5. Isabella
Chapter five
Isabella
T wo Months Later
Sunlight streams in through the half-open blinds, painting my bedroom with a glow that feels too cheerful for the way I’m currently clutching at my stomach. The weekend is finally mine—no emails, no calls, just sweet, uninterrupted rest. Or so I thought.
I stretch, rolling out the stiffness from another night spent curled up with files instead of pillows. But as I rise, nausea hits me like a sucker punch. I stumble to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before last night’s takeout makes an unwelcome encore appearance. Fantastic.
“Food poisoning,” I groan to myself, rinsing my mouth and glaring at my reflection. My usually sharp green eyes are watery, and my hair, which I like to think falls in a cascade of professional prowess, is sticking out in all directions like I’ve been electrocuted. I’m a vision, truly.
Ginger tea. That’s what I need. The thought has me padding barefoot to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle, and willing my stomach to settle down. As the water starts to boil with a soft rumble, my phone decides to join in with its own shrill symphony.
“Hey, Mom.” My voice comes out strained, holding back another wave of queasiness.
“Isabella, dear, how’s the new job going?” It’s the familiar cadence of concern from my mom, Susan King, matched by the silent, supportive presence I imagine my dad, Roger, has, hovering in the background.
“Great, really great.” I lie through the teeth I just brushed twice. “Just busy, you know? Mergers don’t orchestrate themselves.”
“Of course, sweetie. We’re so proud of you,” she says, and I can almost hear her smile over the line. “You work too hard, though. Don’t forget to eat properly.”
“Will do,” I assure her, although my stomach argues otherwise.
The kettle gives a final shout, demanding attention.
“I’ll go ahead and let you go. Come over for dinner soon, okay?” Mom’s voice is both an invitation and a gentle command. It’s her way of saying she misses me without actually saying it.
“Absolutely,” I reply, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear as I pour the ginger tea. “I’ll text you once I have a handle on this chaos they call a schedule.” We exchange goodbyes with the kind of warmth only parents can give, and I’m left staring into the murky depths of my cup, hoping for some relief.
My plans today with Amelie, to lounge at the spa and pretend life isn’t a juggling act, seem like a distant dream now. I thumb my phone, about to raincheck our day together, but fate, in the form of a doorbell chime, interrupts me.
“Coming!” I call out, not bothering to hide my irritation. Swinging the door open reveals Amelie, all bright-eyed and bearing gifts—hot coffee that smells like my salvation and a bag from Sinful Delights, the cookie boutique that could probably solve world peace with their double chocolate sea salt wonders.
“Amelie, what are you—”
“Surprise!” She barges past me, apology written all over her face. “Sorry for being early, but I couldn’t wait.”
Someone let her in? In my upscale West Hollywood building, that’s practically a security breach. But looking at Amelie, with her eager-to-share goodies, I can’t muster up the lawyer in me to care.
“Let me guess, someone just happened to be leaving?” I ask, already knowing the answer as I rub the sleep from my eyes.
“Exactly!” She sets her to-go cup down on the counter and flips open the box of cookies as if unveiling treasure. “With your crazy hours lately, I figured you deserved a treat. And here I thought auditors had it bad during tax season. You win, hands down.”
“Trust me, it’s not a competition I wanted to win.” My sarcasm might be the only thing keeping me upright at this point.
We share a laugh—the kind that acknowledges life’s absurdities—and I’m reminded why Amelie’s impromptu visits, even under less-than-ideal circumstances, are a welcome intrusion.
Amelie’s fingers dance over the assorted cookies like she’s playing a game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe. “Salted caramel macadamia or raspberry white chocolate cheesecake?” she asks, her voice laced with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for winning lottery numbers.
“Neither,” I say, pressing a hand to my stomach which continues to churn in protest. “I think I’ll have to rain check our spa day.”
“Isabella, you look pale.” Amelie’s eyebrows knit together in concern as she slides onto a bar stool, her CPA brain probably already diagnosing me with some obscure deficiency. “Talk to me. What’s going on? ”
“Ugh, I don’t know.” My voice is a groan as I lean against the cool granite of the kitchen island. “I’ve been queasy all morning and—” I cut myself off, not wanting to dive into the graphic details of my rendezvous with the porcelain god.
“Sounds like food poisoning,” she says, the cookie momentarily forgotten.
“Or maybe the flu ...” I add, trying to convince myself more than her. The thought of being sick over the weekend is about as appealing as a root canal without anesthesia. “I’ve felt off for a week now.”
“Off how?” She tilts her head, her eyes scanning my face like she’s looking for clues in a mystery novel.
“Fatigue, nausea, and if we’re sharing, my period is late.” I rattle off the list, each symptom echoing louder in my head than the last.
“Have you had sex recently?” The question hangs in the air, and suddenly the room feels ten degrees hotter.
“Define ‘recently,’” I hedge, avoiding her gaze.
“Isabella.” Her tone suggests she won’t accept any lawyerly dodging.
“Fine.” I exhale, taking a seat at the bar stool. “There was an incident ... in my office. With Adrian. You remember that night at Bistro Laurent?”
Her jaw practically unhinges. “That was what, ten weeks ago?”
“Ten weeks and three days, but who’s counting?” I bite down on my lip, feeling the first stirrings of panic setting in.
“Ten weeks,” she repeats, her eyes wide, probably doing the same mental math I’ve been avoiding. “And you’re just telling me this now?”
“I wanted to bury it so deep into my subconscious that even a psychiatrist couldn’t find it.”
“Wow,” she murmurs, still in shock, no doubt calculating probabilities, risks, and outcomes in her methodical mind.
“Wow” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
And then, Amelie is on her feet without so much as uttering another word.
“Where are you going?” My voice is more of a croak as I trail after her.
She’s already halfway to the door, determination etched into her every move. “To get you a pregnancy test,” she throws over her shoulder.
“What? Why would I need—” But she’s turning on me with that “are-you-serious” look, and I’m suddenly aware of how ludicrous I must sound.
“Isabella,” she starts, ticking off my symptoms like she’s reading a script for a pharmaceutical commercial. “Nausea, exhaustion, mood swings, and you had sex over two months ago. Is that not enough evidence that you might be pregnant, Ms. Lawyer?”
“Objection,” I mutter, but it’s feeble even to my own ears. Amelie just gives me a look that could quell a courtroom and heads out, shutting the door with a firm click that seems to echo in my suddenly silent apartment.
I slump against the cool wood, the reality of the situation seeping in. There’s no way I can be pregnant. Adrian and I used protection. But then again ... sometimes it fails. Just my freaking luck. Leave it to me to hit the statistical jackpot.
“Great, just great,” I groan aloud to my empty living room. If I am pregnant, what am I supposed to do? Walk into Adrian’s office and say, “Congrats, you’re going to be a father—again”? Or maybe I’d play it cool, serve him with a subpoena: “You are hereby summoned to fatherhood.”
I shake my head. My life isn’t some courtroom drama, and this isn’t an episode where the plucky lawyer heroine has a tidy resolution in under an hour. This is messy, unplanned, and completely at odds with my meticulously charted life plan.
No kids, no marriage—not until I’ve made partner and proven myself. That was the deal I struck with myself long ago. Now, here I am, potentially carrying Exhibit A that I’ve broken my own rules.
“Exhibit A”—now there’s a name for a baby born to two lawyers. I snort at the thought, a humorless puff of air that does nothing to lift the weight pressing down on my chest.
Ten minutes later, Amelie bursts through the door—this time without knocking— and was let in, again?! Her arms are laden with an arsenal of pregnancy tests.
“Seriously, Amelie?” I eye the heap of boxes as if they’re live grenades about to detonate my future.
“Trust me, you’ll be sending me thank you cards.” Amelie dumps them on my kitchen table like a dealer fanning out a deck of cards at a high-stakes poker game.
She snatches a box, flipping it over. “Here,” she says, thrusting it toward me. “Pee on the stick and wait for the lines. Or plus sign. Or happy face. Whatever twisted symbol they use to announce your womb’s occupancy status.”
“Huh?”
“You’re 27 years old, Isabella. You really don’t know how to use a pregnancy test?” She shakes her head in mock disappointment as I retreat to the bathroom.
“Never had the pleasure,” I call back, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Clearly, you haven’t lived much, have you?” Her voice follows me, threaded with humor that fails to mask concern.
“Ha-ha,” I retort, eyes rolling so hard I’m afraid they might stick that way. I take a deep breath, do the deed, and lay the test on the counter like it’s a fragile relic. I open the door, signaling the end of my solo performance.
“Okay, now we wait,” Amelie says, leaning against the sink. “So, what’s the plan if you’re—”
“Shh!” I interrupt. “Let’s not put the cart before the ... positive pregnancy test.”
“Fine, but if you are, will you ...” She trails off, biting her lip.
“Go the abortion route? And not tell Adrian?” I finish for her.
“Or tell him so he can support the abortion ... financially or otherwise?” Amelie ventures, eyebrows raised suggestively.
“Amelie!” My laugh is sharp, a brittle sound that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Let’s just wait for the grand reveal, shall we?”
We both stare at the test as if it holds the secret to life, the universe, and everything—which, in a way, it does. My fate, distilled into two little lines—or one, or a smug smiley face—waiting to emerge.
The timer dings, and I swear my heart stops. “Time’s up,” Amelie announces as if we’re on some sort of twisted game show.
“Fantastic,” I mutter under my breath, a frosty sarcasm coating each syllable. I reach for the stick with a trembling hand. My eyes flicker down, and there it is—a plus sign so bold it might as well be flashing neon.
“Is that ...?” Amelie’s voice trails off, her usual bravado deflated like a punctured balloon.
“Yep.” The word falls flat in the sterile silence of my bathroom. Pregnant.
The room starts to spin, or maybe that’s just me, unmoored from reality.
“Let’s not trust a piece of plastic. Round two?” I say, grabbing another test .
“Sure, because the first one could be a fluke,” she agrees, but her tone says she knows better.
We wait again. Same result. It’s like déjà vu with a side of impending life crisis. I take a third one because why not? Third time’s the charm, right? Wrong. It’s a hat trick of destiny.
“Three for three.” Amelie’s whisper feels like a eulogy for my meticulously planned future.
“Shut the front door,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else—someone who doesn’t have a ten-point plan for the next five years of her career.
“Isabella, seriously. What are you going to do?” Her question is a gentle prod, but it feels like a sledgehammer to my chest.
“Open a daycare apparently,” I quip, trying to keep the mood light even though my insides are as heavy as the law books on my office shelf. Adrian Cole, the man who can negotiate mergers in his sleep, the boss who doesn’t know the meaning of losing a case, is about to face his toughest opponent yet—me, armed with a positive pregnancy test and a boatload of conflict of interest.
“In all seriousness, Amelie, I don’t know. I mean, it’s Adrian. He’s my boss. He’s got Caleb to think about. And I have my career, my plans ...” My words trail off into the abyss of uncertainty. “Plus, how does ‘single motherhood’ sound with a side of ‘office scandal’ for the woman gunning for partner before thirty?”
“Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs, huh?” Amelie says, her attempt at comfort is awkward, yet admirable.
“More like a fastball to the face.”
“Whatever you decide, you’re not alone, okay?” Amelie reaches out, and I’m grateful for her touch, grounding me when it feels like gravity has left the building.
“Thanks,” I say, and it’s no joke this time. Because while I might be staring down an unpredictable future, having Amelie by my side makes it seem like I won’t have to face it solo.