Page 49 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

I clear my throat. “Isabella and I … we agreed to keep our relationship casual.”

Mr. King’s eyebrows furrow. “What exactly does casual mean? That you’re sleeping with my daughter without any plans to commit to her? Are you doing this with other women as well?”

Eyes widening, I shake my head. “No, no, Mr. King. It isn’t anything like that. Your daughter is the only woman I’m seeing.”

“Before I told Adrian about the baby, we agreed that we would see one another while keeping commitment off the table,” Isabella finishes. And even I know it sounds bad. Suddenly, this is starting to feel like a teen pregnancy with the way our parents are grilling us.

“I believe the term the kids use these days issituationship,” Mrs. King informs her husband and my mother.

The word dangles awkwardly between us, like a piñata nobody signed up to hit. I shoot Isabella a look, eyebrows raised. She mutters under her breath, disbelief and amusement mingling on her tongue, “How do you even know what that means?”

I clamp down on a chuckle. Wrong time for laughs, but damn, if humor isn’t a life raft in this sea of tension. “Mr. and Mrs. King, Mom. Isabella and I simply agreed to take things slow and see where it goes.”

That opens the floodgates. Concerns rain down like we just announced we’re starting an alpaca farm. “How will you raise a child if you’re not committed?” Mr. King probes. “What if things go wrong between you?” Mom chimes in. “This isn’t exactly traditional, you know.” A chorus of tradition and commitment and every expectation under the sun.

Glancing around, I notice Isabella’s mother is conspicuously silent, sitting back with an expression that’s half Mona Lisa, half poker champion. It’s just Mr. King and my own mom lobbing the questions like grenades.

As theinterrogation intensifies, Isabella’s resolve starts to crumble. She stands suddenly, a silent white flag raised, and exits stage left to her childhood room.

With her gone, guilt gnaws at me like a dog on a bone. I square my shoulders, facing our parents like I’m about to enter the courtroom. “Listen, I get it, your concerns are valid, but you should know something—I’d marry Isabella in a heartbeat, right here in this dining room, if she said the word. But it’s her call.”

Just then, I hear what I can only assume is Isabella’s door slamming shut upstairs. I wince, then turn back to our parents.

Silence blankets the room, thick enough to suffocate. I press on, “With that being said, my feelings for her are legit. This isn’t a ‘situationship’ to me,” I say, my voice unwavering. “We’re just navigating one day at a time. And I’ll be by her side through it all. It’s a shame all of you can’t do the same.”

I rise and trudge up the stairs, each step heavy with the kind of dread that usually precedes a root canal. At the top, I pause, pressing my palms against the cool wood of Isabella’s childhood bedroom door before pushing it open.

She’s there, a small, tight coil of despair under floral bedspread. Her body rises and falls with silent sobs, and it’s like watching Superman get taken down by a piece of kryptonite.

“You okay?” I ask, knowing the answer is a universe away from yes.

A sharp shake of her head sends waves through her long hair, and the dam breaks. Tears stream down her cheeks, painting paths of vulnerability she’d rather die than show to anyone. “Why can’t they just be supportive? We’re both adults.”

“Isabella,” I start, my voice a sigh of resignation, “parents have this built-in worry chip. It’s like they get a software update the secondyou’re born—‘Congrats, here’s your bundle of joy, now commence lifelong anxiety.’”

She props herself up on one elbow, swiping at her eyes. “I knew this would happen—the judgement. That was always my biggest fear.”

Instinctively, I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. She leans into me, a rare moment of surrender. “Listen, they’ll come around. What matters is we’re committed to this tiny human we’ve created. And hey, if nothing else, we’ve managed to unite our parents in confusion and concern. That’s got to count for something, right?”

Her laugh is watery, but it’s there, a testament to the resilience I admire so damn much.

“Ready to make our escape?” I ask, voice low, as if we’re plotting a jailbreak.

She nods, her eyes still red-rimmed but fierce—like she’s ready to take on the world if it means getting out of this awkward family dinner turned interrogation session. I help her up, keeping my arm around her waist longer than necessary. It’s both a comfort and a shield, because right now, she needs both.

We shuffle into the makeshift playroom where Caleb is engrossed in building some sort of Lego fortress that defies the laws of physics and good taste. He looks up, his little brow furrowing when he sees Isabella’s puffy eyes.

“Isabella?” he breathes, and I can hear the concern in his little voice.

I gesture toward the hallway with my chin. “We’re going to cut out early, buddy. Let’s say goodnight and thank Mr. and Mrs. King first.”

The kid doesn’t say a word, just rises and slides his hand into Isabella’s like he’s the protector here. It’s a gesture so full of empathy, it almost makes my chest tight. I ruffle his hair, proud as hell of the little guy.

The descent down the stairs is quiet, too quiet, like someone hit the mute button on a remote. When I announce we’re heading out, there’s an almost palpable collective exhale.

Mrs. King materializes from nowhere, pulling me into an unexpected hug that smells like vanilla and concern. She whispers close, “Take care of her, Adrian. She’s tougher than she looks but softer than she seems.”

“Cross my heart,” I whisper back.

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