Chapter 8
Chapter eight
~DONOVAN~
By Monday morning, I’m hanging onto my control by the thinnest goddamn thread.
All weekend, I tried to reset.
I’d done the gym, sauna, a Knicks game with Logan where he wouldn’t shut up, three hours at my desk reorganizing reports that didn’t need reorganizing.
None of it worked.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw Emma’s face in that conference room on Friday.
That soft tremble in her breath.
The way she swayed toward me like she already knew exactly how I’d touch her if I let go.
And then this morning, she delivered her risk analysis straight to my inbox.
A flawless, razor-sharp, CEO level risk analysis.
No surprise there. She’s already shown she’s brilliant.
But it didn’t help.
Because all it did was remind me that she’s not just the woman I can’t stop wanting…
She’s the woman I need on this project. The woman who’s making my life easier and harder all at once.
Now it’s seven PM, and I’m supposed to walk into dinner at Ampersand NYC, and negotiate a fifteen million-dollar deal with billion dollar investor Richard Castellano while pretending I’m unaffected.
I’m not unaffected.
Not even close.
My reflection in the mirrored elevator doors looks like a man who hasn’t slept properly in four days.
Salt and pepper beard a little rougher than usual. Jaw tighter. Tie loosened an inch too much.
I tighten it again, forcing my expression back into neutral.
Because I’m motherfucking Donovan Mitchell Titan.
Tech mogul.
Unshakable. Untouchable.
Except lately, whenever Emma damn Sinclair is within ten feet of me.
I step out of the elevator, and Logan falls into step beside me, grinning like the asshole he is.
“You’re wound tight,” he says cheerfully. “Something happen this weekend? Lose a bet? Break a golf club? Stare too long at a forbidden strategist?”
I give him a look that should qualify as a felony, and the bastard just laughs.
“It’s Monday,” I snap. “This week actually has to be productive.”
“Oh, sure,” Logan says, green eyes alight. “Totally normal Monday. You’re just acting like a man walking to his own execution.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a tightly coiled spring in a tailor-made suit trying to convince yourself you’re fine.” He nudges me. “Which, by the way, is adorable.”
I inhale once, slow and controlled.
Because Emma did everything she’s supposed to do as a good employee.
She hits her deadlines, analyzes the numbers above and beyond the call of duty,
As for me? I should be thinking about projections, timelines, my newest investor Castellano’s likely objections.
Instead, I’m thinking about the neckline of those little dresses she wears at work.
What she’s going to wear tonight.
How I’m supposed to sit across from her for two hours without imagining pushing her against the nearest wall.
We step outside into the warm June air, Manhattan alive around us.
Logan checks his phone. “Carmen and Emma are at the restaurant.”
My pulse ticks once, hard.
Emma’s already there.
Waiting.
Working.
Looking the way she looked last Friday when she leaned against the table and asked which side of the line we were on.
I adjust my tie again.
“Don," Logan says, tone suddenly more serious. "You sure you can handle tonight?”
“Yes, dickhead. How many times do I have to say that I’m good? I’m in control.”
“Maybe about three more times before I believe you.”
I don’t even try.
Because the truth—the thing I won’t say aloud—is that control hasn’t meant much these last few days.
Not when I spent the weekend thinking about her mouth instead of the multimillion-dollar deal I’m supposed to close tonight.
Logan claps a hand on my shoulder. “Good luck pretending you’re not obsessed. I’ll back you up if you start drooling at the table.”
“I don’t drool,” I grind out.
And I’m not about to start now.
Tonight, I need to be the CEO, the man who built an empire through willpower alone.
I exhale once, hard, squaring my shoulders and stepping toward the restaurant.
Time to pretend again.
At least for a few hours.
And it’s just my luck that the site of tonight’s dinner—midtown Manhattan relic for the wealthy, Ampersand—is already buzzing when I arrive, complete with wall to wall white linen, glass facades, and hushed voices.
The kind of place where your reputation is measured in digits and discretion.
Logan immediately makes a beeline for the bar, ordering two scotches. When they arrives, he slides a glass my way.
“Fuck,” he curses, giving the restaurant a cursory glance.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have let Thane stay at home tonight with Julia and the kids.
We might need some cooler heads when it comes to Richard Castellano.
” He pauses, regarding me for a second. “You know this guy a hell of a lot better than I do, Don. Should I be worried?”
My jaw works as I grip the glass tightly. “Guy’s decent enough. And he’s also bringing his business partner. We need this deal.”
“Right. The deal,” he drawls, like I’m not fooling anyone. “That’s definitely what’s making you white-knuckle that scotch.”
“You’re right. Thane definitely should be here. Someone needs to temper that slick-ass mouth of yours.”
“Oh, let’s face it. You fucking love being stuck with me and my devastating charm.”
“I prefer anyone who doesn’t constantly give me shit.”
“Then maybe don’t bring your sexual repression to work dinners.”
Before I can threaten him properly, I catch movement by the dining entrance.
Fuck. I swallow thickly.
She’s looks gorgeous.
Emma steps through the arched doors, Carmen at her side, Richard Castellano not far behind as he makes conversation with the Director of Strategy.
I force myself to look anywhere but at Emma.
I fail.
The dress she’ s wearing tonight is black. Simple. Modest by design.
But it hugs every inch of her curvaceous body, cuts just low enough at the collarbone to tease, and clings like it knows what it’s doing.
Her chestnut-colored hair is left down tonight, soft waves cascading over her shoulders.
She’s not wearing much makeup, but her full lips are a sexy blood red, seemingly designed by the universe to test my limits.
Logan lets out a low whistle. “Oh, shit. You’re fucked.”
“Logan.”
“Right. My slick ass mouth. Tempering it.” He sounds about as convinced as I feel. “But just saying—for a man obsessed with control, you look dangerously close to losing it.”
I don’t answer, and Emma walks toward us with Carmen at her side.
It doesn't help.
"Richard, Michael," Carmen says warmly. "I'd like you to meet Emma Sinclair, our lead strategist on your account. And this is Logan Malcolm, one of our board members."
"Emma." Richard's face lights up. "I've heard excellent things about your work."
"Thank you, Mr. Castellano." Emma shakes his hand, completely composed, then turns to Logan. "Mr. Malcolm."
"Please, just Logan." He takes her hand with a practiced charm that makes me want to punch him in the face. "And let me say, that pitch deck you put together was exceptional. Best market analysis I've seen in years."
Emma's smile is genuine. "That's high praise coming from a board member."
"It's earned praise." Logan releases her hand, then shoots me a look that I ignore.
We're led to our table—a corner booth with a view of Central Park.
The seating arrangement puts Emma directly across from me, with Logan to my right and Carmen next to Emma.
Of course.
Dinner starts professionally enough.
Richard and Michael ask questions about the AI platform's capabilities. Carmen provides high-level overview. I discuss market positioning and competitive advantages. Logan charms everyone with his effortless wit and strategic insights.
And Emma... Emma is brilliant.
She fields technical questions with ease, explaining complex algorithms in terms that make sense to non-engineers. When Michael challenges her on projected user acquisition costs, she doesn't flinch—just pulls up supplementary data on her tablet and walks him through methodology.
"The initial CAC looks high," she explains, "but the lifetime value justifies it. We're not optimizing for quick wins—we're building sustainable market share."
"Aggressive timeline though," Michael counters. "What if adoption is slower than projected?"
"Then we pivot." Emma's voice is steady, confident. "I've modeled three scenarios—best case, realistic, and conservative. Even in the conservative model, we hit profitability within eighteen months."
She's commanding the table without even trying.
Richard is leaning forward, engaged. Michael is nodding along. Carmen looks like a proud parent.
And Logan keeps glancing between Emma and me with that infuriating smirk.
I want to be annoyed.
Instead, I'm impressed. Proud, even, though I have no right to be.
Emma catches me watching and raises an eyebrow—a silent question.
I respond with the slightest nod.
Her lips curve, just slightly, before she turns back to Michael's next question.
"So, Emma," Richard says during a lull in conversation. "What brought you to Titan? You could work anywhere with your credentials."
Emma takes a sip of her wine—red, I notice, not white—and considers the question.
"Honestly? The challenge." She glances at me, just briefly. "Titan is at an inflection point. The AI platform could change everything, but only if it's positioned correctly. I wanted to be part of something that mattered."
"And you weren't afraid of the pressure?" Michael asks. "This is a high-stakes environment."
"I'm not afraid of pressure." Something flickers in her expression—a shadow of something painful. "I've dealt with worse."
My jaw tightens.
Worse than high-stakes business?
I file that away for later, along with all the other things I want to ask her when we're alone.
"Emma recently completed her MBA at Northwestern," Carmen adds, smoothly redirecting. "Top of her class."
"Impressive," Richard says. "That program is notoriously difficult."
"It was challenging," Emma admits. "But I had good motivation."