Page 37 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Thank you,” she cuts across my stumbling explanation, her gratitude washing over me like a balm. “It’s an honor to be compared to your father.”

“Ah, well.” I scrub harder at a stubborn spot on a plate, buying time. “Truth is, I was a lousy son. Always hated being measured against my 0ld man, so I made rebellion my art form. I even got married out of spite, because he was against me being with Colette.” The words tumble out, raw and real. “My biggest regret, though? Never telling him being compared to him was actually the highest praise.”

She turns off the tap, drying her hands as she waits for me to continue. Her silence is a canvas for my confession.

“Deep down, I admired him more than anyone. That’s the real reason I gave you the job—it’s what he would’ve done. Because he believed in you, like I do.”

Her next question is soft but loaded, a bullet wrapped in velvet. “Do you really want to raise this baby with me?”

“Yes.” The word springs from somewhere deep, somewhere unguarded. A place where fear doesn’t live anymore. “The last thing I want is for you to feel pressured about our relationship. Nothing has to progress beyond co-parenting, if that’s what you want. No rush, no pressure. Okay?”

“Okay.” She nods, but she’s an expert in masking her emotions. Whether she’s relieved or disappointed … it’s certainly up for debate.

“Let’s tell Caleb and our folks after we know the baby’s healthy,” I suggest, already picturing the four of us together. The future isn’t some distant concept; it’s here, tangible, and filled with promise.

“Agreed.” Her smile meets mine, and in that shared curve of lips, there’s a silent oath—a pledge to the tiny heartbeat joining our lives.

“Then it’s settled.”

“Maybe we should head out,” Isabella murmurs, her words slicing through the comfortable silence that had settled between us.

I nod, fumbling with a dishtowel, not quite ready to let go of the warmth in this kitchen. “Hey, it was great to get to spend some time with you tonight—”

“Why does it have to end?” she cuts in, her eyes challenging, playful.

“Right.” I laugh, an easy sound, but there’s a tightness in my chest at the thought of this night wrapping up. Smooth Isabella.

We join her parents in the living room to say our goodbyes, the Kings with their gentle smiles and soft encouragements that I find myself craving more than I’d like to admit.

“Come by anytime, Adrian,” Mr. King says, a hand clapping on my shoulder. It’s all so damn normal, a contrast to the chaos of my usual world.

“Will do,” I promise, feeling like I’m sealing some unspoken pact.

“Bye Mom, bye Dad.” Isabella gives them both a hug before joining me in the foyer.

Isabella gathers her coat and purse, and I scoop up my jacket from the coat rack. We step into the crisp evening air, the stars overhead winking like they know something we don’t.

“Didn’t bring my car,” I confess as we reach the sidewalk. “Took an Uber.”

“Planning ahead or just got lucky?” Her eyebrow arches as she fishes keys from her bag.

“Truth? I’m not as smooth as I think.” My cheeks heat with the admission.

“Quite smooth, Cole. But tonight, I’m driving.” The corners of her full lips quirk upwards, and it’s like I can hear her internal victory chant.

“Lead the way, King.” I gesture grandly towards where her sedan is parked, the streetlight casting a golden glow around her.

The drive is quiet as we merge onto the freeway headed west. I gaze out the window, the city lights a blur all around us.

“Adrian,” she finally says, and the way my name rolls off her tongue feels like she’s peeling back layers I’ve cemented over my soul. “You never talk about your divorce. What really happened with Colette?”

There it is—the million-dollar question. A part of me wants to shrug it off with a joke or change the subject, but another part—the part that’s been buried under work and cynicism—wants to let someone in. So I turn to face her, the bitterness clawing up from my gut, and for once, I don’t shove it back down.

“Colette—” I start, my voice steady even though I’m anything but, “she took chunks of me I didn’t even know I had.”

Isabella doesn’t say anything right away, and I’m grateful for it. Because now that I’ve opened the floodgates, I can’t seem to stop.

“I knew when I met her that she was addicted to spending money. She had a good job as a creative director, but her finances were a mess. We kept our finances separate at first, and I thought if I treated her to a couple vacations a year and some designer clothes, she wouldn’t feel so inclined to spend. It worked, for a while. When she had Caleb, she convinced me she could handle sharing an account. That she would need it for all of Caleb’s expenses. I thought maybe she had matured enough by then. But no, she spent the money on shopping sprees and complained about how we never went on vacations anymore.”

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