When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 25

Amelia

"You're in such a hurry to divorce?" Ethan's voice carried an emotion I couldn't quite read.

"I told Olivia about our marriage," I took a deep breath, struggling to maintain my trembling hand. "That violates our confidentiality agreement. I can't keep dragging you into my mess. The Black family—a financial powerhouse like yours—doesn't need this kind of scandal."

"Wait," he stood up, stopping me. "If we're talking about violating confidentiality, then we're both guilty."

I looked up, confusion washing over me. "What do you mean?"

Ethan walked around the table until he stood directly in front of me. His usual cold demeanor was replaced with something more earnest.

"I just revealed my identity to your father. I broke the agreement too." His blue eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

I shook my head, guilt intensifying. "But you did that to protect me..."

"The reason doesn't matter," he interrupted. "The fact is we both violated the agreement. We're even."

I fell silent, his logic impossible to argue against. Yet something still didn't feel right.

"Amelia," his voice grew more serious, "have you considered something else?"

"What?"

"I just told your father about our marriage. If we divorce immediately after that," his eyes darkened, "won't he think we've been playing him? That this was all an act? In his humiliation and rage, what might he do next?"

The question hit me like a bucket of ice water. Of course. Robert Thompson was not a man who took humiliation lightly. If he thought we'd orchestrated this entire scenario to mock him, his retaliation would be swift and merciless.

"So... what are you suggesting?" I asked, withdrawing the ring from my hand.

"I'm suggesting we don't need to rush this decision," Ethan replied, his voice steady. "The agreement still stands. Three months."

I stared at the divorce papers, suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion. He was right. Rushing into divorce now would only make things more complicated. I placed the pen down and nodded slowly.

"There's something else," I said after a moment of silence. "I need to collect some important items—my mother's belongings, my painting supplies."

Ethan studied me for a moment. "I'll go with you."

The offer surprised me. "You don't have to—"

"If we're still maintaining this marriage, then I should help." His tone was matter-of-fact, but something in his eyes had softened.

"This house means a lot to you, doesn't it?" Ethan asked quietly. "You lived here most of your life."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Every corner has a story. Every room holds memories of my grandfather and me."

"Is there anything special you want to take?" His question was gentle, almost caring. "Since you might not come back often."

I remained silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Yes, there were things I couldn't leave behind—pieces of my past that I needed to carry into whatever uncertain future awaited me.

"Some important things," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Especially items belonging to my mother, and my painting supplies."

"Then I'll help you pack them," he offered naturally. "Since we're still technically married, it's the least I can do."

I glanced at him, surprised by this unexpected consideration. Perhaps allowing him to accompany me through this final goodbye was fitting—a bridge between my past and present.

Inside, the house greeted us with familiar creaking floorboards and the scent of old wood and polish. I led Ethan upstairs, pausing outside a door I rarely opened.

"This was my mother's room," I said softly, pushing the door open. "My grandfather kept it exactly as it was when she was alive. He never changed a thing."

As we entered, the faint scent of my mother's favorite perfume still lingered—a ghost of a fragrance that made my eyes sting with unshed tears. The dressing table with its collection of delicate bottles, the desk with unfinished sketches—everything preserved as if she might return at any moment.

I walked to the dressing table and carefully picked up a small, ornate music box—my most treasured childhood possession.

"This was my favorite thing when I was little," I said, running my fingers over its intricate surface, memories flooding back. "Every night, my mother would open it. 'Swan Lake' would play, and a tiny ballerina would twirl inside. I used to watch, completely mesmerized, dreaming that one day I'd dance just as gracefully—though I'm actually terrible at dancing, as you now know."

I tried turning the key, but as always, there was only silence. No music, no dancing figurine.

"After my mother died, it stopped working," my voice cracked slightly. "It never made a sound again. Like her laughter—just gone forever. I always thought maybe it was crying for her too."

Ethan's expression shifted to something I'd never seen before—a genuine softness that made him look younger, more human.

"You could bring these things to the apartment in the Upper East Side," he suggested quietly. "So you can see them every day. It's a kind of companionship. Your easel and paints too—there's plenty of space."

I looked up at him in surprise. "You'd let me bring all this to your home? These are... very personal items."

"As long as we're still married, that place is your home too," he said, his eyes holding a sincerity that made my heart skip. "And things that connect us to our past are important. They're proof we existed."

I remained silent for a long moment, warmth spreading through my chest. This man, who had started as a stranger in a contract, was offering me something I hadn't expected—understanding.

"Thank you," I whispered.

We carefully packed my mother's precious photographs, her jewelry, the silent music box, and other small mementos that carried the weight of beautiful memories. Throughout this process, we worked in comfortable silence, as if we were truly a couple moving homes rather than two people bound by a temporary agreement.

As we prepared to leave, I sought out Mrs. Jenkins in the kitchen. The woman who had worked in this house for over twenty years was more family than employee to me.

"Mrs. Jenkins, what will you do now?" I asked with genuine concern.

Her eyes were sad but determined. "I'll continue looking after the house, dear. Your grandfather left instructions that someone should keep it maintained. He didn't want it to fall into disrepair."

"I'll arrange for regular payments for your living expenses..." I promised. This woman had given so much to this family; I couldn't bear the thought of her struggling.

Mrs. Jenkins thanked me, then reached out to gently stroke my hair, just as she had done when I was little. "Don't worry about me. It's you who needs to take care of yourself. Remember to eat properly, and don't work those late hospital shifts too often."

Seeing her kind smile, tears welled up in my eyes again.

At that moment, Ethan approached and handed Mrs. Jenkins a business card. "If you need anything, Mrs. Jenkins, you can contact me or my assistant Michael."

She accepted the card with grateful eyes. "Mr. Black, I've heard William mention your family. He always trusted yours."

As our car pulled away from the brownstone, I couldn't help looking back at the building that had housed all my youth. In the golden light of sunset, it looked warm and welcoming, as if my grandfather might still be waiting inside for me to come home.

I turned away finally, facing forward, toward an uncertain future that somehow felt less frightening than it had that morning.