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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 fullswing—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
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