Chapter 8
Amelia
The rain pounded mercilessly as I darted from my car to the elevator in Ethan's building. By the time I made it to his—our—Upper East Side apartment, I was completely drenched, my scrubs clinging uncomfortably to my skin, and my mood matching the gloomy weather outside.
I tossed my medical bag onto the marble coffee table and made a beeline for the master bathroom. A hot bath was exactly what I needed after the day I'd had—twelve hours of deliveries, paperwork, and trying not to think about those tabloid photos of my "husband" with another woman. Not that I cared. Our marriage was just a contract, after all.
The bathroom was ridiculously luxurious, all Italian marble and gold fixtures. I sank into the oversized tub with a sigh, feeling my muscles relax as the hot water enveloped me. It was only after a good twenty minutes of soaking that I realized I'd forgotten to grab a towel from the shopping bags I'd picked up earlier.
"Mrs. Hopkins?" I called out, hoping the housekeeper was somewhere within earshot. "Could you bring me a towel, please?"
When no answer came, I waited another minute before reluctantly deciding I'd have to make a dash for it. Just as I was about to step out, dripping wet, there was a soft knock at the door, and a hand appeared, holding out a fluffy white towel.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hopkins," I said gratefully, taking the towel without a second thought.
After drying off and wrapping myself in a bathrobe, I stepped out of the bathroom, toweling my wet hair. That's when I saw him—Ethan Black, sitting on the living room sofa, looking exactly as he had when we first met, his attention fixed on his laptop screen.
My heart nearly stopped. "Mr. Black, what are you doing here?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them, and I immediately realized how stupid they sounded.
Without even looking up, he replied in that cool, detached voice of his, "This is my home. I'm supposed to be here."
"Right," I said, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. I clutched the bathrobe tighter and retreated to my bedroom as quickly as dignity would allow.
In the safety of my room, I blew dry my hair and changed into comfortable clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater. I stared at my reflection, trying to compose myself. This was ridiculous. We were adults in a business arrangement. There was no reason for this awkwardness. Still, my mind kept replaying that moment at the bathroom door, wondering how long he’d been standing there, and if he’d heard me call out for Mrs. Hopkins.
When I finally emerged, Ethan was still working, his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard. I cleared my throat. "Mr. Black, have you had dinner yet?"
He looked up then, those ice-blue eyes meeting mine directly. "No," he said simply, his voice low and cool.
"I could make some Italian, if you don't mind," I offered, figuring it was better than sitting in uncomfortable silence. Plus, I was starving.
He didn't object, so I went to the kitchen. I got to work whipping up beef braised in red wine, a spinach salad with sesame dressing, and a tomato basil soup—nothing fancy, just straightforward dishes I knew I could nail without much hassle.
"Food's getting cold, Mr. Black," I called when everything was ready. My stomach was growling audibly by then.
He joined me at the dining table, and I noticed the slight raise of his eyebrows after the first bite. I took it as approval, though he didn't say anything. We ate in silence for a while, and I was starting to think the entire meal would pass without conversation when he suddenly spoke.
"I assume you've seen the reports about me online," he said, his tone neutral.
I continued focusing on my food, trying to keep my voice steady. "You mean the trending topics?" I thought of the photos Olivia had shown me—Ethan escorting some gorgeous woman into a room.
"It's just business necessity. Sometimes a specific public image is required," he explained, with something in his voice I couldn't quite identify.
I looked up at him directly. "Mr. Black, we have a contract. You don't need to explain anything to me."
"Your private life is your business, just as mine is mine," I added. "We only need to maintain this marriage for three months."
I noticed his slight frown, as if he hadn't expected me to be so direct, but I didn't want things to become more complicated than they already were.
"Mrs. Hopkins has taken a few days off," he said, changing the subject. "Her daughter is giving birth. Would you like me to arrange for someone from the Black family estate to come instead?"
When he mentioned Mrs. Hopkins was off, my mind went blank for a second. Mrs. Hopkins... off? Then, like a lightning strike, the realization hit me. The person who had handed me the towel wasn't Mrs. Hopkins. It was the man sitting across from me.
My fork froze midair as heat rushed to my face. "I'm used to living independently," I quickly corrected myself. "There's no need for Mrs. Hopkins to come every day."
He just nodded and continued eating, but I swear I saw the slightest curve at the corner of his mouth, which only made my embarrassment worse.
"To avoid taking advantage of you, I'll pay you for cooking," Ethan suddenly proposed, his tone businesslike.
I laughed internally. Though I didn't need the money, I wasn't about to refuse if he was offering. Besides, keeping things on a business footing would maintain clear boundaries.
"Of course," I replied briefly, deciding not to prolong the conversation.
Dinner ended in an awkward but peaceful atmosphere. As I cleaned up the dishes, I wondered: Why had this Black family heir agreed to this marriage? Was it really just because of his grandfather's friendship with mine? There had to be more to it than that.