When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 16

Amelia

I was scrolling through my phone when the doorbell chimed again, more insistently this time. I limped across the living room, wincing as my swollen ankle protested every step. When I pulled the door open, I found Mrs. Hopkins standing there with a small suitcase at her feet, her expression as warm as an Arctic winter.

"Mr. Black instructed me to come today to care for you and take you to the hospital to check your ankle," she announced, her tone making it clear that babysitting me was the last thing she wanted to do.

Great. Another day with Mrs. Sunshine. I forced a smile, recalling our previous frosty interactions. The woman seemed to have decided I was beneath contempt from the moment she laid eyes on me.

"Thank you for coming," I managed, stepping aside to let her enter.

Mrs. Hopkins placed her suitcase by the entryway with military precision. "The car is already waiting downstairs. We should leave when you're ready."

As she moved past me, something caught my attention—a familiar scent, subtle but distinctive. The aroma of dried herbs and flowers hit me like a physical force, transporting me instantly back to my childhood. My mother used to carry that same smell on her clothes, in her hair...

"Mrs. Hopkins," I blurted out, my heart suddenly racing. "That fragrance you're wearing—what is it?"

She stiffened, turning to look at me with narrowed eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Black. We should go now."

The abruptness of her response only intensified my curiosity, but I knew better than to push. Whatever that scent was, it clearly made her uncomfortable—and it had opened a door to memories I'd kept locked away for years.

---

The ride to the hospital was excruciating—not because of my ankle, but because of the suffocating silence. Mrs. Hopkins focused on driving, her posture rigid, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"How long have you worked for the Black family?" I attempted, desperate to break the tension.

"Long enough." Two words, delivered like ice cubes dropping into a glass.

Message received. I turned to look out the window, watching Manhattan's skyline blur past. I couldn't help wondering what I'd done to deserve her contempt. Was it simply that I was an outsider to the Black dynasty? Or something more personal?

When we arrived at the hospital, Lisa at reception greeted me with her usual enthusiasm.

"Dr. Thompson! What brings you in today? It's not your shift, is it?"

I caught Mrs. Hopkins' sharp intake of breath beside me.

"You're a doctor here?" The surprise in her voice was unmistakable.

"Yes, obstetrics," I explained, unable to hide a small smile at her shock. "Just here to check on my ankle today."

Lisa leaned forward conspiratorially. "Should I page Dr. Matthews? He'd want to know you're injured."

"No need, he's busy. Jenny can cover my patients. It's just a quick check-up."

As we walked toward the exam room, I noticed Mrs. Hopkins studying me with new eyes, her previous disdain giving way to something like curiosity. The power of professional credentials—they sometimes changed people's perceptions faster than anything else.

The doctor confirmed what I already suspected: a mild sprain that needed rest and elevation. Nothing serious. As we were leaving, one of my patients spotted me in the hallway.

"Dr. Thompson!" A very pregnant woman waddled over, her face lighting up. "I wanted to thank you again for everything you did during Sarah's birth. The breathing techniques you taught me saved my sanity during those contractions!"

I smiled genuinely, remembering the difficult delivery three weeks ago. "You did all the hard work, Kelly. How's little Sarah doing?"

"Perfect! Would you like to see?" She immediately pulled out her phone, showing me photos of a pink-cheeked infant.

I felt Mrs. Hopkins watching this exchange closely, something shifting in her expression. The ice was beginning to thaw.

---

As we walked toward the parking lot, Mrs. Hopkins suddenly spoke, her voice softer than before.

"That scent you asked about... it's an herbal sachet."

I glanced at her, surprised by the voluntary information.

"My daughter just had a baby," she continued, eyes focused straight ahead. "In Boston, where she married, they have a tradition of making special sachets for newborns. They're supposed to bring good health."

Her voice took on a gentler quality I hadn't heard before.

"Mr. Black called me back suddenly to care for you, and I didn't have time to change clothes. The scent must still be on them."

The revelation hit me with unexpected force. This stern woman was a grandmother, someone who treasured family just as I did. The realization humanized her instantly.

"Congratulations on becoming a grandmother!" I said sincerely. "Boy or girl?"

For the first time, I saw Mrs. Hopkins smile—a real smile that reached her eyes. "A boy. Six pounds, nine ounces. Healthy as can be."

In the car, our conversation flowed more naturally. I shared some professional insights about newborn care, and she listened attentively. The dynamic between us had completely transformed.

"How do you make those sachets?" I asked, thinking of my mother again. "The scent is so familiar."

"I actually don't know the exact recipe," she admitted. "It might be a local tradition there. If you're interested, I could ask my daughter."

"I'd like that," I said quietly. "The smell reminds me of my mom. She always loved herbal fragrances."

Mrs. Hopkins nodded, a look of understanding crossing her face. Nothing more needed to be said.

---

Back at the apartment, Mrs. Hopkins helped me settle on the couch with my foot elevated on a cushion.

She pulled out her phone. "This is my first grandchild," she said proudly, showing me a photo of a tiny infant wrapped in a blue blanket.

"He has your eyes," I observed, noting the same intense gaze. "He's beautiful."

When she prepared to leave, her demeanor was completely different from earlier that morning. "I'll be back tomorrow," she said. "You need to rest that ankle properly."

The door had barely closed behind her when I heard the elevator ding again. Moments later, Ethan walked in, his expression unreadable as always.

"How's the ankle?" he asked, setting his briefcase down.

"Just a mild sprain. It'll be fine in a few days."

He nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. "These are anti-inflammatory medications. They should help with the swelling. I had Michael pick them up from the pharmacy."

I stared at the bag, then at him. "You didn't need to do that."

"It's my responsibility," he said firmly. "If not for my behavior yesterday, you wouldn't have injured your ankle."

I tried to refuse, but Ethan's expression hardened slightly. "There's a family gathering at the mansion in two weeks. I can't have my wife showing up on crutches."

My wife. The words sent an unexpected flutter through my stomach. I reminded myself it was just part of our act—nothing more.

Without warning, Ethan knelt beside the couch and opened the medication tube. His expression was mechanical as he began applying the ointment to my ankle. The calluses on his hands tickled my skin, making me squirm.

"Don't move," he frowned, his voice carrying the impatience of a professional agent interrupted.

"But your hands..." I bit my lip, trying to stay still.

"What about them?" He paused, giving me a cool stare.

"They're ticklish."

Ethan glanced at his rough palms, silent for a moment.

"Deal with it," he said coldly, continuing his ministrations.

I couldn't help but laugh softly. "How thoughtful you are, Mr. Black."

His hands faltered for a split second, and he looked up at me with something like confusion flickering across his usually impassive face.

"I'm just trying to avoid unnecessary attention," he muttered, returning his focus to my ankle.

But I noticed his touch had become gentler, more careful.

I watched him work, wondering about the real man behind the cold facade.