Chapter 1
Amelia
The thunder woke me at 3 a.m. Rain hammered against the windows of our Brooklyn brownstone, but it wasn’t that which made my heart race. It was the sound from my grandfather’s room—his breathing was shallow, ragged, each gasp like it was hurting him.
Without thinking, I threw off the covers and padded down the hall barefoot. "Grandpa?" My voice shook as I pushed open his door.
William Thompson was in his bed, face all twisted up, clutching his chest. Those bright blue eyes that always made me feel safe? They looked terrified.
"Amelia..." he gasped, reaching for me.
"Don't talk. I'm calling 911." My hands were shaking so bad I could barely dial. After I gave them our address, I grabbed his hand. "They're coming, okay? Just breathe."
His breathing got worse. "Amelia... George Black... he owes me..." Every word looked like it hurt. "A favor..."
"Grandpa, stop. Please." I was trying not to cry. Four years of med school, a year as a resident, and I felt completely useless watching him like this.
He pointed weakly at his pillow. I reached under and found this old photo—two young guys with their arms around each other, grinning. On the back someone had written: "George & William, 1985 - Brothers in life and death."
"What's this about?" But his eyes were closed, breathing so shallow I could barely see his chest move.
The paramedics showed up fast. Watching them load him into the ambulance was the worst thing ever. I followed in my car, that photo in my pocket, rain making it impossible to see—or maybe that was just me crying.
At the hospital, I paced outside the ICU like a crazy person. My scrubs from yesterday were still in my bag. God, the irony. I deliver babies here all the time, bringing life into the world. Now I'm watching the most important person in mine...
Mom's gone. Now Grandpa too? I looked at her picture on my phone. My mom, Elizabeth Thompson, smiling like she always did, ten years before that stupid accident took her away. I can't lose him. I can't be alone again.
"Miss Thompson?" The doctor looked exhausted. "Your grandfather's stable, but it's touch and go. Next twenty-four hours are critical."
I just nodded and collapsed into one of those awful plastic chairs. Then my phone rang. Robert Thompson. I still call him Dad sometimes, though I don't know why.
"Heard the old man had another heart attack," he said. No "hello," no "how are you holding up."
"He almost died."
"Perfect timing then. Margaret and I are flying in to handle the paperwork."
"What paperwork?"
He actually laughed. "You're twenty-five day after tomorrow, sweetheart. Time to grow up. That money your mother left? You're never seeing a dime unless..." He paused, probably enjoying this. "Unless you find some sucker to marry you."
"What the hell are you talking about?" My heart was pounding. "Mom left everything to you. You've been running her company for ten years."
"Not everything. There's a little clause in her will. A trust fund, just for you. But only if you're married by twenty-five. Otherwise, it's all mine."
I felt sick. "You waited until now to tell me? Just one day before my birthday?"
"You always were sharp. Just like Elizabeth—too damn smart for your own good." His voice turned nasty. "Expect papers tomorrow. Oh, and start packing up Grandpa's stuff."
I was still shaking when I got to Grandpa's room the next morning. He looked so tiny in that hospital bed, but he smiled when he saw me.
"Doctor says you're doing better."
"For now." His voice was barely a whisper. "Your father called you, didn't he?"
I nodded.
"That inheritance... it's not just money, Amelia. There are things—documents, personal stuff—that Robert has no business touching."
"He says I need to be married by my birthday. That's impossible."
His eyes got this intense look. "I already called George's grandson. Ethan Black."
"The Wall Street guy?" I'd seen him in magazines—those cold blue eyes, expensive suits, reputation for being ruthless as hell.
"He'll help you. It's the last thing I can do."
"Grandpa, no. I can't ask some stranger for help, especially not him. I don't need anyone's charity. Mom didn't raise me like that."
"It's not—" He started coughing violently. Machines started beeping, nurses rushed in, and they pushed me out. I watched through the glass as they worked on him.
I don't know how long I sat in that hallway.
By the time I got home, it was already dark. I found court papers on the desk: Hearing scheduled for tomorrow at 2 PM. Failure to appear forfeits all rights to contested property.
My hands shook as I took a quick picture and sent it to Olivia Bennett, telling her everything.
She called immediately. "Oh, honey," she said softly.
“Liv, what am I supposed to do? Who’s gonna agree to marry a total stranger? Plus, my dad probably scared off anyone who might’ve said yes.”
"Even if you find someone," she continued, "the court's gonna ask a lot of questions. You need someone with serious clout to make this look legit."
I stared out at the city lights, feeling numb. Tomorrow, I might lose everything Mom left me. Maybe even Grandpa.
At midnight, my phone buzzed with a text from a number I didn't recognize:
[Miss Thompson, you need a marriage to secure your mother's inheritance. City Hall, 10 AM this morning. —E.B.]
I almost dropped my phone. E.B. That photo in my pocket, Grandpa's words—George Black's grandson. Ethan Black.
I googled him with shaky fingers. Headlines everywhere: "Black Investment Group CEO Expands Empire," "Wall Street's Most Eligible Bachelor," "Financial Prodigy Worth Billions."
Then I saw the recent one that made my stomach drop: "Ethan Black Destroys Competitor in Hostile Takeover—'I Don't Make Deals, I Take What I Want.'"
I stared at his photo. Those blue eyes looked like they could see right through you. Cold. Calculating. Scary as hell.
Why would a billionaire help some random girl? What's the catch?
My phone buzzed—low battery warning. 2% left.
Less than ten hours to decide. Marry a complete stranger who apparently destroys people for fun, or lose everything Mom left me.
I plugged in my phone and caught my reflection in the black screen. I looked just like Mom at this age—same stubborn chin, same green eyes that used to intimidate boardroom full of suits.
"What would you do, Mom?"
The quiet felt like an answer.
My heart was hammering as I typed back:
[Yes.]