Page 53 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“But you treat him like an employee, not a partner, and that’s exactly what he resents.” She’s relentless, pushing past my defenses. “You’ve said it yourself—you two have been clashing ever since your father passed.”

My fists clench so tight I’m sure my knuckles are white enough to start their own ghost story. Heat rises, simmering beneath my skin, threatening to boil over. “So now you think he’s just out to sabotage me? To steal the firm out from under me?” There’s a snarl in my voiceI don’t recognize. “He’s like family, Isabella!” My volume is cranked up now, and if these walls weren’t built to withstand the tantrums of a high-strung lawyer, they’d probably be shaking. “You overhear one conversation and suddenly he’s the villain?”

Isabella stands her ground, green eyes locked onto mine. “Adrian,” she warns, her tone a mixture of steel and velvet—a dangerous combination. “Consider the possibility.”

The possibility. That word tastes sour on my tongue. Trust in Leo wrestles with this newfound fear that Isabella might be right, and it’s a heavyweight matchup in my head.

“Isabella, if trust were currency, I’d be bankrupt by morning,” I quip, hoping humor will defuse the bomb ticking between us. But even as I say it, I realize this situation isn’t one I can joke my way out of.

“Adrian,” she repeats, softer now. “Just think about it.”

“Think about it,” I echo, but the idea festers like a splinter I can’t tweeze out. Doubt seeps into the cracks of my certainty, whispering ugly truths I’m not ready to face.

I sit there, words lodged in my throat like a stack of unserved subpoenas. Isabella’s eyes are two green spotlights, illuminating the stark truth I’ve been dancing around.

“You’ll never fully trust me, will you?” Her question doesn’t just hang in the air; it hammers into me like a gavel.

“Isabella, it’s not that simple,” I say, but even as the words tumble out, they feel hollow.

“Isn’t it?” She crosses her arms, and I note the slight tremble. It’s barely perceptible, but there it is—the crack in her facade. “You’re too caught up in your past, too afraid of being betrayedagain.”

The room shrinks, walls inching closer with each syllable she utters. My past—a scrapbook of crossed lines and broken trusts—stalks me, a relentless shadow.

“Look, Isabella … it’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” she scoffs. “So, what was all that talk about marriage with our parents? Was it really just for the baby? Or is that complicated, too?”

There’s this chasm between us now, filled with the things we aren’t saying. But her question feels like a splash of ice water, and suddenly, I’m awake to everything I stand to lose.

“Of course not. I—” The protest is feeble, even to my ears. I want to tell her everything—to pour out the truth like the finest cognac and toast to a future where fear doesn’t get a vote.

But I hesitate. Because spilling your guts is messy, and love ... love is the messiest of them all.

Disappointment flickers across Isabella’s face, quick and jagged like lightning. “Maybe we’re fooling ourselves,” she says so softly it’s like the whisper of a verdict. “I think we need to call this off.”

My heart squeezes tight, panic clawing its way up my chest. This isn’t happening. She can’t mean it. Not when I’ve only just begun to figure out how deep my feelings for her go.

“Isabella, wait—” I reach out, but it’s too late.

She rises and turns on her heel, retreating with the dignity of a queen who knows when to abandon a lost kingdom. And there I am, a jester left juggling all the balls I’ve dropped.

“Damn it, Adrian,” I mutter to myself once Isabella’s long gone. “Way to go.” But the sarcasm tastes bitter on my tongue because, for once, I’m not finding any of this the least bit funny.

Chapter twenty-one

Isabella

Ipull up Amelie’s contact with shaky fingers, the digital beeps mocking my distress. The call barely rings once before she answers, her voice like a life preserver thrown into my sea of tissues and misery.

“Are you free?” I say, cutting straight to the chase. “Emergency.”

“Now?” Amelie asks, but there’s a rustle of keys that tells me she’s already on her way. She’s a saint in designer heels. “I’ll be there in ten.”

When she arrives, I’m a pitiful sight, curled up on the couch surrounded by a graveyard of crumpled Kleenex. My eyes are still competing with tomatoes, and not the cute cherry kind.

“Wow, you look like hell,” Amelie declares as she drops onto the cushion beside me, her blunt honesty as comforting as a warm blanket.

“Thanks,” I sniff, “I worked hard for this look.”

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