When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 15

Ethan

Morning light filtered through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. I was seated at the conference table next to Amelia, my fingers flying across my laptop keyboard as I reviewed the company's latest financial report. The glow from the screen illuminated my face in the quiet, professional office.

I should have been focusing entirely on documenting the Group's business, but my attention kept drifting to the woman asleep on my Italian leather sofa. Damn it. I needed to concentrate on work, not on observing her sleep.

Amelia lay curled up under the cashmere throw I had carefully draped over her last night. Her blonde hair cascaded over the edge of the sofa like a waterfall, and her face looked peaceful and vulnerable—nothing like someone who might be involved in a multi-million-dollar money laundering operation.

Every time I recalled that impulsive kiss from the night before, my fingers paused over the keyboard. The softness of her lips, the faint taste of whiskey... No. I had to remind myself this was just an investigation. Personal feelings couldn't cloud my judgment.

I took a sip from my handcrafted ceramic mug of Blue Mountain coffee, my gaze involuntarily falling on her slightly fluttering eyelashes. This constant battle between professional duty and these emerging feelings was exactly why relationships were forbidden during undercover operations. I hated feeling out of control.

"You're finally awake," I said, not looking up from my laptop, injecting a touch of mockery into my voice, though something softer stirred beneath it.

Her reaction startled me. She bolted upright, frantically running her fingers through her tangled hair. Watching her try to salvage her dignity as a professional was almost amusing. Her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, making her look more like an ordinary woman than my investigation target.

I felt her stealing glances at me, but I maintained a deliberately cool demeanor.

"I... I need to freshen up," she said, her voice husky from the hangover. She was clearly trying to escape our inevitable conversation.

I slowly closed my MacBook and fixed her with a penetrating stare. "Why were you approaching James Hayes last night? Don’t tell me you’re interested in him."

My tone deliberately turned cold—an interrogation technique I had learned at Quantico. The sudden temperature change in conversation often caught subjects off guard.

"I was just trying to make new friends..." Her answer came out hesitant, and I could tell she didn’t even believe her own excuse.

My gaze cut through her like an X-ray.

Tension filled the air between us. She reminded me of a cornered animal, which gave me a sense of professional satisfaction but also, strangely, a twinge of regret.

"You're not good at lying, Miss Thompson," I said, smirking coldly. "I know James Hayes. He's not someone you should be getting close to."

I was concerned she might be gathering information through James that could compromise my investigation—or worse, she might have already discovered something.

She maintained stubborn silence, chin slightly raised. This defiance reminded me of hardened soldiers I had encountered, but the flash of panic in her green eyes betrayed her.

"Maybe I should call Julian and tell him his sister was drunk out of her mind at Blue Note last night."

"Are you threatening me?" anger flared in her eyes, but fear was more evident. Good. I had hit a nerve.

"I'm asking for honesty. In exchange, I'll offer the same." The irony of these words wasn’t lost on me—my entire identity was a lie.

I stood to leave, another psychological tactic. But as I turned, she lunged forward, attempting to grab my suit sleeve. Instinctively, I stepped aside swiftly.

Then she fell.

Seeing her stumble, my professional detachment instantly crumbled. I moved forward immediately, carefully helping her back onto the sofa. My movements were surprisingly gentle.

While supporting her, I noticed the strap of her black dress had slipped, revealing her delicate collarbone and a glimpse of her chest. I froze momentarily, my heart rate accelerating.

Damn, she was affecting me more than I had anticipated.

Our breathing grew rapid, and the air filled with dangerous intimacy. For a moment, we both forgot our secrets and agendas.

"I've been followed and attacked. I was trying to find out who's watching me," she quickly said, pulling the throw blanket to cover herself, her face reddening as she changed the subject.

She described being followed by a black SUV and attacked by two large men. I recalled witnessing her being attacked that night.

After explaining, she seemed to have twisted her ankle, unintentionally letting out a pain-filled sound.

"You should have your ankle checked. I'll take you," I said, preparing to lift her, my mind already analyzing the possibilities behind this attack.

"That's not appropriate. I'll go to the hospital before my shift," she replied, her refusal bringing both disappointment and relief.

"Mrs. Hopkins will be here soon. Let her accompany you to the hospital," I said.

"I'll talk to James, and Michael will handle your security," I added.

The truth was, even if I discovered something, I didn't plan on telling her.

Later that afternoon, I received a message from Noah in our group chat: he mentioned Amelia had followed his social media account and included a screenshot.

Reading this, an unfamiliar emotion—jealousy, suspicion, unease—washed over me like a tidal wave. This reaction surprised even me. When had I started caring so much about an investigation target's social behavior?

I coldly replied to Noah: [Stay away from Amelia if you know what's good for you.] It was partly personal, partly to protect my investigation’s integrity.

Driven by an impulse I couldn’t explain, I searched for Amelia’s social profile. It was private, showing only a hand-drawn sketch of a mother and baby as her avatar. Her bio simply read "OB-GYN, amateur artist."

My finger hovered over the screen, then clicked "Request to Follow."

Seeing the "Request Sent" notification, my heart inexplicably raced. Shit, I realized I might be crossing a line beyond professional boundaries.

Seconds later, rationality prevailed. I quickly canceled the follow request, but my elevated heartbeat persisted.

Leaning back in my office chair, I closed my eyes.

'Ethan, what the hell are you doing? You’re an FBI agent, and she’s your investigation subject.'

But why did the thought of her being in danger make my chest tighten?