Page 14 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Go the abortion route? And not tell Adrian?” I finish for her.

“Or tell him so he can support the abortion ... financially or otherwise?” Amelie ventures, eyebrows raised suggestively.

“Amelie!” My laugh is sharp, a brittle sound that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Let’s just wait for the grand reveal, shall we?”

We both stare at the test as if it holds the secret to life, the universe, and everything—which, in a way, it does. My fate, distilled into two little lines—or one, or a smug smiley face—waiting to emerge.

The timer dings, and I swear my heart stops. “Time’s up,” Amelie announces as if we’re on some sort of twisted game show.

“Fantastic,” I mutter under my breath, a frosty sarcasm coating each syllable. I reach for the stick with a trembling hand. My eyes flicker down, and there it is—a plus sign so bold it might as well be flashing neon.

“Is that ...?” Amelie’s voice trails off, her usual bravado deflated like a punctured balloon.

“Yep.” The word falls flat in the sterile silence of my bathroom. Pregnant.

The room starts to spin, or maybe that’s just me, unmoored from reality.

“Let’s not trust a piece of plastic. Round two?” I say, grabbing another test.

“Sure, because the first one could be a fluke,” she agrees, but her tone says she knows better.

We wait again. Same result. It’s like déjà vu with a side of impending life crisis. I take a third one because why not? Third time’s the charm, right? Wrong. It’s a hat trick of destiny.

“Three for three.” Amelie’s whisper feels like a eulogy for my meticulously planned future.

“Shut the front door,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else—someone who doesn’t have a ten-point plan for the next five years of her career.

“Isabella, seriously. What are you going to do?” Her question is a gentle prod, but it feels like a sledgehammer to my chest.

“Open a daycare apparently,” I quip, trying to keep the mood light even though my insides are as heavy as the law books on my office shelf. Adrian Cole, the man who can negotiate mergers in his sleep, the boss who doesn’t know the meaning of losing a case, is about to face his toughest opponent yet—me, armed with a positive pregnancy test and a boatload of conflict of interest.

“In all seriousness, Amelie, I don’t know. I mean, it’s Adrian. He’s my boss. He’s got Caleb to think about. And I have my career, my plans ...” My words trail off into the abyss of uncertainty. “Plus, how does ‘single motherhood’ sound with a side of ‘office scandal’ for the woman gunning for partner before thirty?”

“Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs, huh?” Amelie says, her attempt at comfort is awkward, yet admirable.

“More like a fastball to the face.”

“Whatever you decide, you’re not alone, okay?” Amelie reaches out, and I’m grateful for her touch, grounding me when it feels like gravity has leftthe building.

“Thanks,” I say, and it’s no joke this time. Because while I might be staring down an unpredictable future, having Amelie by my side makes it seem like I won’t have to face it solo.

Chapter six

Adrian

The elevator dings its usual cheery chime, mocking me as I step into the sterile halls of my own damn firm. It’s too early for this. Work’s been insane ever since merger negotiations began two months ago, and it doesn’t help that Isabella and I have been clashing ever since … well, things got complicated between us.

Suzy’s voice cuts through the morning fog in my head as I make my way to my office. “Mr. Cole. You’ve got that meeting with Aurora later, remember? To go over the financial projections.”

“Thanks, Suzy,” I mutter, offering her a ghost of a smile. The reminder is both a blessing and a curse; I can’t afford to screw up these negotiations. “Can you grab me a coffee, by the way?”

“Sure, Mr. Cole.”

My jacket comes off once I step into my office and I’m business casual in seconds flat. However, there’s nothing casual about the mess waiting for me on my desk. Isabella’s financial projections—or rather, the incomplete mockery of them—sit before me, taunting me with their inadequacy. My brows knit together, confusion morphing into annoyance faster than I can say “missing data.”

“Seriously, Isabella?” I grumble under my breath, shoving back from my desk with enough force to send my chair rolling away. I make the short journey to her office, my stride a little too forceful, my knock a little too sharp.

“Come in,” she calls, the warmth in her voice at odds with the cold fury building in my chest.

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