When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses

Amelia

At three in the morning, thunder cracked across the sky, rattling the windows of our Brooklyn brownstone. Rain lashed the glass in relentless waves. But it wasn't the storm that woke me.

It was the sound—the jagged, shallow gasps from my grandfather's room.

I ran barefoot down the hall, heart racing.

"Grandpa?"

William Thompson—my anchor, my only family left—was pale and twisted in pain, one hand clawing at his chest, blue eyes wide with fear.

"Amelia…" His lips trembled. "George… Black… he owes me… a life."

My throat tightened. "Don't talk. Please."

I fumbled with my phone, fingers slipping as I punched in 911. Years of training, countless nights in residency, and all I could do now was press my hand to his chest, counting each failing breath, praying it wouldn't be his last.

As I adjusted his pillow, my hand brushed against something stiff. A photograph. Two young men, arms slung around each other, grinning at the camera. On the back, faded ink read:

George & William, 1985 – Brothers in life and death.

"Grandpa, what does this mean?" But his eyes had already slipped shut.

Sirens tore through the storm. Paramedics swarmed the room, voices sharp and clipped. I trailed them down the hall, through the rain, blinded by the blur of red lights.

By the time I reached the hospital, my hair clung to my face, my clothes damp with rain and tears.

The fluorescent lights burned harsh and sterile. The rhythmic beep of monitors echoed in my chest like a countdown.

"The next twenty-four hours are critical," the doctor said grimly.

The floor felt like it tilted under me. My mother had been gone for a decade—stolen by a stupid accident. If Grandpa left me too, there would be no one. Nothing.

I sat outside the ICU, wrapped in the sterile cold, staring at the peeling paint on the opposite wall just to stop myself from screaming. My scrubs from yesterday were still stuffed in my bag. I had brought life into the world with those hands—and now they shook uselessly.

Then my phone rang. Robert Thompson.

"I hear the old man's sick again," my father said, voice flat.

"He almost died," I snapped, fury surging through my grief.

"Well," he drawled, "perfect timing. Margaret and I are flying in to handle the paperwork."

"What paperwork?" My voice shook.

He chuckled, a sound colder than the storm outside. "You're twenty-five tomorrow, sweetheart. Did you really think your mother left you free and clear? No. There's a clause. That trust fund of hers? You'll never see a dime unless…" He paused, savoring the cruelty. "…unless you find some poor fool to marry you before the clock strikes midnight."

My chest clenched. "What the hell are you talking about? You've been running her company for ten years!"

"Not everything." His voice sharpened. "Your mother was clever. She locked away a piece just for you. But only if you're married by twenty-five. Otherwise, it's mine."

The blood drained from my face. "You waited until now? With one day left?"

He laughed. "You always thought you were smarter than me. Turns out you weren't even smart enough to read your own inheritance. Expect court papers in the morning. And Amelia?" His tone dipped, poisonous. "Start clearing out the old man's things. He won't be needing them."

The line went dead.

I sat frozen, phone pressed to my ear long after the call ended. My hands trembled, my pulse roaring in my ears. He wasn't just trying to take everything—he was watching, waiting for me to fail.

I returned to the ICU. Grandpa opened his eyes, weak but sharp.

"Your father called you, didn't he?"

Tears burned my eyes. I nodded.

"That inheritance… it's not just money, Amelia. There are things inside your mother wanted protected. Your father must never get them."

"But I can't," I whispered. "I need to be married by tomorrow. That's impossible."

His gaze locked onto mine, fierce despite his frailty. "George's grandson. Ethan Black. He can help you."

The name made my stomach drop. Ethan Black. Wall Street's golden devil.

"Grandpa… he's a stranger. And men like him—he doesn't give without taking more."

But he was already fading, coughing until the machines screamed and nurses pulled me from the room.

By nightfall, I stumbled back into the brownstone. Court papers sat waiting on my desk:

Hearing scheduled for tomorrow at 2 PM. Failure to appear forfeits all rights.

My hands shook as I snapped a photo and sent it to my best friend,Olivia Bennett.

She called immediately. "Oh, honey." Her voice on the phone was tight with worry.

"Unless you find someone powerful enough, no judge will believe a marriage like this."

I laughed bitterly. "Who would marry a stranger in less than ten hours? Even if someone did, my father would scare them off."

I collapsed into the chair, staring at the papers until the words blurred. My father had cornered me. I had no one to turn to. No options.

Except Grandpa's words.

Ethan Black.

I opened my phone and searched his name.

Dozens of headlines lit up the screen:

"Black Investment Group CEO Expands Global Empire."

"Wall Street's Most Eligible Billionaire."

"Ethan Black Crushes Competitor in Ruthless Takeover."

My breath caught on the last one.

'I don't make deals. I take what I want.'

Every article painted him the same way—cold, calculating, merciless. A man who didn't build empires; he devoured them.

This is who Grandpa trusted? A man who devours people for sport? He wouldn't lift a finger for me. And if he did… the price would be unbearable.

I dropped the phone on the desk, pressing my palms into my eyes. "This is impossible."

And then, as if fate were mocking me, my phone buzzed.

A new message glowed on the screen:

[Miss Thompson, you need a marriage to secure your inheritance. City Hall. 10 AM tomorrow. —E.B.]

I froze.

E.B. Ethan Black.

The man I had just dismissed. The man who, somehow, already had me in his sights.

My pulse thundered. In the reflection of the darkened screen, I saw my mother's face staring back at me through my own—her stubborn chin, her green eyes that once faced down entire boardrooms.

But I also remembered her broken whisper the night before the accident, words I hadn't understood until now: "Never marry a man you don't truly know. It will cost you everything."

She had entered the marriage too early—and with the wrong man.

And here I was, standing at the edge of the same cliff.

The cursor blinked in the reply box, steady, merciless. My fingers hovered, trembling, but I couldn't type a single word.

Was I about to repeat my mother's ruin—

or was I already living it?