When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 23

Amelia

"Amelia," he said as he approached, his voice carrying just enough volume to ensure those nearby could hear him playing the role of bereaved son and concerned father.

"Did you hear me?" His tone hardened slightly.

The rage that had been simmering beneath my grief finally bubbled to the surface. "If you are here to disturb Grandfather's peace, please get out."

Robert's face flushed dark red.

"I am your father," he hissed, leaning closer. "And now I'm also the head of the Thompson family. You dare speak to me like this?"

I didn't back down. "You haven't been my father since Mom died. And Grandfather never recognized you as the head of anything."

"How dare you—"

"Mr. Thompson." Olivia's voice cut through the tension like a knife.

"You've been standing here for quite some time," she continued, her voice sweet but with steel underneath. "Shouldn't you pay your final respects to your father now?"

Robert's jaw clenched. Even he wasn't immune to the influence of a Bennett in New York social circles. With a tight nod, he moved toward the casket, bowing stiffly before turning away without even touching the polished wood.

"Thanks," I whispered when Olivia returned to my side.

She squeezed my hand. "That's what I'm here for. Someone needs to keep the vultures away."

---

The rain fell in a fine mist over Brooklyn Cemetery, turning the granite headstones slick and dark. The sky was the color of wet cement, matching my mood perfectly. I stood at the edge of the freshly dug grave as the minister spoke words that seemed hollow and rehearsed. My grandfather had never been particularly religious, but tradition demanded these rituals.

Olivia held an umbrella over us both, her arm linked through mine. Her red hair was tucked beneath a black hat, but a few strands had escaped, dampened by the mist. Her presence was the only thing keeping me upright.

When it was over and the small crowd began to disperse, I turned to her. "Liv, you should go. I want to stay a little longer."

"In this rain? You'll catch pneumonia."

I managed a weak smile. "I'll be fine. I need some time alone with him."

"At least take the umbrella." She tried to press it into my hands.

"Take it with you," I said, gently refusing. "Grandfather will keep me company. He won't let the rain touch me."

Olivia's eyes welled up, and she pulled me into a tight hug before leaving.

"It's just us now," I whispered, letting the rain mix with my tears. "I hope you've found Mom. Tell her I miss her every day."

The rain intensified, but I hardly noticed. My mind was filled with memories—Grandfather teaching me to ride a bike in Prospect Park, helping with my science projects, attending every school play despite his busy schedule, standing proud at my medical school graduation. He had been both father and mother to me after Mom died, stepping in when Robert chose his new wife and new life.

---

When I returned to the Brooklyn brownstone, my clothes were soaked through and my hair was plastered to my face. Mrs. Jenkins, our housekeeper for as long as I could remember, met me at the door with a towel.

"Miss Amelia," she scolded gently. "Go change immediately. And... lawyer Harrison is waiting in the living room. He says it's important."

I froze halfway through drying my hair.

"Mr. Robert insisted it be done today. He's in there too."

Of course he was. My father couldn't even let Grandfather be buried before making his play for the inheritance.

"I'll be right down," I said, heading upstairs to change.

Ten minutes later, I descended the stairs in dry clothes. I heard voices from the living room before I entered—my father's impatient tone and the measured responses of someone who was clearly the lawyer.

I pushed open the heavy oak door to find them both seated in the antique chairs that flanked the fireplace.

"Miss Thompson, my deepest condolences," he said, genuine sadness in his eyes. He had known Grandfather well.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Harrison," I replied, taking a seat opposite my father. "Though I was surprised to learn the reading had been moved up."

Robert cut in before Harrison could respond. "Let's not waste time. I have an important meeting on Wall Street in two hours."

Harrison cleared his throat, placing his briefcase on the coffee table. "As you wish. I'm here to execute Mr. William Thompson's last will and testament."

He pulled out several documents, each in its own folder with numbered tabs. "According to William Thompson's wishes, I will now read his final bequests."

Robert leaned forward, a predatory gleam in his eyes that made my stomach turn.

Harrison began reading, his voice steady and professional. "To my granddaughter, Amelia Elizabeth Thompson, I leave 20% ownership in Thompson Enterprises."

I heard my father's sharp intake of breath.

"Furthermore, I leave her the Brooklyn brownstone with all its contents and furnishings."

Robert's knuckles whitened around his glass.

As Harrison continued reading through the bequests—a collection of art pieces, investment portfolios, and various properties—I noticed something odd. The documents seemed out of order. There was a strange gap in the numbering, as if document number six had been removed or altered. The papers jumped from five directly to seven, with what looked like correction fluid covering the original number.

My father's face had turned from shocked to thunderous. His jaw worked silently as Harrison finished reading.

"This is ridiculous!" he finally exploded, slamming his glass onto the antique table. "I am his only son. These assets should be under my management!"

Harrison remained professionally impassive. "Mr. Thompson clearly outlined his wishes. All documents have been properly notarized and are legally binding."

Robert turned to me, his eyes blazing. "What did you do to him? How did you manipulate a dying old man to give you everything?"

"I did nothing," I said, my voice cold. "Perhaps he simply recognized who truly cared for him these past five years while you were too busy with your new family to visit more than twice a year."

"You and your worthless mother—"

Harrison intervened, "Mr. Thompson, I assure you these documents were prepared when your father was of sound mind and body. They've been certified by New York State's highest notary office and are completely valid."

Robert ignored him, focusing his rage on me. "You think this is over? I have the best lawyers in Manhattan. I'll contest every line of this will. I'll make sure you end up with nothing."

I rose to my feet, refusing to be intimidated. "Get out. According to the will, this house is now mine."

His face contorted with fury. His hand suddenly shot up, and for a terrifying moment, I thought he was going to hit me. "You ungrateful little—"

The sound of a car engine outside interrupted him—a deep, powerful rumble that I somehow recognized immediately. We all paused, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a scalpel.

Footsteps echoed in the entrance hall. The living room door swung open, and then he appeared.

Standing in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights, was the unmistakable figure of a man in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit. His face was in shadow, but I knew who it was before he stepped forward. My heart rate accelerated despite myself.

Robert's hand froze mid-air as Ethan Black moved into the light, his expression cold and controlled, his eyes fixed on my father's threatening posture. Behind him, more security personnel filled the doorway, their presence commanding and intimidating.

"I suggest you rethink that action, Mr. Thompson." Ethan's voice was pure ice, filling the sudden silence of the room.