Chapter 6
Chapter six
~EMMA~
By Thursday night—almost one full week at Titan Industries—I’ve come to three conclusions.
One: My new job is everything I hoped for and absolutely nothing I expected.
Two: Working for a billionaire tech company means "work-life balance" is a theoretical concept.
Like Bigfoot.
Or affordable Manhattan rent.
Three: I'm either dying of some rare stress-induced illness, or I'm the world's worst employee because I can barely make it past lunch without wanting to nap under my desk.
"You look like hell," Carmen declares, appearing at my cubicle at six-forty-five PM with a sympathetic expression and a protein bar.
I look up from my laptop, blinking against the fluorescent lights that have been slowly burning my retinas for the past thirteen hours.
"Thank you? That's exactly the professional image I was going for."
"I'm serious, Emma." She sets the protein bar on my desk. "You've been here since seven-thirty this morning. Go home."
"I just need to finish this market analysis—"
"It's Thursday night. The market analysis will still be here tomorrow.”
"But you said—"
"I said I wanted it by end of next week. Not end of this week." Carmen crosses her arms. "You're an excellent employee, but if you burn out in your first month, that doesn't help anyone."
She's right. I know she's right.
But the thought of going back to my shoebox apartment with its dying mini-fridge and air mattress makes me want to cry.
At least here, I'm productive.
Useful.
Proving that I deserve this job and didn't just get lucky during the interview process.
"I'll leave soon," I promise. "Just want to wrap up this section."
Carmen sighs but doesn't argue. "Fine. But Emma? You don't have to work yourself to death to prove you belong here. We already know you do."
She leaves, and I'm alone again on the thirty-seventh floor, surrounded by the gentle hum of computers and the distant sound of the janitorial staff vacuuming somewhere far away.
I should listen to her. Should pack up and go home.
Instead, I pull up the next spreadsheet and dive back in.
By ten PM, my eyes are crossing and I've forgotten what day it is.
I also need coffee. Desperately.
The break room is mercifully empty when I stumble in, already planning to mainline an entire pot and deal with the insomnia later.
Except someone's already made coffee.
Fresh coffee, by the smell of it.
I pour myself a cup and take a grateful sip—then immediately regret it because this coffee tastes like it was brewed by someone who thinks "subtle" is for the weak.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, checking the pot. "Who made battery acid?"
"That would be me."
I spin around, sloshing coffee onto my hand, and find Donovan leaning against the doorframe.
Steel-gray eyes narrowed, salt-and-peper hair tousled, he blinks at me, gaze steady.
He's shed his suit jacket and tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking disturbingly good for someone who's been at work for right around fifteen hours.
"Mr. Titan.” I set down my cup and grab a napkin to wipe my hand. "I didn't realize anyone else was still here."
"I could say the same thing." He moves into the break room, grabbing his own cup from the counter. "And it's Donovan. We're the only two people here—you can drop the formality."
"I thought we were being professional."
"Professional went out the window around hour twelve." He takes a sip of his coffee and doesn't even flinch. "How's the market analysis coming?"
"You know about that?"
"Carmen copied me on her email when she assigned it to you." He leans against the counter. "She also mentioned you've been working seventy-hour weeks."
"It's only been four days. That's hardly a pattern."
"It's a concerning start."
I cross my arms. "I'm just trying to prove myself."
"To who?"
"Everyone. You. Carmen. The people who hired me." I pick up my coffee again, more carefully this time. "I'm the youngest person on the strategy team. I'm new. I need to show I can handle the workload."
"By killing yourself?"
"I'm not—" I stop, because a wave of dizziness hits me out of nowhere. I grip the counter, waiting for it to pass.
“Take it easy there.” Donovan's immediately at my side, hand on my elbow. “You good?”
"Fine. Just stood up too fast." The dizziness fades, leaving behind a faint nausea I've been ignoring all week. "I probably need to eat something."
"When was the last time you ate?"
I try to remember. "Lunch?"
"It's ten PM."
"Then... nine hours ago?" I pull away from his steadying hand, embarrassed. "I'm fine. Really. Just forgot to grab dinner."
Donovan's jaw tightens. "The vending machine or the cafeteria?"
"What?"
"Which one do you want me to raid for food?"
"You don't have to—"
“I do.” His voice is firm. "You're swaying on your feet. You need to eat. Choose.”
I consider arguing, then realize I'm too tired and too hungry to win this fight.
"Vending machine," I admit. "The cafeteria closed at seven."
"Wait here."
He disappears before I can protest, leaving me alone with the terrible coffee and my wounded pride.
I sink into one of the break room chairs, resting my head on my arms.
This is not how I wanted to end my first week.
Dizzy and pathetic and being fed from a vending machine by my boss who I'm definitely not supposed to be attracted to.
Donovan returns five minutes later with an armful of snacks.
Chips. Granola bars. A Snickers. A bottle of water.
Even a sad-looking pack of trail mix that’s clearly been aging in the back of the machine since 2019.
"I got options," he says, dumping them out on the table.
I stare at the pile. “You raided the entire vending machine.”
“It’s called choices.” He slides the water toward me. “Some of us like having them.”
I take the bottle, unscrewing the cap. “Oh, I’m very aware of how much you enjoy having…choices.”
“A smart man knows,” he says, his voice dropping, smooth as the scotch I imagine he drinks when he’s not ruining women’s ability to form coherent thoughts, “that options keep things interesting.”
I take a sip of water to buy time.
“Right,” I say, before twisting the cap back on. “Wouldn’t want you getting bored.”
He sits beside me, crossing his arms. The motion pulls his shirt tight across his chest, sleeves still rolled up, forearms tan and dusted with dark hair.
“Trust me,” he says quietly. “There’s nothing boring about you, Sinclair.”
The words slide over my skin like heat.
“I meant the snacks,” I manage, setting the bottle down because my hands are starting to shake. “Not me.”
He smiles. “Sure you did.”
I reach for the Snickers just to give myself something to do. “You always this cocky after hours?”
“Only when I’ve earned it.” His gaze flicks down, tracing the line of my throat, my collarbone. “And only when I’m right.”
God, he’s infuriating. And sexy. And infuriating because he’s sexy.
“That line usually work on your board members, or am I special?”
He chuckles, low and rough. “Special, Sinclair. No question.”
The way he says my name—Sinclair—wraps around me like a touch.
I tear the wrapper off the candy bar too fast, pretending not to notice the way he watches my hands. “You really don’t have to babysit me.”
He pushes off the counter, stepping closer. Close enough that I can smell his cologne again—clean and expensive, with a trace of smoke underneath.
“Maybe I don’t,” he says. “But I want to make sure my best new hire doesn’t pass out in my building. Bad optics.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t want to ruin your image.”
His grin sharpens, that hint of wolf in it now. “You couldn’t ruin a damn thing.”
My pulse stutters.
I take a bite of the candy bar, but I can’t taste it.
He’s too close, too solid.
Too…there.
And for one stupid, dizzy second, all I can think about is how it felt in Miami when that same voice was in my ear and his hands weren’t busy holding water bottles and vending machine snacks.
I clear my throat. “You really should leave before someone thinks you’re breaking company policy.”
He leans forward, eyes unblinking. “Someone already might.”
Then—like the merciful bastard he is—he finally sits back.
“Eat,” he orders softly. “Then go home.”
"I'm fine."
"You're exhausted." He pauses. "And you've been looking pale all week."
“You've been watching me?"
His steely eyes narrow. "I notice things about my employees."
"Do you empty out the vending machine for all of them, too?"
"Only the ones who are too stubborn to take care of themselves."
We're staring at each other now, and I'm suddenly very aware that we're alone in the break room at ten PM, and that openly staring at my ridiculously handsome, formerly filthy-mouthed boss is getting harder to maintain by the second.
His knee shifts from where he sits, brushing mine. Once. Lightly.
My breath catches, and the corner of his mouth curves—but just barely.
I stand. Too fast.
“I should go.”
He rises with me. “I’ll walk you out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not the point.”
I'm too tired to argue, so I just nod and follow him back to my cubicle to grab my things.
The thirty-seventh floor is completely empty now, just the two of us and the emergency lights leaving shadows across the desks.
When the elevator arrives with a soft ding, we step inside. Donovan presses the button for the lobby, and the doors close, sealing us in.
By the time we reach the ground floor, the lobby is quiet, just the night guard and the soft hum of air conditioning.
We step through the exits and out into the humid night, the streetlights casting a soft sheen over the sidewalk.
It’s quieter than usual for Manhattan—just the low murmur of a late cabs and the distant bass of music from a rooftop bar nearby.
I start toward the subway entrance when I notice it—
A black car idling at the curb.
Sleek.
Expensive.
I pause. “That’s not—”
“It’s for you,” Donovan says simply, not breaking stride.
I blink. “I didn’t call a car.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
There’s no smugness in his voice. No teasing.
Just a quiet expectation that I won’t argue.
And I don’t.
Because I’m too tired.
Because the thought of being jostled by strangers on the subway makes my bones ache.
Because part of me—the reckless, traitorous part—likes that he noticed.
That he acted.
The driver steps out and opens the back door without a word, I hesitate for half a second, turning back to Don.
His eyes are unreadable in the streetlight.
I shrug. “I could’ve taken the subway.”
“You would’ve taken the subway.”
“And you’d rather I didn’t?”
“I’d rather you got home without fainting on the fucking train and waking up in Queens.”
I’m already stepping toward the curb. “You are aware that I can take care of myself?”
He steps closer, lowering his voice just enough to make my pulse catch.
“Oh, I’m sure no one’s ever mistaken you for helpless.” He places his hands in the pockets of his slacks, gaze lifting. “I did this, because I wanted to.”
“Well, then I…guess I should say thank you.”
“And I’ll say you’re welcome. Goodnight, Ms. Sinclair.”
“Goodnight.” I pause, fingers brushing the door. “Thanks for the snacks.”
A slight smile. “Anytime.”
I slide into the car, and the door shuts behind me with a soft click that feels strangely final.
As the car pulls away from the curb, I glance back.
He’s still there.
Still watching.
Good God…
I am so unbelievably screwed.