Page 18 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

Gathering my bag and the cursed documents, I kill the engine and step out, heels clicking on the stone driveway. I make my way to the front door, my pulse a mix of anger and anxiety. I press the doorbell,listening to the echo of some classical tune that probably costs more than my rent.

Adrian opens the door, tall, dark, and infuriatingly handsome. He scans me from head to toe, a hint of something suspicious in those deep, dark eyes. “Isabella. Come in.”

“Hmph,” is all I muster, striding past him with the type of confidence I reserve for work. But as soon as I enter, my bravado wavers. His home is stunning—modern furniture that screams expensive, walls adorned with art that’s probably not just for decoration. Every piece is upscale yet functional, and the place gives off an aura of warmth that unsettles me.

This feels like a home, not just a house. And it’s the last thing I need when there’s a tiny, unplanned Cole-King merger happening under my blouse.

I’m still fuming about this morning’s showdown. He implying I wasn’t up to snuff on the merger—that stung more than I care to admit. And here I am, in his fortress of solitude, clutching the fruits of my labor like an olive branch I never intended to offer.

“Nice place,” I say, unable to stop the words from dripping in sarcasm. “Did you decorate it yourself, or is there a secret interior designer you keep chained in the basement?”

Adrian closes the door behind us, a smirk playing on his lips. “Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment, regardless of how hard you tried to make it sound otherwise.”

I don’t bother responding. Instead, I stand there amidst the plush surroundings, holding onto my paperwork like a shield, ready for battle but secretly wondering if this could have been something else—if circumstances were different, if we were different. The thought irks me more than I want to admit, and I push it aside, locking it away.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I snap, the weight of the documents in my hand feeling heavier than ever.

“Want something to drink?” Adrian’s voice pulls me back from the edge of my spiraling thoughts.

“Planning to bribe me with alcohol now, Cole? Nice, but I have to drive home.” And let’s not forget the whole being pregnant thing.

He raises his eyebrows, a half-smile quirking up. “I meant like, water. Or juice. I have a lot of boxed juice.”

“Water’s fine,” I mutter. The image of flinging water in his face if he pushes my buttons too hard flickers across my imagination, offering a brief, satisfying distraction.

He saunters off to the kitchen, and I’m left alone amidst the opulence of his living room, which is as tasteful as it is infuriating. It feels like him—understated on the surface but screaming success and power underneath. I shift uncomfortably, feeling out of place yet oddly drawn to the warmth radiating from the sleek furniture and artful decor.

“Where’s Caleb?” I ask as I take a seat on the smooth leather of the sofa. Immediately, my eyes catch on a pile of work documents casually strewn across his coffee table. And there they are. The original documents I had slaved over for hours—no, days—just sitting there as though they’d been waiting for me all along.

“With my mom for the weekend,” Adrian calls out from the kitchen. “She picked him up about an hour ago.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice, then fire. When Adrian returns, holding out a glass of water with that infuriatingly charming smile, something inside me snaps.

“Seriously?!” I explode, shoving the papers at him. “All those extra hours! For what, Adrian? Your little power trip?”

“Isabella, let me expla—” He starts, but I can’t, I won’t let him finish. Instead, he simply sets the water down on the coffee table beside the documents as I give him a taste of my mind.

“Save it. You wanted to see me dance, is that it?” I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my anger boiling over, unchecked and fierce.

And then, without warning, he steps closer and kisses me. It’s impulsive, unexpected—a collision of lips that sends shockwaves through my system.

When he pulls away, my eyes widen in disbelief, staring into his dark ones that seem just as stunned.

“Sorry,” he breathes, the word vibrating against my mouth, “I just … didn’t know any other way to make you stop talking so you could hear me out. I—”

But before he can say another word, something inside me flips. Anger, frustration, weeks of pent-up tension—it all morphs into a wild, reckless energy that propels me forward. I kiss him back with an intensity that surprises us both, the documents long forgotten between us.

Heat pulses between us, a tangible thing that wraps around my senses, drawing out the anger and replacing it with raw need. Adrian’s lips are insistent against mine, his hands firm as they press me into the wall of his living room.

“Adrian,” I gasp, but it’s less of a protest and more of an acknowledgment of this uncontrollable force between us.

One of his hands slides under my blouse, and I shiver at the contact, my skin burning where he touches. His body is firm against mine, and I can feel him—hard and wanting—as I hitch my leg around his hip, inviting him closer.

The scent of him floods my senses, and it’s intoxicating. It’s been two months since I’ve allowed myself to even think aboutbeing this close to him again. But here we are, and damn if I’m not going to take my time savoring it.

In a show of strength that sends another thrill through me, Adrian lifts me effortlessly. The world tilts as he carries me upstairs, each step he takes hammering in the reality of what’s happening. We’re going there again—crossing lines, breaking rules. And as much as my mind screams that this is a bad idea, my body isn’t just on board; it’s leading the charge.

We reach his bedroom, and any thoughts of protest evaporate. It’s sleek, modern, probably costs more than my entire apartment, but right now, it’s just the backdrop to whatever this is between us. He sets me down on the bed, a soft landing that contrasts with the urgency of our kisses.

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