Page 1 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

Chapter one

Isabella

“That meeting,” I groan, tossing my leather-bound notebook onto my new desk as my secretary, Kate, takes the seat across from me, “was officially the worst experience of my life.”

“Come on; it couldn’t have been that bad, ” says Kate, but her smile tells me she’s just trying to keep things light.

“Bad?” I scoff. “Try catastrophic. Adrian Cole might be a legal genius, but his people skills are in the negative.” I tick off on my fingers for emphasis. “He bulldozed every question I had, talked over me, and don’t even get me started on how he handled the client. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, if the car was made of arrogance and expensive suits.”

Kate chuckles, the sound bright and tinkling like a bell. “Sounds like you’re getting the full Adrian experience. He operates ... differently than his dad did.”

“Differently?” I snort. “Thomas Cole was diplomatic … charming, even. Adrian is more like a storm in a boardroom, leaving a trail of chaos and bewildered faces.”

“Six years.” Kate’s voice is tinged with nostalgia. “I’ve been here for six years. Started out as Leo’s PA; now I’m wrangling lawyers. Still, not a day goes by without some new drama.”

“Six years,” I echo, mind spinning. Kate’s seen the evolution of this place and survived the regime change when Adrian took over two years ago after the sudden death of his father. There’s history etched into the lines of her smile, with stories buried beneath her carefully filed documents.

“Today was supposed to be monumental for me.” I lean back, staring at the ceiling as if it holds answers. “My big break, proving myself to the legacy of Cole & Sterling. But no. Instead I get AdrianfreakingCole steamrolling my moment.”

“Hey, Ms. King,” Kate’s voice pulls me back, her gaze soft. “You’ll get your chance to shine. Just might have to weather a few storms first.”

“Storms? With Adrian, it’s more like a perpetual hurricane.” I stand up, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension. “But you know what they say about hurricanes, right?”

“What’s that?” Kate asks, curious despite herself.

I cross over to my mini-fridge and retrieve a water bottle, cool to the touch. “Sometimes they clear the path for something new,” I reply, a smirk playing on my lips. Despite it all, I can’t help but feel a thrill of challenge at the thought of facing off against Adrian Cole again. Bring on the hurricane.

“Adrian Cole is the epitome of—”

“Ms. King.” Kate’s voice slices through my rant, her eyes flickering past my shoulder with an urgency that suggests this is not just a casual interruption. But I’m on a roll, the litany of grievances pouring from me like lava from a too-long-dormant volcano.

“Seriously, the man thinks that—” My tirade falters as an unmistakable sound cuts the air, a throat being cleared with the precision ofa courtroom gavel demanding order. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as I slowly pivot on my heel.

And there he is. AdrianfreakingCole. Standing in my doorway. Arms crossed over his chest, a thundercloud brewing in the stormy depths of his dark brown eyes. He’s infuriating, yes, but as I take in the sight of him, I can’t deny the annoying little flutter in my stomach. Tall and imposing, he carries the kind of presence that commands attention without even trying. His hair, always that perfect balance between meticulous and effortlessly tousled, catches the light in a way that highlights shades of espresso and mahogany.

“Isabella,” he says, and oh, it’s not a greeting—it’s a summons.

“Mr. Cole,” I manage, cursing the slight quiver in my voice. I hate how just the sight of him can send my senses into overdrive—the cut of his tailored suit accentuating broad shoulders and a frame honed by what I assume are very expensive gym memberships.

“Office. Now.” The words are clipped, a no-nonsense command that has me shooting a glance at Kate, who offers a sympathetic grimace.

“Sure thing,” I say, my tone drenched in a sarcasm hat I hope masks the sudden dryness of my mouth. As I stride toward what I mockingly dub “the lion’s den,” I remind myself that I’m here because of Thomas Cole—Adrian’s father—a man whose belief in me had been a beacon throughout my career.

“Okay, Isabella. Let’s see if you can survive the hurricane,” I mutter under my breath. Because one thing is for sure: If I’m going to make it through this, I’ll need every bit of the tenacity that got me here in the first place.

The scent hits me first on our way to his office, that intoxicating blend of vanilla and tobacco. Under normal circumstances itmight have sent a shiver up my spine. But it’s wafting off Adrian Cole, so instead of a shiver, I get an involuntary eye roll as I trail into his office.

“Take a seat,” he commands without looking up, thumbing through a stack of papers on his desk.

I do, crossing one leg over the other and sinking back into the plush leather chair.

“Isabella,” he begins, the sharpness in his voice slicing through the room, “this morning with Mr. Henderson was … an embarrassment.”

Anembarrassment? That’s one way to put it. I huff softly, disbelief coloring the sound. Mr. Henderson loved my pitch. What I’m not loving is this lecture on the “Cole & Sterling” way of working, which apparently translates to “Adrian’s way or the highway.”

“Look,” Adrian says, fingers steepled like he’s some kind of legal deity, “your approach wasn’t entirely wrong, but here we value—”

“Let me guess,” I interject, unable to keep the sarcasm from my tone, “a more soul-sucking, rigid protocol that sucks all creativity out of the process?”

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