Chapter 30
Ethan
Back at the Upper East Side, I changed into my workout gear with practiced efficiency. Years of FBI training had made this routine second nature—quick, methodical movements, no wasted time. I rolled my shoulders, eyeing the state-of-the-art private gym I'd had installed when I bought this place. Today it would serve a different purpose: assessment.
Amelia walked in, and I couldn't help but notice how different she looked from the polished doctor I was accustomed to seeing. Her golden-brown hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, exposing the elegant line of her neck. The fitted black athletic wear revealed a surprisingly toned physique—not what you'd expect from someone who spent most days in delivery rooms.
"Since you claimed you could make Emily regret crossing you, let's see what you've got," I said, flexing my wrists. Professional curiosity had taken over. What hidden skills was this seemingly gentle obstetrician concealing?
She made a standard fighting salute—a gesture that immediately triggered my investigative instincts. That wasn't something casual self-defense students typically knew.
"Come on, let's not waste time," she replied, green eyes focused with unexpected intensity.
"Confident, aren't you? Hope you won't regret it later," I responded, though mentally I'd already shifted gears. This wasn't just about verifying her boast anymore—this was now part of my investigation. The woman standing before me didn't match the profile in her FBI file.
She struck first—a rapid jab aimed precisely at a vulnerable point. I dodged it easily, but couldn't suppress a flash of surprise. Her speed and precision weren't amateur level, and she'd targeted a pressure point that most civilian defense classes wouldn't teach.
I deliberately held back, only evading without counterattacking. Each of her movements revealed more information: proper weight distribution, controlled breathing, economic motion patterns. She moved with the fluidity of someone with significant training, not just a few weekend self-defense workshops.
After several minutes of this cat-and-mouse game, she suddenly stopped, irritation flashing across her face.
"This isn't fun anymore, Mr. Black. You asked for a sparring partner, but you're not throwing any punches. Are you testing me?" The perceptiveness in her accusation caught me off guard. Most people, especially during intense physical activity, wouldn't notice such a subtle strategy.
I couldn't help but admire her sharpness. In my dual life between Wall Street and the FBI, I'd encountered countless fake personalities, but her straightforward challenge felt refreshingly authentic. It made me increasingly curious about who Amelia Thompson really was.
"Fine, I'll take it up a notch," I said, finally switching to offensive mode.
The entire dynamic shifted when I got serious. My FBI combat training kicked in, each strike carrying precise force, no longer holding back. This wasn't about intimidation—this was professional assessment.
She bent backward to avoid my straight punch, countering with a sweep kick at an angle that would have caught most opponents. If my reflexes had been a fraction slower, she would have knocked me down. That technique showed advanced training—definitely not something a regular doctor would know.
I landed a kick to her chest, sending her stumbling backward against the gym wall. For a split second, I felt an unexpected twinge of concern. But she didn't wince or show any sign of weakness, immediately rebounding with an even more aggressive series of attacks.
Her resilience reminded me of my early days at Quantico—that stubborn determination to get back up no matter what. In that moment, a disturbing question formed in my mind: if she truly wasn't involved in Viktor's money laundering operation, why would she need such advanced combat skills?
After an hour of intense sparring, we were both exhausted. I seized a moment when her guard dropped and pinned her to the mat, my hands braced on either side of her body. Our faces were inches apart, close enough that I could feel her rapid breathing. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, sweat making her skin glisten under the gym lights.
I caught the subtle scent of antiseptic mixed with her natural fragrance—a reminder of her medical profession. The proximity was affecting my focus in a way that was entirely unprofessional for an FBI agent. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but the words seemed caught in her throat.
"You..." she began, but never finished.
I found myself staring at her lips, feeling an unfamiliar pull. Who was this woman really? An innocent doctor or a skilled operative? Why was I suddenly questioning my own judgment?
Without warning, she brought her knee up toward my spine. The sharp pain caused me to lose balance and fall forward. Before I could react, our lips collided.
Time seemed to freeze. Her lips were soft and warm, with an intoxicating sweetness I hadn't anticipated. I could sense her shock and confusion, but my body instinctively wanted to deepen the kiss. Every fiber of my professional being screamed that this crossed a line, violated the principles of my investigation. Yet my body responded with an intensity that shocked me.
She recovered first, pushing me away forcefully, her eyes wide with surprise.
"I'm sorry, I..." I attempted to explain, but words failed me. This loss of control was entirely foreign to me.
To cover the awkwardness, I stayed in position, claiming back pain. But my mind wasn't on the physical discomfort. Instead, I was processing what had just happened and what it meant for my investigation.
This physical response was completely outside my control. Facing Amelia Thompson, I found all my principles wavering.
Most disturbing was the realization that I looked forward to every interaction with her, that I noticed every expression and reaction. This went far beyond investigative requirements.
Perhaps it was time to confess to Michael—my feelings for Amelia Thompson had far exceeded the boundaries of our contract marriage and my investigative duties.
But were these feelings real, or just a professional hazard of living a double life?
More importantly, if she proved innocent, how would I face a relationship built on lies?