When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 43

Ethan

Noah’s call left a bad taste in my mouth. I paced my office like a caged animal, anger simmering with every step.

The whiskey I’d been nursing since the call wasn’t helping. If anything, it was fueling the fire—no, not jealousy, I told myself, professional concern—burning hotter in my chest. Three drinks in, and all I could think about was Julian Bennett peeling shrimp for her, his fingers brushing against hers.

I was about to throw my phone across the room when Michael knocked and came in.

“Ethan,” he said, his face serious. “About Elizabeth Thompson’s death—I found some new leads.”

I froze, grateful for the distraction from my rage. Michael held what looked like an internal FBI report, his knuckles white from gripping it tight.

“What did you find?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He set the file on my desk and flipped it open to a timeline. “Elizabeth died in a car accident shortly after Margaret brought Emily into the picture.”

I studied the photos of the wrecked car. The report said brake failure, but something felt off.

“Logically, Robert should’ve married Margaret right away,” Michael continued, tracing the dates. “But William was strongly against it, and to this day, they still haven't held the wedding.”

I let out a bitter laugh. Of course something was fishy. The timing was too perfect. William must’ve suspected something.

“These transactions,” Michael pointed to highlighted entries, “were flagged by Elizabeth before she died. She noticed irregularities in the accounts. After her death, someone altered the records.”

He laid the documents on my desk. “This narrows our investigation. I’m thinking Margaret or Robert—or both—were working with Viktor.”

“So Margaret definitely had a motive to get rid of Elizabeth,” I said, my mind racing. If Elizabeth had uncovered the money laundering and was about to expose it...

Michael nodded, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “But Ethan, after working with Amelia these past weeks... I don’t think she’s involved. Her financials are clean, her lifestyle modest for someone with her means. Nothing points to her knowing anything.”

I paused, pen hovering over a document I was about to sign. His words stirred something inside me, but I pushed it down. I couldn’t let personal feelings cloud my judgment. Still, part of me wanted to believe her innocent.

“Don’t rule anyone out until we have solid proof,” I said coldly. “That’s rule number one.”

As Michael turned to leave, I called out, “Bring me a bottle of Scotch. Macallan, not Glenfiddich.”

Noah’s words echoed in my head—“You should’ve seen how natural they looked, like they’d been sharing meals for years”—and I needed something stronger to numb whatever this was. Anger? Jealousy?

Michael brought over some wine, and I drank alone in the office.

In the end, I decided to go home and confront Amelia in person.

The car pulled up outside my Upper East Side building. I looked up and saw Amelia on the balcony, sketchbook in hand, completely absorbed. The soft light from inside highlighted her profile. My brow furrowed as Noah’s description of her meal with Julian replayed in my mind. Was she thinking about him while drawing? Was she sketching his face?

“Sir, you’ve had quite a bit to drink. Take these pills first,” Michael said, handing me some meds. Concern was clear in his eyes, but I ignored it.

I swallowed the pills dry, bitter like my mood. “You can go. Tomorrow, keep tracking Margaret's past.”

Michael nodded and handed a bag. "Those are the same brand of clothes you threw."

"Get rid of them," I commanded, then got out of the car.

I headed for the elevator, my mind fixed on one thing. The alcohol lowered my guard but sharpened my focus. I wanted answers. Now.

The elevator ride felt endless. My reflection showed a man I barely recognized—hard eyes, clenched jaw, a dangerous edge to my usual calm.

I stepped onto the balcony, watching her draw. The sight only fueled my anger. Her slender fingers moved the pencil with practiced ease, unaware I was there. A stray hair fell across her face; she tucked it behind her ear absentmindedly, a soft gesture that distracted me for a second.

“What’s a doctor doing sketching at midnight?” I grabbed her sketchbook and snapped it shut, cutting off her flow. I didn’t even look at what she’d been drawing. I didn’t want to see if it was Bennett’s face.

Amelia looked up slowly, surprise flashing in her eyes. I caught a whiff of her scent—floral mixed with night air—and it only made my anger worse.

“Ethan?” she said, voice tired. “What business is it of yours if I draw or not?”

“Already looking for your next husband before the divorce?” I laughed coldly, stepping closer. “You move fast.”

The alcohol clouded my judgment, and Noah’s words played on repeat—the image of Julian peeling shrimp for her, their heads close, laughing.

“Amelia Thompson, you really are something else,” I said, sarcasm dripping.

“We agreed not to interfere in each other’s personal lives,” she shot back, anger sparking in her eyes. The moonlight caught the flecks of gold in her green eyes, making them glow with fury.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Ethan? You have no right to police who I date.” She tried to move past me, but I blocked her, trapping her between the railing and me.

“As long as we’re married, don’t think about making me look like a fool,” I said low and dangerous. The alcohol and anger stripped away my usual control, revealing something raw and possessive.

“Julian Bennett, huh? You two seem close,” I spat, venom in every word. “Noah told me all about your cozy date.”

Seeing her defiance, something snapped. Without thinking, I pushed her against the railing and crushed my lips to hers.

The kiss was harsh and demanding. The first time I’d lost control like this in ages. I wanted to erase any thought she had of Bennett, remind her who she was married to—even if only on paper.

Her lips tasted like mint tea, mixed now with whiskey on mine. Feeling her struggle only made me kiss harder, like I could wipe away the idea of anyone else. One hand held her wrist, the other cupped the back of her neck, keeping her close.

“Amelia, remember—you’re still my wife,” I growled against her lips.

She pushed back with all her strength, then slapped me hard across the face.

The sharp slap broke through the haze. I loosened my grip, cheek burning.

She stood there, breathing hard, eyes blazing with fury and humiliation. Her lips were swollen, chest rising and falling fast with each breath.