulders, head tilted slightly forward in sleep. Despite his uncomfortable position, he maintained a perfectly straight posture, something that had always amazed me about him. Even in sleep, he looked powerful.

I slid out from the left side of the bed, careful not to wake him. His face looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes. Had he been here all night? I grabbed a throw blanket from the ottoman and gently laid it over him. He didn't stir.

Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I checked the time—7:05 AM. I had several notifications, including one from an unknown number that had come in just minutes ago. I opened it, expecting a hospital update about Mrs. Wilson.

What I saw made my blood freeze.

It was a photo of the accident. Not the aftermath I'd seen at the hospital, but the actual moment of impact. Half the car was crushed inward, the crumpled door frame stained with blood that dripped onto the pavement below. Mrs. Garcia and Mrs. Wilson were visible, their bodies contorted as they shielded Lucas from the impact. The driver's head was covered in blood, his pant leg soaked crimson.

My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor, my back against the bed. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the image. This was how close I'd come to losing my son. These people—my employees, yes, but also my family in every way that mattered—had used their bodies as human shields to protect Lucas.

Mrs. Garcia was dead because of me. Because she was protecting my child.

The tears came without warning, pouring down my face in hot streams. I pressed my hand hard against my mouth to muffle the sobs that threatened to escape. My shoulders shook with the effort of containing my grief, but I couldn't let myself break down completely. Not now. Not with Ethan here.

"Amelia?"

I hadn't heard him wake up. Suddenly he was kneeling beside me, his eyes widening as he glimpsed my phone screen. In one swift motion, he took the device from my trembling hands, his jaw tightening as he studied the image.

"Who sent this to you?" His voice was dangerously quiet, a controlled fury simmering beneath the surface.

I couldn't answer. The dam had broken, and I was drowning in guilt and grief.

Ethan set the phone aside and pulled me into his arms. "Cry," he whispered against my hair. "Just cry."

That simple permission was all I needed. I buried my face against his chest and sobbed openly, my body shaking with the force of my grief. Ethan said nothing more, just held me tightly, one hand making slow circles on my back. I don't know how long we stayed that way—maybe thirty minutes, maybe longer—but he never loosened his grip, never rushed me to pull myself together.

When my sobs finally quieted to irregular hiccups, he brushed the hair from my face with gentle fingers. "What happened has happened," he said softly. "Now we deal with the aftermath. And I'll be with you every step of the way."

I looked up at him, my vision still blurry with tears. "Mrs. Wilson—"

"She's been moved to a regular room," Ethan said. "And doctors are pleased with Frank's progress and are beginning to bring him out of the coma. He's expected to regain consciousness in the next forty-eight hours."

I nodded, trying to process this information through my grief-fogged brain. "I need to arrange a proper funeral for Mrs. Garcia," I whispered. "She deserves that much."

"It's already taken care of," Ethan said.

I pulled back slightly, surprised. "What?"

"I've made all the arrangements," he explained, his voice matter-of-fact. "The funeral home, the service, everything. I didn't want you to have to worry about that."

The shock must have shown on my face, because he added, "You've been through enough."

Before I could respond, there was a soft knock at the bedroom door. Michael stood there with breakfast trays and a garment bag.

"Good morning, Dr. Thompson," he said, his tone professional but gentle. "The funeral home has scheduled the viewing for 9:30 AM. I've brought breakfast and appropriate attire."

"Thank you, Michael," I said, my voice raspy from crying.

Michael nodded and set everything down. As he turned to leave, Ethan caught his eye and said in a low voice, "Track down that number. And double the security detail."

Michael's expression didn't change, but he gave a slight nod before leaving us alone again.

I pushed myself up from the floor on unsteady legs and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. When I returned, Ethan had set out a simple black dress from the garment bag. I changed in the bathroom, not bothering with makeup. My eyes were still red and swollen, but I didn't care.

When I emerged, Ethan had arranged breakfast on the small table by the window—hot oatmeal with blueberries, exactly what I would have chosen for myself. He pulled out a chair for me, and I sat down, too emotionally exhausted to refuse.

"You should eat something," he said, pushing the bowl toward me. "Even just a few bites."

I picked up the spoon and took a small mouthful. The oatmeal was warm and comforting, with just the right amount of sweetness from the blueberries.

"You don't need to thank me," Ethan said as I took another bite. "I just want you to stop pushing me away."

I looked up at him then, really looked at him for the first time in a long while. The man sitting across from me wasn't the cold, distant Ethan I'd divorced three years ago. He was a man who had sat by my bed all night, who had held me while I cried, who had arranged a funeral to spare me additional pain.

"Ethan," I said suddenly, my voice steadier than I expected. "I forgive you."

He went still, his coffee cup halfway to his lips.

"Life is too short," I continued, the words coming from some place deep inside me. "We never know if tomorrow will come or if some accident will take it all away. I don't want to live with hatred in my heart anymore."

Ethan set his cup down carefully, his eyes never leaving mine. I could see the emotion there, the hope he was trying to contain.

"Amelia... Thank you. That means everything to me," he said, his voice slightly rougher than usual.

Our eyes held for a long moment, the air between us charged with possibility. For the first time in years, I felt like maybe—just maybe—we had a future.