26. Adrian
2 Years Later
I watch Caleb chase Rosalie through the sprinklers, his laughter a soundtrack to our life now. It’s a symphony of joy that drowns out the echoes of the everyday stresses that work brings. The Hollywood Hills hold us in their ritzy embrace, our two-story home a massive upgrade from both my Beverly Hills abode with Caleb and Isabella’s two-bedroom apartment.
As Isabella stands beside me, her green eyes reflecting the golden sunset, I can’t help but feel like the luckiest man alive. I take one look at her in a shade of crimson red lipstick and a form-fitting black dress that makes her eyes pop.
I turn to her. “Hey, you look good.”
She tries to hide it, but I catch her blushing. “It’s our anniversary. Figured I shouldn’t show up in a pencil skirt.” Her eyes sweep over me. “You look nice yourself.”
I tug at my black dress shirt and matching pants. “Figured it was a step up from my work attire. ”
We both gaze back out at the kids. “Look at them go,” Isabella says, her voice warm with maternal pride. “Caleb’s going to sleep well tonight.”
“Let’s hope so,” I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting in a half-smile. “Especially since your mom is on duty.”
Isabella nudges me playfully. “Be nice. She’s a godsend.”
“True. Without her, we wouldn’t be stepping out for our anniversary. She believed in us more than anyone in the beginning.” I scoop Rosalie into my arms as she barrels toward us, her giggles infectious. “Okay, speed demon. Time to power down. Take a bath and be good for Grandma. Your mom and I will see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Night-night, Daddy!” She wraps her little arms around my neck, planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
“Night-night, angel.” I set her back on her feet, and she scampers off to where my mother has already wrangled Caleb for his nightly routine.
“Two years,” I muse aloud, taking Isabella’s hand in mine.
“I know. Seems like just yesterday you were schooling me on courtroom etiquette,” she teases. “And you were charming every jury with your smug little grin,” she retorts, though her eyes dance with mirth.
“Hey, it’s not smug. It’s ... endearingly confident.”
“Sure, let’s go with that,” she said with a laugh, linking her arm through mine as we head toward the car.
The drive down the winding roads feels shorter than usual, anticipation thrumming between us. I catch Isabella casting curious glances my way, probably wondering why I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat with a secret.
“Adrian Cole, what are you up to?” Her suspicion is as clear as the L.A. sky on a smog-free day.
“Who, me? Up to something?” I feign innocence, which only makes her more suspicious. Classic Isabella, always reading me like the fine print on a contract.
“Alright, Mr. Enigmatic. Keep your secrets,” she huffs, though the twinkle in her eye tells me she loves the mystery.
When we arrive at Lumiere West, one of Isabella’s favorite restaurants, the engine purrs to a halt, and I kill the headlights. We sit for a moment in silence, bathed in the soft hue of streetlights. Isabella’s gaze is fixed on the restaurant, her brows knitting together in puzzlement.
“Adrian, it looks closed,” she murmurs, a hint of concern lacing her voice.
“Does it?” I reply nonchalantly, hiding a smirk as I pop open the door and step out into the cool evening air.
“Wait here.” I circle the car with a swagger I reserve for courtroom victories and moments like these. Her door opens with a gentle creak, and I extend my hand, an invitation to step into the unknown.
“Adrian ...” She hesitates, hand hovering over mine, her eyes searching the dimly lit entrance for signs of life.
“Trust me,” I say, a promise wrapped in two words.
With a sigh that tells me she’s surrendering to the whimsy of the night, her fingers slip into mine. The click of her heels against the pavement is a steady drumbeat as we approach the doors.
“Surprise,” I whisper, pushing them open to reveal an oasis of candlelight flickering across an otherwise shadowed room.
Her gasp is the sweetest melody, the kind that sings of shock and awe. “You rented out the whole place?” Disbelief paints every syllable, yet there’s a dance in her words, light and airy.
“Only the best for you,” I say, guiding her inside. My heart thrums against my ribs—a drum corps in full swing—anticipating what’s yet to come.
We slide into our seats, the world outside melting away until it’s just us and the wine that’s already poured into our glasses.
“Happy anniversary, Isabella,” I toast, lifting my glass. Her cheeks flush a shade that rivals the Pinot Noir, and I realize, not for the first time, how this fierce, formidable woman has become my everything.
“Happy anniversary,” she echoes, her green eyes alight with a fire that could outshine the stars.
The waiter arrives to take our order. I gesture for Isabella to go first. I can barely hear her place her order when my palms suddenly begin sweating. Who knew a grown man could be brought to his knees by a tiny velvet box burning a hole in his pocket?
“Adrian? You okay? You’ve got that look,” Isabella says, tilting her head. That’s her lawyer mode kicking in—always reading people like her favorite legal briefs.
“Never better,” I manage, though my heart’s doing the samba in my chest. I turn to the waiter. “You can go now. I’m ready.”
Isabella furrows her brows. “What do you mean?”
I push back my chair, stand up, and there’s this hush, like even the candles are holding their breath.
“Isabella,” I start, voice steady, but damn if there isn’t a tremor of emotion betraying me. I drop to one knee, the plush carpet soft beneath me. Shock is written all over Isabella’s face in bold script.
I fish out the ring from my pocket—it glints like a new promise—and I swear I can hear her heartbeat sync with mine. “Isabella King,” I say, each word laced with every ounce of love I feel for her. “I never thought I could have this. You’ve given me more than I ever dreamed—love, family, everything. Will you marry me?”
Her green eyes swell with tears, those windows to a soul I’ve come to know better than my own case files. She nods, her voice quivering like she’s cross-examining her own emotions. “Yes, of course, yes. ”
And then we’re in each other’s arms, the kind of embrace that speaks volumes more than any verbose argument she’s ever crafted in court. Our lips meet, and it’s like signing the deal of a lifetime—the merger of two stubborn hearts that have finally figured it out.
We break our kiss, and I’m half-expecting the restaurant staff to applaud—maybe throw in a free dessert for the spectacle. But instead, shadows shift at the edge of my vision, and suddenly there’s more than just candlelight flickering in Isabella’s tear-glazed eyes.
“Surprise!” The word bursts through the quiet like a champagne cork, and out from their clever hiding spots step our parents, wide grins and all, followed by Caleb with his gap-toothed smile, Rosalie toddling after him with hands raised high, and Amelie, her laughter mingling with the clapping.
“Did you guys know about this?” Isabella’s voice crackles with incredulity, her eyes darting between the faces of our little impromptu fan club.
“Every single detail,” my mom beams, pride spilling from her words as if she’d masterminded the whole evening herself. Maybe she did; I’ll never tell.
The rest of the night is a blur of embraces, laughter that bounces off the walls, and enough pictures to crash a phone’s memory. We’re a whirlwind of celebration, and even Amelie, who’s usually more reserved than a library on Christmas Day, is throwing around high-fives like they’re going out of style.
Hours later, the restaurant fades into the rearview mirror, the kids are out cold in the backseat—Caleb’s head lolling against Rosalie’s car seat in a symphony of snores—and it’s just me and Isabella. Our hands find each other, fingers intertwining like they’re trying to write love letters in braille .
“Hey,” she says softly, a smile playing on her lips, the kind that’s worth more than any verdict I’ve ever won on the job.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, squeezing her hand.
In the quiet of the car, with the LA skyline winking at us from afar, we don’t need words to spell out the chapter ahead. We’ve got something better than pages and ink—we’ve got us. And as we pull into the driveway of our mansion—the one that’s more home than any house I’ve ever known—I can’t help but think that life’s funny like that. One minute you’re objecting to late-night briefs and the next, you’re planning a life with the woman who wrote them.
“Best anniversary ever?” I venture, cutting the engine.
“Objection,” Isabella says with a smirk, echoing our earlier banter, “I think every year’s going to top this one.”
“Motion granted,” I chuckle, because, with Isabella King, every win feels like the first, and I’m just getting started on loving her forever.
The End