25. Isabella
Chapter twenty-five
Isabella
S ix Months Later
The living room buzzes with the same intensity as a high-stakes courtroom, only this time, it’s filled with balloons instead of briefs, and the stakes are baby booties. Adrian’s house—scratch that—our house now, thrums with the sort of energy that could power a small city. Six months ago, Leo was wreaking havoc, thinking he could outsmart us with his fraud and obstruction. Now, he’s got a court date, and we’ve got contracts with names so fancy I need to Google how to pronounce them.
“Isabella, hurry up! This tiny onesie can’t wait any longer!” Amelie calls out, her voice bubbling with excitement. She’s in her element, surrounded by tissue paper and pastel-colored gift bags.
“Patience is a virtue,” I quip, but who am I kidding? I’m about to pop any day now, and my sense of time is as distorted as one of those funhouse mirrors. I shuffle over to the mountain of gifts, each wrapped with more flair than the last .
Caleb bounces on his toes next to me, his eight-year-old enthusiasm barely contained. “You’re going to love what Dad and I picked out,” he says, grinning ear-to-ear like he’s just won the lottery.
“Let’s hope it’s not another ‘World’s Best Lawyer’ mug,” I tease, shooting a playful glance at Adrian. He raises an eyebrow, his trademark smirk telling me I’m probably in for a surprise.
With a flourish, I tear into the first package, revealing a plush elephant that looks like it could double as a body pillow. “For the baby’s first case,” my father chuckles from the couch, his lawyer humor never taking a day off.
“Very funny, Dad. We’ll bill the stuffed animal for its time,” I toss back, winking at him. The room erupts in laughter; apparently, legal jokes are a hit even outside the office.
“Next!” Amelie urges, practically shoving a beautifully wrapped box into my hands.
Adrian’s mother, ever the socialite, has somehow managed to find baby clothes that look runway-ready. I pull out a tiny dress that’s fancier than anything I own.
“For her debut,” she announces with a dramatic flourish.
“Because every infant needs haute couture,” I deadpan, but I can’t help but touch the soft fabric, imagining our little girl wearing it.
“Mommy’s being sarcastic, but she loves it,” Adrian whispers loud enough for everyone to hear, earning a round of knowing chuckles.
“Obviously,” I retort, rolling my eyes but secretly adoring the thoughtfulness behind each gift.
“Okay, okay, this one’s from me and Dad,” Caleb interrupts, thrusting a medium-sized box wrapped in paper featuring cartoon animals wearing glasses.
Inside, I find a baby book titled ‘Contracts for Toddlers: A Negotiator’s First Words.’
“Never too early to start them on the right path,” Adrian says, pride evident in his voice.
“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 absolutely perfect.
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.
Before I can summon a witty retort about genetic inheritance, Caleb bounces into view, practically vibrating with the kind of excitement only an eight-year-old can muster. His dark brown eyes, so much like Adrian’s, scan the room until they land on the crib beside me.
“Whoa, she’s really small,” he says, the awe in his voice making me want to laugh and cry all at once.
“Small but mighty,” I reply, winking at him. “Just like her big brother.”
Amelie sidles in last, her soft smile warming the cool white walls. She has this way of moving—graceful, almost floating—that makes you think she’s walked straight out of some ethereal plane specifically to coo at newborns.
“Hello, little one,” Amelie murmurs, tiptoeing closer to peek at the baby. “Welcome to the circus.”
I watch as they take turns holding her, each face lighting up with something tender and fierce. It’s a look I’m still getting used to—the parental gaze. Suddenly, I’m not just Isabella King, shark-in-heels attorney at law. I’m Isabella, the mom. And it’s terrifyingly wonderful.
Caleb’s turn comes, and he approaches the baby like it’s the Holy Grail. With a seriousness that’s both comical and heart-melting, he leans down, his lips barely brushing the top of her fuzzy head as he whispers his solemn vow.
“I’m gonna be the best big brother ever.”
“Careful, kiddo,” I say, my voice teasing but my heart full. “She might hold you to that.”
Adrian catches my eye from across the room, a silent conversation passing between us. We’re doing this. Together. And despite the sarcastic quips ready on my tongue, there’s no one else I’d rather have by my side.
“Hey, Isabella,” Caleb calls out, breaking the spell. “Can I teach her to play video games when she’s bigger?”
“Sure thing, but let’s start her on the basics first.” I grin. “Like how to sleep through the night.”
“Deal!” Caleb agrees, oblivious to the chuckle his innocence elicits from the adults in the room.
And suddenly, I’m struck by a surge of pride. My family—this quirky, mismatched group—is perfect in its imperfection. And as I exchange glances with Adrian, filled with quiet happiness and unspoken promises, I know we’ll figure out the rest as we go.
“Best big brother, huh?” Adrian muses aloud, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I like the sound of it.”
“I do too, Dad.”
“Good,” Adrian replies, his hand finding mine, his touch grounding me in the present. “Because this little lady is going to need all the champions she can get.”
“Starting with her parents,” I add, squeezing his hand back. It’s a challenge, a commitment, and a promise, all wrapped up in one. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The last of the well-wishers slips out, and a silence descends, thick and soft as cashmere. Adrian shifts his chair closer to the hospital bed, one hand resting near my own, while his gaze lingers on the tiny bundle swaddled in pale pink. The rise and fall of the baby’s chest is a hypnotic dance, the stuff of life’s quiet miracles.
“Have you thought of a name?” Adrian’s voice is a whisper, as if he’s afraid to wake her, to break the spell of serenity cast over the room.
I nod, tracing a finger over the edge of the blanket that cocoons our daughter. “My maternal grandmother’s name is Rosalie. I’ve always liked the name.”
A smirk tugs at Adrian’s lips. “Rosalie’s a beautiful name. You know, my maternal grandmother’s name was Hayden.”
“Hayden?” I peer down at the baby. “Rosalie Hayden Cole,” I say, each syllable thick with the gravity of new beginnings and ancestral ties.
Adrian’s smile is a slow sunrise, warming everything it touches. He leans in, his lips finding mine in a kiss that feels like the soft closing of a book we’ve both loved reading. “It’s perfect,” he murmurs against my mouth, his breath mingling with mine.
We linger there, lips barely parted, sharing air, sharing this sliver of eternity. The magnitude of the moment presses down, yet it’s as gentle as the weight of our daughter’s head in the crook of my arm. We’ve tangoed through minefields, leapt over hurdles, and here we are—still standing, still together.
“You know, we’re quite the pair, Mr. Cole.”
“Indeed, Ms. King,” he replies, that trademark twinkle in his eye not dimmed by fatigue or the fluorescent lights overhead. “But let’s face it, we’ve always been exceptional at ... collaboration.”
“Collaboration,” I repeat, arching an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Seems fitting,” Adrian says, his thumb brushing my knuckle in a gesture so tender it might as well be a vow.
In this quiet, perfect pocket of time, the hum of the hospital fades, the world narrows down to just us three. And I think, maybe for the first time, I can see the outline of our future, clear and bright as daybreak.