Page 55 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“High. The IT guy stumbled across some weird files on your computer,” she says, and just like that, I can feel every muscle in my body tense up.

“Weird how? Spyware? Someone’s manifesto on why pineapple does belong on pizza?” I try to keep the mood light, but my heart’s racing like it’s got a finish line to cross.

“Can’t say for sure. Something is just off about them. He thinks you should take a look ASAP.”

“Define ASAP.” I glance at Amelie, who’s raising an eyebrow so high it could get altitude sickness.

“Yesterday,” Kate deadpans, and I know that whatever this is, it’s no laughing matter.

“Alright.” I push off the couch with a sigh. “I’m heading to the office now.”

“See you there.”

I end the call and meet Amelie’s gaze—the same “I told you so” look she reserves for when I ignore her advice and it backfires spectacularly.

“Trouble?” she asks, though from her tone, it’s clear she knows the answer.

“Potentially the kind that makes lawyers break out in hives,” I admit as I snatch up my keys and bag. “Which, considering our usual stress levels, is saying something.”

“Keep me posted?”

“Of course. And hey,” I pause at the door, turning back to her with a half-smile that feels more like a grimace, “thanks for the pep talk. We’ll resume our regularly scheduled existential crisis tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she quips, but there’s a warmth there that’s as reassuring as a shot of bourbon on a cold night.

With one last shared look—a silent exchange full of “be carefuls” and “what the hells”—I step out into the early evening, determined to unravel this latest mystery without losing any part of my already precarious sanity.

Chapter twenty-two

Adrian

Iswirl the bourbon in my glass, the ice cubes clinking like a chime of regret. There’s a silence in the house that Caleb’s snores from down the hall barely dent. It’s nearly 9 p.m., and here I am sitting solo in the semi-darkness, letting the shadows play on the walls as the fight with Isabella plays on a loop in my head.

Work issues—that’s how it all kicked off, but damn if it didn’t spiral into something uglier, something personal. She wants the whole package: love, commitment, the white picket fence. And honestly? So do I. But I hesitated, one stupid moment of doubt, and now she thinks I’m not all-in for her or the baby.

We didn’t even get to the gender reveal.

The liquid fire in my glass does little to warm the chill of loneliness creeping up my spine. Then the door swings open, no knock—because who needs courtesy when you’re family—and there stands my mom, eyes wide at my disheveled state.

“Adrian,” she starts, voice laced with that maternal brand of worry, “what happened?”

“Isabella and I had a disagreement,” I mutter, the taste of understatement bitter on my tongue.

“Disagreement?” She arches an eyebrow, folding her arms. “That’s why you’re drinking? Over a disagreement?”

I offer a shrug, the gesture feeble even to me. “It got ... messy. We dove headfirst into some deep stuff. Commitment stuff.”

Her gaze is all laser focus and silent “go on”.

“Let’s just say, she might have the impression that I’m not serious. About her. About our future.” The words hang there between us, heavy and sour.

“Adrian Cole, since when do you let a good thing walk out of your life without a fight?” Her tone suggests she’s ready to ground me, and hell, I’m thirty-six years old.

“Since I turned into a walking cliche, apparently.” I lift the glass, eyeing the amber liquid like it holds some kind of truth serum. “Tonight’s special feature: successful lawyer, single dad, clueless with women.”

“Enough with the self-pity,” she says, voice sharp enough to cut through my bourbon haze. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Right now?” I glance at the clock, considering another drink. “Drown in this rather than my thoughts?”

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