When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 87

Amelia

I pushed open the VIP room door and was immediately assaulted by a thick cloud of cigar smoke that sent me into a coughing fit. The room was so hazy I could barely see inside, like some London fog had somehow been imported directly into the hospital.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, quickly backing out into the hallway.

I marched to the nurses' station, grabbed a medical mask, and steeled myself with a deep breath before pushing the door open again.

"Sir, are you trying to set off every fire alarm in the building?" I called out as I strode toward the window, determined to let some actual oxygen into the smoke chamber this room had become.

The smart blinds responded to my motion, automatically sliding open to let the afternoon sunlight flood in. As the smoke began to disperse, I finally saw the familiar figure sitting in the armchair by the bed.

Ethan froze mid-puff, his hand suspended in the air, the cigar between his fingers momentarily forgotten. His blue eyes widened with unmistakable surprise that quickly morphed into something more complex—something that made my stomach tighten.

"Amelia..." His voice was raspier than I remembered, probably from chain-smoking.

I pulled down my mask, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my tone. "Mr. Black, are you planning an early tour of heaven, or just making a personal contribution to the hospital's fire drill schedule?"

He immediately stubbed out the cigar in an ashtray that was already overflowing with butts. His movements seemed oddly flustered—not a state I was used to seeing him in.

"I quit," he said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "Just... craving hit hard. Had a few."

I pushed open every available window, letting the cool air battle the lingering smoke. "A few? With this smoke density, you've gone through at least a box."

"It helps me think," he said quietly, watching me with an intensity that made me focus extra hard on the windows.

"Well, think about something else," I said, turning to grab my medical supplies from the cart I'd wheeled in. "Like how smoking is categorically prohibited in hospitals, especially for patients admitted with stress-related issues."

His eyes followed my every movement as I organized the blood collection equipment. I forced myself to slip into doctor mode—the safest place I could be right now.

"Left arm or right?" I asked, my voice clinically detached.

"Right," he answered obediently, beginning to roll up the sleeve of his custom-tailored shirt.

As his arm came into view, I couldn't help but notice that even in his current state, Ethan maintained an impressive physique. The defined muscles of his forearm with visible veins spoke of regular workouts. I remembered how those arms used to—

'Stop it, Amelia. Professional boundaries.'

I applied the tourniquet to his upper arm with practiced efficiency, then prepared the needle. When it pierced his vein, I felt a slight tremor run through his body.

"Does it hurt?" I asked automatically, then quickly added, "Please inform me if you experience any discomfort."

"It doesn't," he said softly. His eyes never left my face. "I just... missed this feeling."

I pretended not to understand the loaded meaning behind his words and concentrated on filling the vials. "Press this cotton ball down and hold it for five minutes."

My fingers accidentally brushed against the back of his hand as I secured the cotton ball. I felt him tense immediately. My own heart betrayed me by quickening its pace at the brief contact.

"Amelia," he said suddenly, his voice carrying an emotion I couldn't—wouldn't—decipher.

"Yes?" I kept my eyes on the vials I was labeling, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Nothing," he shook his head slightly. "Just... your hands are still warm."

I paused for a beat, then resumed my work with renewed speed. "Mr. Black, please mind your comments. This is a doctor-patient relationship now."

He didn't respond, just watched me work in silence. The weight of his stare made the room feel smaller somehow, despite the open windows and dissipating smoke.

I had just returned to my office and sat down to update his chart when there was a polite knock at my door.

"Come in," I called, assuming it was Jenny with lab results.

Michael stepped in, wearing his perpetual professional smile, though I could see the fatigue in his eyes. Three years hadn't changed him much—still Ethan's ever-loyal shadow.

"What now?" I asked without looking up, assuming Ethan had developed some new complaint.

"Dr. Thompson, I need to step out to handle some urgent matters," Michael said with formal politeness. "I was wondering if you could keep an eye on Ethan while I'm gone."

I put down my pen and looked up at him. "The nurses will check on him regularly. If he feels unwell, he can always call for assistance."

Michael sat in the chair across from my desk, his expression turning serious. "You know that's not what I mean. Ethan... he doesn't let people get close to him. These three years, his smoking has gotten worse, and he barely eats. Could you maybe talk to him about it?"

I returned to writing in the chart, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I'll remind him of the health implications from a medical perspective."

"Dr. Thompson..." Michael hesitated, clearly weighing his words. "For the past three years, he's been looking for you. Every time there was news about you, he would—"

"Mr. Davis," I cut him off sharply. "I'm only his attending physician. Please don't share information with me that isn't relevant to his medical care."

Michael studied me for a long moment, said, "Thank you, Mrs... Dr. Thompson."

After he left, I dropped my pen and turned to stare out the window at the afternoon sky. A complicated mess of emotions swirled inside me—anger, confusion, a hint of something I refused to name.

The ghost of his touch lingered on my skin where our hands had briefly met. I rubbed the spot absently, as if trying to erase the memory itself.

I shook my head and forced my attention back to the chart. Professional boundaries. That's all that mattered now.