When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 34

Ethan

I shoved open the office door, my tailored suit jacket slung over my arm after a brutal investment strategy meeting that had dragged on forever. My head was pounding. Michael was already at my desk, holding a stack of files that practically screamed “urgent.”

Before I could even sit down, my phone buzzed. It was Catherine, my mom.

“Hey, Ethan, just a heads-up—your dad’s back tomorrow. We’re doing dinner at the old family estate,” she said, her tone warm but direct.

“Got it,” I replied, ready to hang up.

“Hold on, I’ve got something to ask you,” she added.

“What’s it?” I said, settling in for whatever was coming.

“Ethan, your grandfather mentioned this three-month arrangement with that woman. It’s been almost a month now. What’s your plan after this? I’m not trying to meddle, but she’s not exactly someone who can boost your career or take any weight off your shoulders. You need to think this through.”

“Mom, I don’t need anyone to prop me up. My position isn’t tied to who I’m with. If Grandpa hadn’t pushed me into marrying her, I’d have taken over everything by now anyway. You know he’d never hand it to Felix.”

“As long as you’ve got it figured out. I just wanted to say my piece. When it comes to your feelings, only you know what’s real,” she continued. "But honestly, she doesn’t come off as someone from our world right now. If you’re serious about her, I can help polish her up. She’s Black now, at least on paper. We can’t have her embarrassing the family.

“I’m not into her, Mom. Can we drop this for now? You should get some rest,” I said, cutting the conversation short before it could dig any deeper.

I didn’t bother with the jacket, just slumped into my chair. “Did you dig up anything on that Black Rose Restaurant chef I asked about last night?” I asked Michael, shifting focus.

My voice stayed level, but there was an itch I couldn’t scratch. Something about that chef’s food had triggered Amelia, brought up some old memory, and I had to figure out why.

“His resume claims he’s from Boston, but there are some sketchy gaps in his address history and job record,” Michael said, sliding the file over with his usual straight-to-the-point vibe.

I frowned, drumming my fingers on the polished desk—a nervous habit that always popped up when I was untangling a mess. “Keep digging. Check for any links to Viktor Group, especially who he hung with back in Boston.”

My old FBI instincts were buzzing. There had to be something buried here, something even Amelia didn’t know.

“On it,” Michael nodded, then hesitated. “Also, the quarterly portfolio review is ready when you—”

“Not now,” I cut him off, already flipping through the chef’s file. “This takes priority.”

As Michael left, I buried myself in work. The market had closed ages ago, and I didn’t even clock the city lights fading outside my huge windows.

By 7:30 PM, my eyes were burning from staring at papers and screens. I needed a pick-me-up. I jabbed the intercom button on my desk.

“Sarah, grab me a black coffee.”

Static. Zilch. I waited a second, then tried again. Still nothing.

“What are these people even doing?” I grumbled under my breath, irritation spiking. I got up and stormed out to the reception area, ready to rip into someone, only to find a bunch of staff crowded around a computer screen, hyped up and chattering.

“This doctor is insane!”

“Look at her—she’s owning that chaos like a boss!”

“And she’s gorgeous, too—like some kinda saint!”

I edged closer, about to snap at them for slacking off, but then I saw the screen and froze.

It was Amelia.

The livestream showed a complete mess on the highway—emergency lights strobing, smashed cars everywhere, and first responders hustling through the wreckage. Smack in the middle was "my wife," her white coat flapping as she did CPR on some guy who looked like he was already halfway gone.

I couldn’t peel my eyes away. Her hands moved with this steady, practiced rhythm, her face locked in total focus as she fought to save this random dude. When his vitals kicked back in, I could see the relief flash across her face before she darted to help a pregnant woman with blood pouring from her head.

Something odd churned in my chest. Pride? Concern? I had no clue, but it knocked me off my game.

“Sarah,” I said, my voice slicing through their buzz. They flinched, scrambling to close the video as they bolted back to their desks.

“Mr. Black! I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear the intercom—” Sarah stuttered, her face turning beet red.

“My coffee,” I said, stone-cold, pretending I hadn’t just seen what they were all gawking at.

“Right away, sir!” She rushed to the coffee machine, still rattled.

Back in my office, I shut the door and yanked out my phone. The hashtag #HeroicObstetrician was exploding—over three million views already. I scrolled through clips and pics of Amelia at the scene, saving lives with a kind of skill that even I had to give props to.

The comments wouldn’t stop:

“She’s a legit angel!”

“Smart and stunning—total queen!”

“Mad respect for this doctor!”

Every bit of hype rubbed me the wrong way, and I couldn’t pin down why. Yeah, she’s amazing—I’ve never argued that. But seeing all these strangers drool over her? It stirred up something I wasn’t ready to face.

I fired off a text to our PR team to pull any videos showing her face. Her getting this much spotlight could screw with my investigation—or at least that’s what I told myself.

I blasted through my work quicker than usual, clearing stuff I’d slated for tomorrow. The only noise was my keyboard clicking and papers rustling as the clock crept toward midnight. I had to stay busy, keep my mind off her.

“Don’t come get me tomorrow,” I told Michael, not looking up from my screen.

“Understood. You heading to the hospital for Dr. Thompson?” he asked.

My fingers stalled on the keys for a split second. I didn’t answer directly. “Got some leads to follow up on myself.”

“Pick her up?” No way, our thing is strictly professional—investigator and subject. But the idea wouldn’t quit nagging at me.

By 2:00 AM, I finally dragged myself into the Upper East Side apartment. I nudged the door open to find the living room dark except for one lamp. There on the couch was Amelia, curled up and passed out. Her blood-stained jeans still carried that faint hospital antiseptic smell, and in the dim light, her exhausted face looked… vulnerable, somehow.

I stood in the doorway, lingering longer than I meant to. This woman, who’s all strength and poise in public, looked so fragile in that moment, like she needed someone to watch over her. The faint shadows of her lashes rested softly on her cheeks.

For a second, I felt this odd pull to reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. I stepped back, but couldn't bring myself to leave.

Quietly, I shrugged off my suit jacket and carefully draped it over her.