All Chapters of Sinful Arrangement : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Chapter One: The fluorescent lights of St. Marian’s Emergency Room pulsed overhead like the heartbeat of a dying god. It was chaos, as always, nurses shouting orders, beeping monitors, and the heavy scent of antiseptic and blood mingling in the air. Dr. Amelia Hart moved through it all like a ghost in scrubs. Focused. Controlled. Exhausted beyond measure. Fourteen hours on her feet. A hundred patients, maybe more. Her stethoscope felt like a chain around her neck, and her auburn hair clung to her face in sweat-slicked curls. Still, she stitched and cleaned and saved, because someone had to. "Chainsaw slipped," the construction worker grunted as she cleaned the gash on his forearm. "It's not that bad." "You’re bleeding through half a towel," she replied, voice dry. "I’m going to have to disagree." He chuckled, but she barely registered it. Her mind drifted. To the clinic. To the funding she still hadn't secured. To the threat letter from the hospital board that morning, buried ben

The knock came at 6:00 a.m. sharp.Amelia cracked the door open, mug in hand, eyes still hazy with sleep. Four men stood in the hallway, flanked by a woman in heels and a clipboard. "Miss Hart?" the woman asked. "We’re here to relocate your belongings. Mr. Blackwell’s instructions."She blinked. "You're... moving me?""Yes, ma'am. Everything’s been arranged."She stood aside because arguing wouldn't help, and maybe because some part of her expected it. Jane appeared behind her, arms folded. “Is this normal rich-people behavior, or are we in get-out-now territory?”“They’re packing my cereal,” Amelia muttered."Definitely get-out-now."Boxes moved fast. Her framed degree. Her overwatered houseplant. The books she swore she'd reread someday. All wrapped, sealed, and wheeled away like she was already someone else. She didn’t stop them. By 9:00 a.m., her life was in a truck she didn’t own, headed to a home that wasn’t hers.She didn’t cry. She didn’t blink. She just left.The penthouse wa

Amelia didn’t say a word about the letter. She tucked it under a bundle of old receipts in her dresser drawer, closed it carefully, and told herself she was imagining things. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it wasn’t meant for her. Maybe she was making it into more than it was. Frederick didn’t ask. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to say anything. That morning, he was already dressed by the time she walked into the kitchen—coffee in hand, jacket on, eyes scanning his phone like he was already behind on the day. She said nothing. So did he. He left first. She followed later, grabbing her bag and heading out for the clinic, grateful for the escape. She liked being useful. At the clinic, the noise made sense. The chaos had rules. It was blood and breath and sutures, and no one left anonymous threats in perfectly folded notes. Back at the penthouse, Frederick had just stepped into the elevator when Luke called. “You need to see this,” he said. Frederick joined him

"Luke, what happened?” Amelia asked trying to keep her voice steady as she took her sit in the front seat.“We don’t know. He left the tower hours ago. Took one of the company cars. No driver, no security, no contact since.”“Where was he last seen?” she asked.“On the East Side. Company building. He told me he’d be quick. No one saw him leave.”“And his phone?”“Dead. Tracker’s off. We’re assuming either damaged... or deliberately disabled.”“He wouldn’t just disappear,” she said quietly.Luke glanced at her. “That’s what I thought too.”They pulled into the underground level of Blackwell Tower. Security was everywhere. Phones were ringing. People moved fast, with their heads down, eyes grim.Amelia followed Luke through the elevator and into a private operations suite she didn’t know existed. Screens, radio chatter, maps. It felt like a war room.And all of it was for him.“Sit,” Luke said gently, gesturing to a padded chair in the corner. “I’ll keep you updated. Just... stay close.

They didn’t use sirens. The ambulance moved in near silence through the service roads, headlights dimmed, escorted by two black SUVs. Luke sat up front, tense, phone glued to his ear. Amelia stayed in the back with Frederick, fingers wrapped around the edge of the stretcher, eyes locked on the man bleeding beside her.Frederick Blackwell, too pale and too quiet, looked like a ghost of himself.Every bump in the road made his body jolt.Every beep from the monitor sent a fresh wave of nausea through her gut.When they reached the private hospital which was a quiet, unbranded facility in the hills outside the city, the doors opened without questions. A team of staff in dark scrubs and no visible name tags met them inside. Everything was quiet. Efficient. Too clean.“Patient is male, mid-thirties,” she said, rattling off vitals as they wheeled him down the hall. “Multiple contusions. Possible cracked ribs. Deep lateral wound. Head trauma.”Amelia watched them wheel him away and she sai