Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
~EMMA~
The private terminal at Teterboro two days later looks nothing like an airport.
No chaos. No crying babies. No TSA shouting about liquids.
Just marble floors, hushed voices, and quiet lighting that makes even exhaustion feel expensive.
And right now, at six in the morning—with my stomach waging a small internal war—I deeply appreciate that.
The only downside?
Donovan Mitchell is standing twenty feet away like a walking reminder of everything I’m trying not to think about.
Dark jeans. Soft forest green henley. Rolex catching the hangar lights.
His dark hair threaded with silver is tousled and full, his gray eyes warmer than usual. Looking disturbingly put together for a man who probably closed three deals before I even put on my shoes, he looks… rested.
As for me, I look exactly like the person I am—the woman who threw up twice this morning already.
The morning sickness is getting worse. Or maybe it's the nerves about spending two days alone with my boss whose baby I’m pregnant with and he has no idea.
Either way, I'm a mess.
“Emma.”
Donovan’s voice cuts through the hangar, low and controlled. Still dangerous.
Walking toward me, leather duffel in hand, his stride is easy, confident without ever needing to prove it. The kind of man who doesn’t rush because the world moves for him.
"Morning," I manage, hoping I don't look as green as I feel.
His eyes narrow slightly. "You okay? You look pale again.”
"I'm fine. Just not a morning person."
"The flight's two and a half hours. You can sleep on the plane."
Behind him, his jet waits.
And not just a jet.
A sculpted machine of white steel and glass, sleek and predatory like him, its windows are tinted, its lines sharp, almost architectural. It’s the type of aircraft you see on magazine covers next to words like Empire and Power.
“You fly like this often?” I ask, attempting casual.
“Only when I don’t feel like wasting time,” he answers.
Of course. Of course he owns a private plane.
"Sounds great," I say, gripping my carry-on a little tighter as another wave of nausea rolls through me.
As he gestures for me to follow him up the steps, something in his posture shifts. Something protective. Observant. Like he’s already tracking me even when he pretends he’s just being professional.
Inside, the jet isn’t a plane…
It’s a penthouse in the sky.
Cream leather seating. Polished wood. A conference table likely worth more than my entire apartment.
There’s even a tiny kitchen.
“This is…” I hesitate.
“Excessive?” he offers, watching me closely.
“Intimidating,” I admit.
His mouth curves. “You’ll get used to it.”
I sink into the seat, which is indeed more comfortable than my bed, and try to focus on breathing steadily.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Don't think about how your stomach is currently doing gymnastics.
The plane starts moving, and I close my eyes, willing myself not to be sick.
"Emma?"
I open my eyes to find Donovan watching me, gray eyes turning into slits.
"You're really pale. And you're gripping the armrests like we're about to crash."
"I'm fine. Just... not great with takeoffs."
It's not entirely a lie. I'm not great with takeoffs when I'm also battling morning sickness and trying not to think about the fact that I'm carrying this man's baby.
The plane accelerates, and my stomach lurches in protest.
Oh no.
"I need—" I start to stand, but my seatbelt's still fastened and the plane's already tilting upward and—
Donovan's out of his seat in a flash, unbuckling my seatbelt and pointing me toward the back of the plane. "Bathroom's through there. Go."
I don't argue. Just stumble toward the back, barely making it to the small but immaculate bathroom before I'm sick.
Again.
This is officially the worst day of my life.
When I'm finally empty, I sink onto the closed toilet seat and drop my head into my hands.
This is humiliating. Completely, utterly humiliating.
There's a soft knock on the door.
"Emma? You okay?"
"Fine," I call out, voice shaky. "Just... give me a minute."
"I'm coming in."
"No, don't—"
But he's already opening the door, because apparently privacy is optional on private planes.
He's holding a bottle of water, some crackers, and a damp washcloth, and his expression is concerned rather than disgusted, which is something.
"Here." He hands me the washcloth. "For your face."
I take it gratefully, pressing the cool cloth against my forehead. "I'm sorry. But it…it’s nothing. I’ve been off all week.”
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"It's probably just stress. New job, big presentation, traveling..." I trail off, realizing I'm making excuses.
Donovan crouches down so we're at eye level, which is both sweet and makes me want to cry.
"Emma, you've been pale and exhausted for over a week. This isn't just stress." His voice is gentle. "After Chicago, you're seeing a doctor. That's not a request."
"Okay," I whisper, because arguing seems impossible right now.
"Can you stand?"
I nod, and he helps me up, one hand on my elbow, steady and warm.
We make our way back to the main cabin, and he settles me into my seat with the crackers and water.
"Small sips," he instructs. "And eat the crackers slowly. It'll help settle your stomach."
"How do you know that?"
"My mother used to get motion sickness." His expression softens. "She swore by saltines and ginger ale."
I take a small sip of water, then nibble on a cracker. He's right—it does help.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For not... I don't know. Being weird about this."
"Why would I be weird about it?"
"Because I just threw up on your fancy plane?"
"Our fancy plane," he corrects with a small smile. “The company’s plane. And you threw up in the bathroom, which is literally what it's there for."
I almost smile. "You're being very understanding."
"You're sick, Emma. I'm not going to be an asshole about it." He leans back in his seat. "Get some rest. We still have two hours, and you need to be sharp for tonight's dinner."
Right. The dinner. With investors.
Where I need to be brilliant and professional and absolutely not pregnant-sick.
I close my eyes, letting the gentle hum of the plane and the lingering nausea lull me into something resembling sleep.
I wake up an hour later feeling marginally more human.
Donovan's working on his laptop, reading glasses perched on his perfectly aquiline nose, looking like every CEO fantasy ever written.
"Feeling better?" he asks without looking up.
"Yeah, actually. Thanks for the crackers."
"You're welcome." He closes his laptop. "We should prep for tonight. Michael Cho from the VC firm is bringing his legal team, and they're going to have questions about the IP protections and licensing agreements."
We spend the remaining time going over every possible question and objection, and I'm reminded why I love this job.
The strategy. The problem-solving. The way Donovan's brain works through complex issues.
By the time we land in Chicago, the worst of the nausea has faded, leaving just exhaustion and a dull pressure behind my eyes.
Below us, my hometown stretches wide and steel-blue, the skyline sharp and precise against Lake Michigan, and I almost feel normal again.
Almost.
Forty minutes later, I start to get settled back in unfamiliar surroundings.
Though I’m from Chicago, this definitely isn’t my version of the city. Probably because the hotel is ridiculous.
The shiny building is a behemoth, a shrine to five-star luxury overlooking Lake Michigan, the windows stretching floor-to-ceiling with views of Navy Pier and the skyline.
My bathroom alone is bigger than my entire New York apartment, and I’m unpacking my items into it when my phone rings.
FaceTime. Sasha and Riley.
"Hey," I answer, propping the phone against a nearby mirror.
"EMMA!" Riley's face fills the screen. "You're back in the Chi! How was the trip? The plane ride? And most importantly, how's your hot billionaire boss?"
"The trip is fine. The plane was... eventful. And Donovan is my boss, not my hot billionaire anything."
"Uh-huh." Sasha leans into frame. "Is that why you kissed him?"
"I told you that in confidence."
"And we're very confident that you're into him," Riley says. "Also, we're dying for details. How was the kiss you barely mentioned last week? Was there tongue? Did he—"
"Oh my God, stop." But I'm smiling. "Yes, there was tongue. Yes, it was amazing. And yes, I'm completely screwed."
"Screwed in the fun way or the pregnant way?" Sasha asks.
My smile fades. "Both?"
"Emma." Riley's expression turns serious. "You need to tell him. Like, soon."
Updating them the day I took the pregnancy test was necessary. But now, I sort of feel trapped.
"I know,” I reply. “And I will. After the product launch in a few weeks—"
"A few weeks?" Sasha interrupts. "Em, you're going to be showing soon. You can't hide this forever."
"I know that. But I need to prove myself first. I need to show that I earned this job, that I deserve to be here." I sink onto the bed. "If I tell him now, everything changes. People will talk. They'll assume things."
"They're going to assume things anyway," Riley points out gently. "At least if you tell him now, you control the narrative."
"I just need a little more time."
They exchange a look that I can't quite read.
"Okay," Sasha says finally. "But Emma? That man clearly cares about you. He's not going to react badly."
"You don't know that."
"We already got the gist from your texts on the plane. We know he flew you across the country—privately, and took care of you when you were sick. That's not nothing."
She's right, but I'm not ready to admit it yet.
"I have to go," I say, checking the time. "Dinner's in an hour and I need to look professional and not like I spent the morning throwing up."
"Good luck," Riley says. "And Emma? Tell him soon. For your sake and the baby's."
After we hang up, I sit there staring at my reflection in the mirror.
They're right. I know they're right.