Page 12 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Food poisoning,” I groan to myself, rinsing my mouth and glaring at my reflection. My usually sharp green eyes are watery, and my hair, which I like to think falls in a cascade of professional prowess, is sticking out in all directions like I’ve been electrocuted. I’m a vision, truly.

Ginger tea. That’s what I need. The thought has me padding barefoot to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle, and willing my stomach tosettle down. As the water starts to boil with a soft rumble, my phone decides to join in with its own shrill symphony.

“Hey, Mom.” My voice comes out strained, holding back another wave of queasiness.

“Isabella, dear, how’s the new job going?” It’s the familiar cadence of concern from my mom, Susan King, matched by the silent, supportive presence I imagine my dad, Roger, has, hovering in the background.

“Great, really great.” I lie through the teeth I just brushed twice. “Just busy, you know? Mergers don’t orchestrate themselves.”

“Of course, sweetie. We’re so proud of you,” she says, and I can almost hear her smile over the line. “You work too hard, though. Don’t forget to eat properly.”

“Will do,” I assure her, although my stomach argues otherwise.

The kettle gives a final shout, demanding attention.

“I’ll go ahead and let you go. Come over for dinner soon, okay?” Mom’s voice is both an invitation and a gentle command. It’s her way of saying she misses me without actually saying it.

“Absolutely,” I reply, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear as I pour the ginger tea. “I’ll text you once I have a handle on this chaos they call a schedule.” We exchange goodbyes with the kind of warmth only parents can give, and I’m left staring into the murky depths of my cup, hoping for some relief.

My plans today with Amelie, to lounge at the spa and pretend life isn’t a juggling act, seem like a distant dream now. I thumb my phone, about to raincheck our day together, but fate, in the form of a doorbell chime, interrupts me.

“Coming!” I call out, not bothering to hide my irritation. Swinging the door open reveals Amelie, all bright-eyed and bearing gifts—hot coffee that smells like my salvation and a bag from SinfulDelights, the cookie boutique that could probably solve world peace with their double chocolate sea salt wonders.

“Amelie, what are you—”

“Surprise!” She barges past me, apology written all over her face. “Sorry for being early, but I couldn’t wait.”

Someone let her in? In my upscale West Hollywood building, that’s practically a security breach. But looking at Amelie, with her eager-to-share goodies, I can’t muster up the lawyer in me to care.

“Let me guess, someone just happened to be leaving?” I ask, already knowing the answer as I rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Exactly!” She sets her to-go cup down on the counter and flips open the box of cookies as if unveiling treasure. “With your crazy hours lately, I figured you deserved a treat. And here I thought auditors had it bad during tax season. You win, hands down.”

“Trust me, it’s not a competition I wanted to win.” My sarcasm might be the only thing keeping me upright at this point.

We share a laugh—the kind that acknowledges life’s absurdities—and I’m reminded why Amelie’s impromptu visits, even under less-than-ideal circumstances, are a welcome intrusion.

Amelie’s fingers dance over the assorted cookies like she’s playing a game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe. “Salted caramel macadamia or raspberry white chocolate cheesecake?” she asks, her voice laced with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for winning lottery numbers.

“Neither,” I say, pressing a hand to my stomach which continues to churn in protest. “I think I’ll have to rain check our spa day.”

“Isabella, you look pale.” Amelie’s eyebrows knit together in concern as she slides onto a bar stool, her CPA brain probably already diagnosing me with some obscure deficiency. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Ugh, I don’t know.” My voice is a groan as I lean against the cool granite of the kitchen island. “I’ve been queasy all morning and—” I cut myself off, not wanting to dive into the graphic details of my rendezvous with the porcelain god.

“Sounds like food poisoning,” she says, the cookie momentarily forgotten.

“Or maybe the flu ...” I add, trying to convince myself more than her. The thought of being sick over the weekend is about as appealing as a root canal without anesthesia. “I’ve felt off for a week now.”

“Off how?” She tilts her head, her eyes scanning my face like she’s looking for clues in a mystery novel.

“Fatigue, nausea, and if we’re sharing, my period is late.” I rattle off the list, each symptom echoing louder in my head than the last.

“Have you had sex recently?” The question hangs in the air, and suddenly the room feels ten degrees hotter.

“Define ‘recently,’” I hedge, avoiding her gaze.

“Isabella.” Her tone suggests she won’t accept any lawyerly dodging.

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