Page 62 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Here’s hoping she inherits your charm and not your stubbornness,” I say, but the warmth in my voice betrays my affection. The whole room coos, and my heart swells a size bigger. Who knew a bunch of lawyers and their kin could be such softies?

Each present unwrapped feels like peeling back another layer of this new life we’re building—one that’s less about depositions and more about diapers. And as I sit here among the people I love, in a house that’s become a home, I realize that despite the sarcasm and the chaos, I wouldn’t trade this for the world.

I reach for the next gift, a soft square package with a bow that’s so meticulously curled it has to be Amelie’s handiwork. But as my fingers graze the satin ribbon, a sharp twinge tightens in my abdomen. “Oof,” I murmur under my breath, assuming it’s just another one of those charming pregnancy quirks.

“Everything okay?” Adrian’s dark eyes meet mine from across the sea of pastel-wrapped boxes.

“Probably just the baby practicing her kickboxing,” I quip, forcing a smile.

But then it happens again—a contraction that feels like a vise grip on my insides. This one is different; it’s serious, and an icy realization washes over me—it’s time. My eyes snap up to Adrian, wide with the unspoken truth.

“Isabella?” His voice is low, a mix of concern and something else—recognition.

“Adrian,” I say, barely above a whisper, “I think this little negotiator is ready to discuss terms ... now.”

His reaction is immediate. He’s by my side in an instant, his hands steady as he helps me up. His voice slices through the bubble of excitement,calm yet commanding. “Everyone, stay calm. Isabella needs to get to the hospital.”

There’s a collective gasp, a symphony of scraping chairs as our families rise, but all I can focus on is the rhythmic squeeze of Adrian’s hand around mine—firm, reassuring. We’re a team, we’ve always been, even when it meant going head-to-head in the courtroom or, in this case, racing against the clock with a baby on the way.

“Adrian,” I manage through gritted teeth as another contraction hits, “if you don’t get me to a hospital room with good drugs, our daughter’s middle name will be ‘Epidural.’”

“Understood, honey,” he says, a wry smile flickering across his lips as he ushers me out the door.

The drive is a blur—I’m pretty sure Adrian bends a traffic law or twelve—but his hand never leaves mine, not even as he navigates through traffic like he’s maneuvering through a particularly contentious negotiation. He keeps up a steady stream of comfort, “Just breathe, Isabella. Remember the classes. Inhale the strength, exhale the pain.”

“Easy for you to say,” I huff, trying to follow his advice. With each intense wave, I hold onto his words, and somehow, the man who once drove me up the wall in court now anchors me through the storm.

“Almost there,” he says, as the hospital looms ahead, “You’re doing great.”

The sterile white of the hospital room bleeds into a canvas of pain and garbled voices. Adrian’s there, though, his hand clasping mine, anchoring me to something other than the agony that rips through me with every contraction.

“Keep squeezing if it helps,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. I’m pretty sure I’m close to fracturing his bones, but he takes it like a champ.

“Your encouragement is less motivating than you think,” I snap, half-delirious, as another wave crashes over me. The sensation’s so intense I’d think I was being split in two if not for the absurdity of the thought. Me? Broken by mere physical pain? Not likely.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice a low chuckle that somehow cuts through the haze. “You’re doing ... phenomenally.”

“Phenomenally?” My laugh comes out more like a snort. “My body is staging a mutiny, and you choose now to expand your vocabulary?”

“Always time for self-improvement,” he replies, ever the smart-ass, even in the delivery room.

Hours fade into what feels like seconds and eons simultaneously. Time is just a construct, one that has no place here in this room where my entire universe narrows down to breaths, pushes, and the steadfast presence of Adrian by my side.

Then, the world tilts on its axis. A cry pierces the air—a sound so raw and vital it sweeps away the remnants of my suffering. Our daughter.

“She’s here,” I whisper, exhaustion battling against the tide of elation that swells within me.

“Hey, look at you.” Adrian’s voice cracks, and when I turn to meet his gaze, those deep brown eyes are glistening with unshed tears. His hand leaves mine briefly to brush a damp strand of hair from my forehead. “You did it,” he whispers, his lips grazing my skin in a kiss so tender it might as well have been another promise exchanged between us.

“Of course, I did.” But my attempt at sass is weak, lost in the wonder of the tiny, wriggling life we’ve created. “We did it.”

I gaze down at our newborn daughter, her face scrunched and red, yet perfect in every way. She’s ours, this little person we made. And she’s absolutelyperfect.

A few hours later, the sterile hush of my hospital room is shattered by the stampede of love barreling through the door. Mom and Dad lead the charge, their smiles rivaling the wattage of the fluorescent lights overhead. Behind them, Adrian’s mother, dignified as ever, but with a shimmer in her eyes that’s undeniably grandparent-ish.

“Isabella, sweetheart, she’s just beautiful,” my mother gushes, her hands already reaching for her granddaughter with the practiced ease of someone who’s held more babies than I’ve had hot dinners.

“Looks like she’s got your spirit,” Dad adds, his eyes crinkling as he takes in the tiny bundle in Mom’s arms.

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