When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 121

Amelia

The black sedan's door swung open, and James stepped out, looking oddly cheerful for someone about to witness a confrontation. But it was the figure dismounting from the Ducati motorcycle that caught my attention. Ethan removed his helmet, his expression hard as granite as he surveyed the scene.

I glanced at Michael, and he just nodded slightly, looking a bit sorry. Looks like he went ahead and contacted Ethan on his own.

I felt a strange surge of emotion seeing him standing there, ready to fight for me.

Michael stepped forward from his hiding spot, but I raised my hand to stop him.

"Stay back," I commanded, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "I want to handle this myself."

James looked between Ethan and me with theatrical disappointment. "You mean I came all this way for nothing?" He held up a pair of brass knuckles. "I even brought my favorite accessories."

Ethan moved toward me, his protective instinct obvious in every tense line of his body. "Amelia, let me—"

"No," I cut him off. "These people hurt Mrs. Garcia. They nearly killed Mrs. Wilson and Frank. They tried to hurt my son." My voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "This is personal."

The three men shifted nervously, their confidence visibly wavering now that they realized they weren't facing a defenseless doctor alone. The tallest one—clearly the leader—recognized Ethan and lowered his weapon slightly.

"Mr. Black," he said, his voice strained with forced politeness. "There seems to be a misunderstanding. We can discuss this like reasonable people."

"Oh, we're past reasonable," I replied, taking a step forward. The cold determination in my voice surprised even me. "But I'm willing to offer you a deal. If you can beat me in a fair fight, you walk away. Otherwise, you tell me who sent you."

The men exchanged glances, clearly thinking this was some kind of joke. The shortest one actually laughed.

"Lady, you're a doctor, not a fighter."

I smiled coldly. "I'm a lot of things you don't know about."

Ethan's eyes met mine, and after a moment of silent communication, he nodded slightly. He knew what I was capable of. He gestured for Michael and James to step back, creating space for what was about to happen.

"Your choice, gentlemen," Ethan said, his voice casual but laced with threat. "Fight the doctor or deal with me. Personally, I'd choose her—you might walk away with fewer broken bones."

The men hesitated, then the leader stepped forward, swinging his metal pipe experimentally. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

What followed was a blur of calculated violence. I dodged the first swing easily, my body remembering the countless hours of training. The self-defense classes I'd taken after my mother's death weren't just basic—they were comprehensive, designed for someone who never wanted to feel helpless again.

I blocked a punch, twisted an arm behind a back, used one man's momentum against another. My knuckles split against teeth, my muscles burned with exertion, but I kept going. Every blow I landed was for Mrs. Garcia. Every counterattack was for Mrs. Wilson. Every calculated strike was for Lucas, for Ella, for myself.

The first man went down with a well-placed kick to the knee. The second followed after I managed to slam his head against the concrete pillar—not hard enough to kill, but enough to knock him out cold. The third proved more resilient, landing a blow to my ribs that would definitely bruise.

I was tiring, but so was he. We circled each other, both breathing hard. Behind him, I could see Ethan watching intently, his body coiled like a spring, ready to intervene if necessary. But I didn't need rescue—I needed closure.

With a final burst of energy, I feinted left, then delivered a powerful roundhouse kick that sent the man staggering backward. Before he could recover, Ethan stepped forward and delivered a devastating kick that dropped the man to the ground.

"Enough," Ethan said firmly. "You've made your point. These guys are mine now."

I stood there, chest heaving, knuckles bleeding, feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and emptiness. Ethan approached me carefully, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the dust and blood from my hands.

"Feel better?" he asked quietly.

"Not really," I admitted, wincing as the adrenaline began to fade, making way for pain. "But it's a start."

"Who do you think sent them?"

"Margaret," I said without hesitation. "Subtle enough that Robert might not know, but effective enough to get me out of the way." I looked at the unconscious men on the ground. "I need to make her pay for what happened to Mrs. Garcia."

Ethan's eyes darkened. "We will. I promise you that."

James and Michael began securing the men, presumably to take them somewhere for questioning. I didn't ask for details—there were some things I preferred not to know.

"I'll take you home," Ethan said, nodding toward his motorcycle.

Under normal circumstances, I might have argued, insisted on driving myself. But tonight, I was tired—tired of fighting, tired of being alone, tired of pushing away the one person who kept showing up despite everything.

"Okay," I agreed simply.

The night air was cool as we sped through Manhattan's streets. I wrapped my arms around Ethan's waist, pressing against his back to shield myself from the wind. Through his leather jacket, I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—strong, reliable, familiar.

I rested my helmeted head against his shoulder and closed my eyes. For the first time in what felt like years, I allowed myself to relax completely.

The city lights blurred past us, creating streaks of neon and fluorescence against the night sky. In that moment, with the vibration of the engine beneath us and Ethan's solid presence before me, the decision crystalized in my mind with surprising clarity.

We slowed at a red light, and I tightened my grip around his waist. Leaning forward so he could hear me through our helmets, I said the words I'd been holding back for too long:

"I think we should start over."

The motorcycle suddenly jerked, and Ethan quickly stabilized it before pulling over at the red light. He twisted around, his eyes wide with disbelief behind his visor.

"What did you say?" His voice was strained, uncertain.

I met his gaze steadily. "I said I want us to start over. Not just the contract. Really start over."

The light turned green, but Ethan didn't move. Cars behind us started honking impatiently.

"Say it again," he demanded, his hands gripping the handlebars tightly.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Good things don't get said twice, Ethan."

He accelerated with renewed purpose, weaving through traffic with expert precision until we reached my building.

The moment he parked, he yanked off his helmet, letting it drop to the ground with a loud clatter, and pulled me into his arms. His lips found mine with an urgency that took my breath away, and I found myself responding with equal fervor.