Page 11 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Leo says, a determined smile on his face. He loves the challenge of securing a new client.

As the meeting wraps up, papers shuffle, chairs scrape, and everyone exits with an efficient bustle. Except Isabella seems slower to gather her things, deliberate even. I feel the weight of her presence like a verdict waiting to be read.

“Adrian—” she starts once it’s just the two of us left. “Can we talk about last night?” Her voice cuts through the tension like a knife through butter, and I swear my pulse kicks up a notch.

“Isabella,” I start, my tone firm but fair—or so I tell myself, “what happened was a one-off. A slip. I assure you—I hired you for your qualifications and skills, and I promise it won’t happen again.” I keep my gaze on her, trying to read her reaction without giving away mine. It’s like playing poker with all your cards facing out.

She bristles, and I wonder if I could’ve handled that with a bit more finesse. Who am I kidding? I’m about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

“I agree …” she spits out, the words sharp enough to draw blood. “But you don’t have to be so ...clinicalabout it.”

“Got a better script for this conversation?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow. It’s not sarcasm; it’s self-preservation. Because if I stay any longer, I might forget why this is a bad idea.

She opens her mouth, maybe to argue or suggest something, I don’t know. But patience isn’t a virtue I possess right now, andI need distance between us before I do something stupid—like reach out to her again.

“Isabella, we’re two consenting adults who acknowledged that we made a mistake last night. Is there really anything else we need to discuss?”

She lowers her head, opting to play with her hands. It’s odd confronting her without her usual sass, but I suppose this situation is a bit too vulnerable for the both of us.

I exhale. “Look, for what it’s worth, I enjoyed it. But it simply wouldn’t be appropriate for us to be anything more than boss and employee. Especially after—” But I pause before I say it, remembering the promise I made to Isabella’s mother.Do not, under any circumstances, let Isabella find out I know about her boss making a pass at her.

She blinks, confusion etching her features. “Especially after what?”

“Listen, if you don’t get back to work now, I’ll have Suzy write you up.” I pivot on my heel and head for the door, feeling her eyes burning into my back.

“Write me up? Adrian!” Her voice follows me out, a tether I refuse to let pull me back.

I brush past Suzy at her desk, offering a tight smile that doesn’t reach my eyes, and make a beeline for my office. The click of the door closing behind me sounds like sanctuary. Or maybe a cell locking. Hard to tell the difference these days.

I slump into my leather chair, the weight of the morning’s tension still clinging to me like a second skin. My phone buzzes from its place on the mahogany desk, a welcome distraction from the replay of Isabella’s indignant face that’s stuck on loop in my mind.

“Adrian, do you need me to pick up Caleb from school?”

I tap out a quick text in response, “No, I’ve got it. Meet us at home later?” The thought of escaping to my son’s innocent world is suddenly the lifeline I’m grasping for.

“Sure, see you then,” Mom replies, her words softening around the edges, probably imagining me buried under a pile of paperwork rather than emotional turmoil.

The office suddenly feels more claustrophobic than commanding. I spin in my chair, letting out a long breath and staring out at the cityscape. Working from home isn’t just an escape; it’s a strategic retreat. Away from the “mistake” that has Isabella’s curves permanently etched into my brain.

Mistake? Who am I kidding? That’s like calling a hurricane a slight breeze. Last night was ... electric. The way she responded to me, the sparks that flew—it was anything but wrong. And if I had any sense, I’d want to avoid repeating it.

Except, I don’t. Sense has left the building along with logic and, apparently, my self-control. Because more than avoiding a repeat, I find myself wanting to dive back into the eye of the storm.

“Working closely” doesn’t begin to cover what this merger means. It’s like being marooned on an island with your biggest temptation and only a spoonful of willpower for sustenance. And Isabella King? She’s the kind of temptation that could make a saint swear.

“Focus, Adrian,” I mutter to myself, powering down my computer and grabbing my briefcase. Home. Work. Caleb. Safe topics, safe zones. But as I lock my office door behind me, there’s no denying the truth.

I’m not just worried about what this will mean for the merger. I’m worried about what it will mean for me and Isabella—the fiery-eyed siren masquerading as a lawyer who’s already turned my world upside down with just one kiss.

Chapter five

Isabella

Two Months Later

Sunlight streams in through the half-open blinds, painting my bedroom with a glow that feels too cheerful for the way I’m currently clutching at my stomach. The weekend is finally mine—no emails, no calls, just sweet, uninterrupted rest. Or so I thought.

I stretch, rolling out the stiffness from another night spent curled up with files instead of pillows. But as I rise, nausea hits me like a sucker punch. I stumble to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before last night’s takeout makes an unwelcome encore appearance. Fantastic.

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