Page 54 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Spill it,” she orders, crossing her legs and giving me her full attention.

“I broke things off with Adrian last night.”

Amelie’s jaw drops. “Seriously? Did you tell him about Leo?”

I nod. “He didn’t believe me. We ended up arguing about it. One thing led to another, and it hit me that Adrian doesn’t trust me.”

“What makes you think that’s true?”

I shrug. “If he trusted me, don’t you think he would have taken my word for it?”

“Not necessarily. Leo’s been partner for what, ten years? If this is the first time he’s acted shady, it might be a difficult thing for Adrian to believe at first.”

“It still bothered me, Amelie. The two of us could never work if the trust isn’t there. And I told him that. I asked him if he could ever fully trust me, he said it was complicated.”

“Complicated?” Amelie’s brows furrow.

“I want commitment,” I admit, my voice coming out all creaky and vulnerable, like a door that hasn’t been opened in years. “But I think Adrian only wants to marry me because of the baby.”

“Is that all he said?” Amelie presses, leaning closer, her eyes sharp and searching.

I shrug, a mix of frustration and exhaustion knotting in my chest. “I slammed the door before I could hear more. But come on. Adrian’s as subtle as a sledgehammer. If he had more to say, he would’ve said it.”

“Right,” she says, but I can tell she’s not buying what I’m selling. Maybe because I’m not quite sold on it myself. She leans in, her expression all therapist-mode, like she’s about to drop some profound life truth that’ll make my mascara run even more. “Look, Adrian might be direct in a lot of things, but after his messy divorce, he’s probably just as scared as you are about this.”

“Scared? Adrian?” I scoff at the thought. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Commanding,scared of anything? Please.

“You need to talk to him, Isabella. Tell him how you feel.” Her voice is gentle, but it carries the weight of an undeniable truth—one I’m not sure I’m ready to face head-on.

My heart thumps against my chest like it’s trying to escape. The idea of baring my soul to Adrian, only for him to confirm my worst fears ... “It could ruin everything,” I whisper, thinking of the fine line we’re already toeing between professional and personal.

“Isabella, you’re on the brink of having it all—a successful career and a family. Don’t let fear make you throw it away. You owe it to yourself to find out how Adrian really feels.”

“But it isn’t part of the plan,” I cling to my last defense, the plan being my meticulously constructed roadmap to life, where love slots in neatly after career milestones, not before.

Amelie smirks, her eyes twinkling with that “I know better” glint.

“Isabella: fuck the plan. What you have with Adrian—it’s a dream, too.”

A dream? More like a high-stakes gamble where the house always wins. But then again, what if—just what if—it’s a dream worth betting on?

I relax my back on the armrest, the fabric of the couch catching slightly against my sweater. The silence in the room feels like it’s pressing against me, filled with Amelie’s unspoken “I-told-you-so’s.” My head is a mess of thoughts, each one more petrifying than the last.

“Okay, so what if I’m wrong?” The words slip out before I can corral them back into the safer confines of my mind. I’m speaking to the potted plant on the windowsill, rather than to Amelie. It’s less intimidating that way. “What if he only wants to stay together because of the baby?”

I flash back to Adrian’s face, trying to decipher any hidden meanings behind his stoic expressions. All I come up with is the mental equivalent of static noise.

Amelie doesn’t miss a beat, her answer slicing through my tangled thoughts. “Then you’ll know.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But right now, you’re only guessing. You can’t make a decision based on half the truth.”

I let out a huff, not quite a laugh but too bitter to be a sigh. “Half-truths, huh? Feels like I’m living on a diet of those lately.”

There’s a truth there, lurking beneath Amelie’s matter-of-fact tone. The only thing scarier than knowing is not knowing. And boy, do I excel at scaring myself out of my wits.

The buzz of my phone interrupts the silence like an unwelcome guest. I squint at the caller ID—Kate, my secretary—and my gut twists into a knot that sailors would envy.

“Isabella, you got a minute?” Kate’s voice is all business, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s trying not to let her words trip over each other.

“Depends on the crisis level,” I reply, bracing myself.

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