When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 75

Ethan

The rain matched my mood—relentless, gray, and fucking miserable. After seeing Amelia at her grandfather's grave, each hour felt longer than the last.

"Ethan, smoking too much isn't good for your health," my mother Catherine's voice came from behind me.

I irritably stubbed out the cigar against the wet railing, turning to close the balcony door. "I know," I replied coldly, brushing past her into the living room. The familiar scent of her Chanel perfume only reminded me of how different it was from Amelia's simple jasmine fragrance.

She followed me, her eyes filled with that mixture of concern and judgment I'd grown so accustomed to. "I was thinking about your marriage—"

"It ends when the contract expires. Nothing to think about," I cut her off, my tone leaving no room for discussion. The words tasted bitter in my mouth. Our marriage had been a contract, a business arrangement. So why did it feel like losing her was tearing me apart?

Seeing her hesitant expression, ready to offer more unsolicited advice, I added firmly, "I don't need it. I can handle my own affairs."

Changing the subject, I asked, "How's Dad's health?"

"Thomas is doing better, but he still needs regular check-ups and treatment," she explained, her voice softening at the mention of my father. "Maybe you could come with me to visit him next time? He asks about you."

"I'll see if I have time," I replied dismissively, already heading toward the dining room where Parker had announced dinner was ready. The truth was, I couldn't bear to see the disappointment in my father's eyes when he inevitably asked about Amelia.

Throughout the meal, I could feel Grandfather's disapproving gaze boring into me. The weighted silence around the table was broken only by the clink of silverware against china and Parker's occasional question about whether anyone needed more wine.

"I got you that vintage pocket watch you've been looking for," I mentioned, attempting to ease the tension. "The 1920s Patek Philippe with the engraved case."

Grandfather's response was immediate and cutting. "What good is a watch to me when you've already driven away the only girl I actually liked?" He didn't even look up from his plate, as if I wasn't worth the effort.

Parker chimed in from his position by the serving cart. "Mrs. Black was always so polite. Such a lovely young lady."

I gripped my fork tighter but remained silent. They talked about her as if I wasn't sitting right there, as if I didn't feel her absence like a physical wound.

After dinner, Grandfather cornered me in the study. His piercing eyes scrutinized me without mercy.

"Your face looks worse than Wall Street during the 2008 crash," he remarked bluntly. "And that's saying something."

When I didn't respond, he casually added, "Amelia has a 7:30 AM flight to Boston tomorrow morning."

My heart skipped a beat, but I forced my expression to remain neutral. "What's that got to do with me?" I replied with forced indifference. "She can go wherever she wants." Despite my casual tone, I felt my heartbeat quicken at this information.

"Fine, just don't regret it." Grandfather nodded, a knowing look in his eyes.

I spent the entire night tossing and turning in my childhood bedroom, the sheets tangling around my legs as I debated whether to go to the airport. Would she even want to see me? What would I say? That I was sorry? That I missed her? That I... what? Loved her?

At five in the morning, I gave up on sleep altogether. I got dressed, grabbed my keys, and left a note for Parker saying I'd gone back to my place. The roads were nearly empty as I drove my Porsche through the pre-dawn city, eventually pulling up to the Upper East Side penthouse—the place Amelia and I had shared.

The penthouse was exactly as I'd left it days ago. Sitting on the leather couch, I looked around the space. Every corner seemed to hold her ghost. The coffee mug she'd last used still sat on the table, untouched since she left. I picked it up, noticing the faint lipstick mark on the rim. Something so simple shouldn't hurt this much.

After turning off the smart lighting system in the living room, I sank back into the couch, the darkness a welcome relief for my eyes—and perhaps my soul. Memories flooded back unbidden. I remembered the first time I saw her here—waiting for her to arrive to sign our temporary marriage contract. She'd shown up late, dropping items from her shopping bags all over the floor. Back then, I thought she was clumsy and careless. Now, the memory only seemed endearing.

Turning to face the couch, I recalled the night I brought her home drunk from Blue Note, laying her on this very sofa. She'd mumbled thanks, and she kissed me—our first kiss. The sensation of her lips against mine was still vivid in my mind. It had been impulsive, unprofessional, and absolutely necessary all at once.

I walked into the bedroom, my footsteps echoing in the empty space. My eyes landed on her wooden music box—the only thing of hers still in my possession. I'd found it when checking the apartment after she moved out, tucked away in the back of the closet. It seemed old, possibly an heirloom, with intricate carvings on its surface.

Picking it up, I tried to wind the mechanism, but it made no sound. I turned it over, looking for any obvious damage, but found none. Fiddling with it, trying to understand why it wouldn't play, I felt frustration and regret building inside me. I hated myself for falling for an investigation subject, and even more for being too cowardly to admit my feelings.

"Goddamnit!" I shouted into the empty room. "Why can't I fix this? Why can't I fix anything?" The music box was like my relationship with Amelia—broken beyond my ability to repair.

In a surge of anger, I hurled the music box against the wall. It shattered on impact, pieces of wood scattering across the hardwood floor. Among the debris, something caught my eye—a micro SD card and a folded piece of paper that had been hidden inside.

I quickly grabbed both items, my FBI training kicking in. The note was handwritten, and I immediately recognized it wasn't Amelia's handwriting. It was more mature, formal—likely her mother's. I unfolded it with careful fingers.

[If anything happens to me, please deliver this evidence to the authorities. -Elizabeth Thompson]

My hands began to shake as I inserted the SD card into my laptop. The screen filled with detailed financial records, bank transfer screenshots, and audio files that clearly documented Viktor Group's money laundering activities. There were names, dates, account numbers—everything needed for a conviction.

This was it. The evidence we'd been searching for all along. My heart pounded against my ribs as the realization hit me: Elizabeth Thompson wasn't involved in money laundering—she was trying to expose it when she was killed. And that meant Amelia was completely innocent. I'd been wrong about her from the beginning.

The weight that had been crushing me for months suddenly lifted. I no longer had to choose between duty and love. The woman I'd fallen for wasn't a criminal—she was the daughter of a hero who'd died trying to do the right thing.

Glancing at my watch, I saw it was already 7:10 AM. "Shit!" I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. Amelia's flight was in twenty minutes. I grabbed my car keys and the evidence, sprinting downstairs and jumping into my car.

Racing toward the airport, my hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as I prayed time would slow down just enough for me to reach her before she boarded. I needed to tell her everything—about my real job, about her mother's courage, about how I felt.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't calculating risks or planning my approach. I just needed to get to her before it was too late.