Page 13 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Fine.” I exhale, taking a seat at the bar stool. “There was an incident ... in my office. With Adrian. You remember that night at Bistro Laurent?”

Her jaw practically unhinges. “That was what, ten weeks ago?”

“Ten weeks and three days, but who’s counting?” I bite down on my lip, feeling the first stirrings of panic setting in.

“Ten weeks,” she repeats, her eyes wide, probably doing the same mental math I’ve been avoiding. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

“I wanted to bury it so deep into my subconscious that even a psychiatrist couldn’t find it.”

“Wow,” she murmurs, still in shock, no doubt calculating probabilities, risks, and outcomes in her methodicalmind.

“Wow” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And then, Amelie is on her feet without so much as uttering another word.

“Where are you going?” My voice is more of a croak as I trail after her.

She’s already halfway to the door, determination etched into her every move. “To get you a pregnancy test,” she throws over her shoulder.

“What? Why would I need—” But she’s turning on me with that “are-you-serious” look, and I’m suddenly aware of how ludicrous I must sound.

“Isabella,” she starts, ticking off my symptoms like she’s reading a script for a pharmaceutical commercial. “Nausea, exhaustion, mood swings, and you had sex over two months ago. Is that not enough evidence that you might be pregnant, Ms. Lawyer?”

“Objection,” I mutter, but it’s feeble even to my own ears. Amelie just gives me a look that could quell a courtroom and heads out, shutting the door with a firm click that seems to echo in my suddenly silent apartment.

I slump against the cool wood, the reality of the situation seeping in. There’s no way I can be pregnant. Adrian and I used protection. But then again ... sometimes it fails. Just my freaking luck. Leave it to me to hit the statistical jackpot.

“Great, just great,” I groan aloud to my empty living room. If I am pregnant, what am I supposed to do? Walk into Adrian’s office and say, “Congrats, you’re going to be a father—again”? Or maybe I’d play it cool, serve him with a subpoena: “You are hereby summoned to fatherhood.”

I shake my head. My life isn’t some courtroom drama, and this isn’t an episode where the plucky lawyer heroine has a tidy resolution inunder an hour. This is messy, unplanned, and completely at odds with my meticulously charted life plan.

No kids, no marriage—not until I’ve made partner and proven myself. That was the deal I struck with myself long ago. Now, here I am, potentially carrying Exhibit A that I’ve broken my own rules.

“Exhibit A”—now there’s a name for a baby born to two lawyers. I snort at the thought, a humorless puff of air that does nothing to lift the weight pressing down on my chest.

Ten minutes later, Amelie bursts through the door—this time without knocking— and was let in, again?! Her arms are laden with an arsenal of pregnancy tests.

“Seriously, Amelie?” I eye the heap of boxes as if they’re live grenades about to detonate my future.

“Trust me, you’ll be sending me thank you cards.” Amelie dumps them on my kitchen table like a dealer fanning out a deck of cards at a high-stakes poker game.

She snatches a box, flipping it over. “Here,” she says, thrusting it toward me. “Pee on the stick and wait for the lines. Or plus sign. Or happy face. Whatever twisted symbol they use to announce your womb’s occupancy status.”

“Huh?”

“You’re 27 years old, Isabella. You really don’t know how to use a pregnancy test?” She shakes her head in mock disappointment as I retreat to the bathroom.

“Never had the pleasure,” I call back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Clearly, you haven’t lived much, have you?” Her voice follows me, threaded with humor that fails to mask concern.

“Ha-ha,” I retort, eyes rolling so hard I’m afraid they might stick that way. I take a deep breath, do the deed, and lay the test on the counterlike it’s a fragile relic. I open the door, signaling the end of my solo performance.

“Okay, now we wait,” Amelie says, leaning against the sink. “So, what’s the plan if you’re—”

“Shh!” I interrupt. “Let’s not put the cart before the ... positive pregnancy test.”

“Fine, but if you are, will you ...” She trails off, biting her lip.

---