When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 124

Amelia

I spotted Ethan's sleek black car the moment I stepped out of the hospital's main entrance. There he was, lounging in the driver's seat with the window rolled down, his designer suit jacket casually tossed aside and a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

The image of Wall Street power somehow made more appealing by this deliberate carelessness. Our eyes met across the parking lot, and I felt that now-familiar flutter in my chest.

I hurried toward the car, glancing nervously over my shoulder. "Roll up your damn window," I hissed as I approached. "My colleagues might see us."

Ethan smirked but complied, the tinted window sliding upward as I slipped into the passenger seat. The moment I settled in, he leaned closer, his cologne enveloping me in a cloud of expensive sophistication.

"Every time I see you," he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate tone that sent shivers down my spine, "my self-control drops by at least fifty percent. I always want to kiss you."

The drive to my family's Brooklyn brownstone passed in a blur of anticipation and dread. When Ethan finally parked in front of the Thompson family home, I felt my stomach knot into a tight ball. This house, once my sanctuary when Grandpa William was alive, now felt like enemy territory. Ethan walked silently beside me, a reassuring presence as memories of childhood summers and holiday gatherings clashed with the bitter reality of what my father and Margaret had become.

Margaret greeted us in the living room, her perfectly manicured hands arranging an elaborate tea service. "Amelia, darling! What a surprise!" Her voice dripped with false warmth, but I didn't miss the slight tremor in her fingers as she set down the teapot. "And Mr. Black! To what do we owe this pleasure?"

I smiled politely, taking a seat on the antique sofa that had been my grandfather's favorite. Without asking, I picked up a bright red apple from the fruit bowl on the coffee table and began slicing it methodically with the small knife Margaret had provided for the cheese platter.

"It looks perfect from the outside, doesn't it?" I said, studying the apple in my hand. "But you never know what's inside until you cut it open. Sometimes, what looks pristine is actually rotten to the core."

Margaret's smile faltered for just a moment before she recovered. "Would you like some tea, Amelia? I've prepared your favorite cookies."

Ethan settled comfortably beside me, his posture relaxed but his eyes vigilant. "You know, I heard the most interesting story recently," he said conversationally, accepting the teacup Margaret offered. "About someone who paid fifty grand to hire hitmen. Can you imagine?"

Margaret's hand froze midair. "I... I don't know what you mean."

"The fascinating part," Ethan continued, as if discussing the weather, "was that the entire process was recorded by a private investigator. The employer was too cheap, you see. Got third-rate service." He took a casual sip of tea. "In New York, good professional services don't come cheap. Quality assassination probably starts at a million, minimum."

I couldn't contain my anger anymore. The carefully sliced apple pieces became projectiles as I hurled them at Margaret's immaculate silk blouse.

"This was my mother's favorite apple variety," I spat, my voice shaking with rage. "You don't deserve to touch anything that reminds me of her, you manipulative bitch."

Margaret gasped, frantically wiping at the juice staining her expensive outfit. Her eyes darted nervously to Ethan, clearly calculating how much she could get away with in his presence. She settled for a tight smile and reached for a napkin.

"Amelia, please. This is Chanel," she whimpered, as if the desecration of her designer clothing was the real crime here.

The doorbell rang, and Margaret tensed visibly. Ethan nodded to me, a silent signal that everything was proceeding according to plan. Moments later, Michael entered, followed by three men with their hands bound behind their backs. One was sporting a black eye, while the other looked like he'd been in a serious fight.

"These gentlemen have something you might want to hear," Michael said, pulling out his phone.

The recording was crystal clear. Margaret's voice filled the room: "I just want her dead. I don't care how you do it, but it needs to look like an accident. The insurance payout alone will be worth it."

"That's not me," Margaret protested weakly. "That could be anyone! This is ridiculous!"

The middleman, eager to save himself, quickly contradicted her. "It was you, ma'am. You met me at the Westside Café three times to arrange everything. You even brought photos of Dr. Thompson to make sure we targeted the right person."

Ethan pulled out his tablet and turned it toward Margaret. "According to Black Investment Group's analysis, Robert has sold off Thompson Enterprise shares until he only has 5% left. Where did that money go, Margaret? Not to you, apparently, since you couldn't even afford competent hitmen."

Margaret's face contorted with rage. She lunged toward me, fingers curved like claws, but Michael was faster. He had her pinned to the floor in seconds, her expensive hairdo crumpling against the Persian rug.

"You think you know everything?" she snarled, struggling against Michael's grip. "You think your mother's death was an accident? You have no idea what really happened!"

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. The room seemed to tilt around me, and I instinctively reached for Ethan. His hand found mine immediately, squeezing tightly, anchoring me to reality.

"She's just trying to provoke you," he murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. "Don't let her get to you."

Michael nodded toward the window. "Police are here," he said quietly. "We've given them all the evidence."

I watched in silence as two officers entered and took Margaret away. She continued to shout obscenities and threats, her carefully constructed façade of sophistication completely shattered.

"This isn't over! Robert will never let this stand! You'll regret this, Amelia!"

Back in the car, I sat in stunned silence, processing what had just happened. My hands were still trembling slightly, and I clasped them together to hide it. Ethan reached across the console to take my hand, gently prying my fingers apart and intertwining them with his own.

"People who do evil things will always face consequences eventually," he said softly. "We'll get to the truth about everything, I promise you."

Our fingers intertwined, and I felt a wave of exhaustion and relief wash over me. One battle won, but the war wasn't over. The mention of my mother's death had reopened old wounds, but for the first time, I felt like I might eventually find answers.

"Let's go back to Black Mansion," Ethan suggested, his voice gentle. "They're waiting for us."

I nodded, leaning back in the seat and closing my eyes. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to believe that justice was possible, and that I wasn't fighting alone anymore.