Page 56 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

I slump further into the couch, my mother’s silhouette framed by the dim light of the living room lamp.

“Have you even called her?” Her voice slices through the fog of self-loathing that’s settled around me.

I shake my head, staring at the half-empty glass cradled in my hand. “Why bother?” The words fall flat, defeated before they even hit the air. “She’s not going to believe me. She’ll think I’m only backtracking because of the baby.”

“Adrian,” she starts, and there’s that tone, the one that used to send me straightening up in my high chair. “When you want something, yougo after it. You’re straightforward, determined. But now, suddenly, you’re a mute?”

“Mom, it’s complicated,” I try, but she’s having none of it.

“Life’s complicated. You still have to deal with it.” She stops pacing and faces me, her eyes like twin lasers boring into mine. “You need to tell her how you really feel.”

“Feelings,” I scoff, swirling the drink. “Since when did they ever simplify things?”

“Since always, if they’re true,” she counters, unflappable as ever.

“Colette happened,” I remind her, and the name tastes like stale coffee on my tongue.

“Isabella isn’t Colette,” she fires back with surgical precision. “That woman was a walking red flag. Hell, she led the parade. Isabella is—”

“Nothing like her,” I admit grudgingly, the truth of it settling in my chest. It feels like a kick to the gut.

“Exactly.” My mother nods, vindicated. “You’ve known Isabella since you were ten. She’s seen you with food poisoning, bad haircuts, and through your ‘experimental’ music phase in college. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“Experimental phase” is putting it lightly. I wince at the memory of my first and last rave.

“Point is, she’s in love with you, and you’re head over heels for her,” she continues. “Don’t throw that away because you’re scared.”

“Scared?” I echo, trying to inject some bravado into the word.

“Terrified,” she corrects, and damn it, she’s right. Because underneath all the sarcasm and swagger, there’s a part of me that’s absolutely petrified of messing it all up again. “Do you think your father jumped right into marriage with me? He had cold feet about commitment and family. It wasn’t ‘part of his plan.’”

“What changed his mind?”

“Knowing I wouldn’t wait for him. When I showed him that I’d walk away if he kept stringing me along, he finally came to his senses. He admitted that he wanted marriage, too.” She smiles to herself now. “Before he died, he said deciding to start a family with me was the best decision he ever made.”

“Love makes fools of us all,” I say, trying for a philosophical note and failing miserably.

“Then be a fool,” she challenges, her eyes softening just a touch. “But be a fool who fights for what he wants.”

I look down at the drink in my hand, the liquid courage that suddenly seems more like cowardice. And then at my mother, the epitome of tough love standing before me.

“Go talk to her, Adrian. Before it’s too late.” Her voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency that I can’t ignore.

“Alright,” I concede, pushing myself up from the depths of the couch. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” she says, satisfaction coloring her words. “Now put that glass down. You’ve got work to do.”

I place the glass on the table with a clink, the sound of a starting bell for the fight I should’ve been waging from the beginning.

The corners of Isabella’s image in my mind start to sharpen, each line drawing her further away from the ghost of Colette. Isabella, with her relentless logic and that infuriatingly endearing way that she scrunches her nose when she’s deep in thought. Always pushing forward, always honest. Honesty—a concept Colette treated like an optional accessory.

My contemplation is shattered by the jarring buzz of my phone. Sam Velasquez’s name lights up the screen, and confusion sets in. We’re friendly, sure, but our conversations usually don’t go beyond “Your kid just spilled his juice” at parent-teacher conferences.

“Adrian, listen,” Sam cuts in before I can even get a “hey” sideways. His voice has that edge, the kind that says this isn’t about juice stains or bake sales. “I need to tell you somethingveryimportant.”

“What is it, Sam?”

“Leo’s gone rogue,” he says, dropping it like a hammer. “I overheard a conversation between him and my boss earlier today. He’s planning to take down the merger, and he’s doing it with my firm—Lancaster & Rowe.”

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