Page 26 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

Alone. The word echoes in my head. I’ve been alone in more ways than one since the divorce—except for Caleb, my little man. And here I am, potentially on deck to be a dad again, with a woman who can probably handle anything life throws at her. Including surprise pregnancies.

“Isabella, I—” What? What can I say? ‘Congratulations, let’s throw a baby shower’? I’m hardly prepared for any of this.

But she’s already gearing up to face this head-on, solo if need be. I follow the rise and fall of Isabella’s chest as she takes in another breath, and her calmness is almost infectious. Almost. “You don’t need to be involved if you don’t want to.”

My heart skips a beat. That’s it? No strings? I lean back against her couch, the leather creaking under me. My brain kicks into overdrive, paranoia rearing its ugly head like some kind of slumbering dragon. This is too easy. She’s setting me up, laying the groundwork for a full-scale assault on my bank account down the road. It’s Colette 2.0 with a side of déjà vu. I was insane for thinking she could be different.

“Is that your game?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Trap me now, cash out later?”

She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she fixes me with those piercing green eyes, steady as steel beams. “I’ll get a contract drawn up. You won’thave to provide anything—financially or otherwise—if you choose not to.”

For a second, I’m speechless. A contract? Who offers that? My ex certainly never did. Her offer clangs around in my head, reverberating off the walls of my skepticism.

“Seriously?” I finally manage, my brows knitting together.

“Seriously,” Isabella confirms, no hesitation in sight. “I don’t want your money, Adrian. I can—and will—do this on my own.”

Her independence is a slap to my pride and a balm to my fears all at once. She’s not asking anything from me. Not assistance, not support, not even acknowledgment. And weirdly enough, it stings—a horrible mix of relief and insult, shaken, not stirred.

“Wow, okay.” I stand up, pacing her living room floor, a track forming beneath my feet. “That’s … unexpected.”

I shuffle on the edge of Isabella’s immaculately kept couch, not quite sure where to put my hands—or my head for that matter. The room spins with a kind of stark clarity I wasn’t prepared for today, or ever really. Here I stand, teetering on the precipice of fatherhood again. And there she sits, cool as one of those cucumber water drinks they serve at fancy spas, looking like she’s got the world—and now a baby—by the tail.

“Adrian,” Isabella says, her voice cutting through my mental fog, “you don’t have to decide anything right now.”

“Right now,” I repeat, and it sounds hollow, even to me. It’s as if she’s offering me an out, but all I can think about is whether this door should even be open in the first place.

I stand up, trying to match her poise but feeling more like a newborn giraffe—awkward, gangly, and utterly graceless. I take a step back, then another, distancing myself from the reality that’s threatening to upend everything. My life once fit neatly intocompartments: work, Caleb, and the occasional night out with my old college buddies who didn’t ask too many questions. Now, it feels like someone’s tossed a grenade into my well-ordered existence.

“Take your time,” she continues. Her face is serene, calm. And I can’t tell if I should be angry or respect the hell out of it. “I’m fine with whatever you choose.”

“Fine,” I mutter under my breath. What a word. “Fine” is what you say when someone asks how you’re doing because explaining the mess inside would take too long. It’s the polite brush-off, the emotional smoke screen. But coming from Isabella, it’s not a brush-off; it’s a promise.

I nod, more to myself than to her, and make my way to the door. Every step is measured and deliberate, because if I run, it’ll mean I’m scared. And Adrian Cole doesn’t do scared—at least not outwardly. But inside, my heart’s a jackhammer, and my thoughts are a tornado of what-ifs and maybes.

The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence of the hallway wraps around me like a shroud. I shake my head, shove my hands in my pockets, and stride down the hall.

I slip behind the wheel of my car, the leather familiar under my hands. I need air, space, a place without walls closing in on me. Mom’s house in Pasadena seems like the only haven not tainted with the aftershocks of today’s bombshell. No sooner do I start the engine, my foot hits the gas and I’m racing toward something that feels like normalcy.

I don’t bother calling ahead; surprises are kind of my thing—apparently in more ways than one these days. When I ring the doorbell, the look on their faces is worth every mile. Mom’s eyes light up while Caleb bolts out like he’s been shot from a cannon.

“Are you here for me early?” His eight-year-old curiosity is all over his face, with that hopeful tilt to his eyebrows I recognize all too well.

“Missed you, buddy,” I say, ruffling his hair, which is getting too long again. “Mind if I steal you away a day ahead of schedule?”

“Sure!” He pumps a fist in the air, then pauses, his expression turning serious. “But can we still eat here tonight? Grandma’s making steak.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And just like that, my smile feels less forced, more genuine. “Hey, you help Grandma. I’m going to be in the living room for a minute.”

“Okay, Dad!” The aroma of searing meat and buttery potatoes follows us as Caleb scampers into the kitchen to play sous-chef.

Alone, I drift toward the living room, where memories are shelved alongside novels and knick-knacks. There, wedged between a dusty encyclopedia and a guide to fine wines, is a photo album chock-full of Caleb’s baby pictures.

The album creaks open like a storybook, each page a flashback, each snapshot a moment frozen in time. The weight of those days, heavy with sleepless nights and infinite joy, presses on my chest. Caleb’s toothless grins, his first steps—they’re all here, captured by Mom’s unwavering dedication to posterity.

I thumb through the album, a picture of two-year-old Caleb smeared with birthday cake makes me chuckle. As I flip to another page, my laughter fades into contemplation. Little hands clutching a crayon, fierce concentration etched on his tiny face—I’d forgotten these moments. Forgotten how much I wanted to do it all over again before hitting the big 4-0.

But could I imagine doing this with Isabella? She’s all sharp edges and legal briefs, but there’s a softness in her when shethinks no one’s looking. We might lock horns at the office, but when it comes to raising a child? I bet we’d be negotiating bedtimes like pro diplomats.

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