Page 36 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Go enjoy your evening with your parents, Isabella. I’ve got this,” Adrian says, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I can do it.”

“The mother of my child shouldn’t be doing manual labor,” he whispers. “It might harm the baby.” The smirk on his face is too smug, too “Adrian,” and I’m torn between wanting to wipe it off with the soapy sponge and leaving him to his domestic martyrdom.

“Sure you don’t need an adult supervisor?” I tease, but he shoos me away with a flick of his wrist. Shaking my head, I leave him to clink and clatter among the porcelain and stainless steel.

I’m about to sink into the plush comfort of the living room sofa when Mom’s hand on my arm stops me. She has that look—the one that means she’s about to drop a truth bomb.

“Isabella, honey, don’t be mad,” she starts, her eyes pleading for understanding before she even tells me why I might want to strangle her.

“Spit it out, Mom.”

She takes a deep breath. “After you got fired from your previous firm … I gave Adrian a call. I told him about your employment status. Asked if he’d be willing to put in a good word when you started applying to firmsagain.”

My chest tightens with a cocktail of shock, embarrassment, and a strange sense of betrayal. “Mom ...” I can barely form words, my thoughts tripping over each other like clumsy toddlers.

“He said he’d hire you instead. Without a second thought,” she rushes on, as if the faster she speaks, the less time I have to get angry. “When I told him about what happened with your old boss, he just offered you the job.”

“Wait, what?” I turn to glance at Adrian through the archway; he’s elbow-deep in suds, oblivious to the bombshell being dropped mere feet away. He’s known about my former boss making a pass at me, all this time?

“Adrian respects you, Isabella. He said you were cut from the same cloth as his father.” She beams with pride, but all I feel is confusion swirling with the leftover annoyance from our first day at the office. Was that all just an act? Him pushing my buttons, challenging every statement I made?

“Your father and I are so grateful to him, Isabella.” Mom’s voice softens, and suddenly her meddling doesn’t seem quite so egregious.

“Grateful enough to invite him for dinner without telling me?” I ask, half-joking, half-serious.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” she admits with a sheepish shrug.

“Fine,” I sigh, conceding defeat to maternal machinations. “But next time, warn a girl, will you?”

“Promise.” Her eyes crinkle with relief as I fold her into a hug.

“Thanks, Mom,” I murmur, because despite the unexpected way things have turned out, I am grateful—both for her unwavering support and for the job that’s become more than just a paycheck.

“You aren’t mad then?”

I shake my head. “Let me help Adrian finish up,” I say, pulling away from the embrace with newfound resolve.

It’s almost endearing, the idea that he saw something in me because of his father. But then again, this is Adrian. He’s as enigmatic as they come. Yet, I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame. A small part of me is warning me that this is bad, but an even more influential part is begging for me to explore the possibilities.

The idea of a future with Adrian. Not just as co-parents, but the whole thing—a family, tied with a pretty bow called commitment.

Would he be game, though? Judging by the way he’s acted tonight … I’m starting to think he might.

Chapter fourteen

Adrian

I’m wrist-deep in suds when Isabella saunters up to the sink, a playful glint in her green eyes that spells trouble—or maybe assistance. “Need a hand, or are you planning on sprouting an extra one? Turn me down, and you’ll have dishpan hands forever.”

I let out a chuckle that doesn’t quite mask my relief. She’s here, elbow to elbow with me, and suddenly this chore feels less like a task and more like ... camaraderie.

“Slide those over,” I nod toward the dishes awaiting their rinse as we fall into a rhythm. The soapy water swishes between us, the clink of porcelain a surprisingly pleasant soundtrack. It’s the kind of domesticity that used to be a minefield after Colette, but with Isabella, it’s like slipping into a warm bath—unexpectedly soothing.

“Mom mentioned how I landed the job at the firm …” she says, breaking the silence. My heart does a little salsa dance of panic—I’d rather wrestle a bear than tackle this conversation.

“Isabella, listen. I don’t want you to feel like I hired you out of pity, because—” My voice is firm, but there’s an edge of desperation I can’t quite hide. I want her to know her worth, independent of any handout accusations.

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