Chapter 11 #2
But telling Donovan means risking everything—my job, my reputation, whatever this thing is that's developing between us.
And I'm not ready for that.
Not yet.
The restaurant is sleek and modern, all glass and chrome with a panoramic view of Lake Michigan and the downtown skyline, the city glowing in gold and white against the dark water.
Stemware so thin it looks like crystal air. Marble floors that catch reflections of heels and polished shoes. Muted jazz curling through the room like silk.
And Donovan is already here when I arrive.
Standing near the bar, waiting, as if he owns the oxygen around him.
Clad in a tailored charcoal suit, he looks devastating. His hair is swept back from his face, the salt-and-pepper strands catching the glow of the chandelier above him.
And his eyes—Those dangerous steely gray eyes.
They notice everything, swinging to me the second I step into view, his gaze moving slowly—appreciatively—over the burgundy dress, the way it fits my waist, the way it falls just above my knees… then back to my face.
“Emma,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear it over the ambient buzz of conversation. “Right on time.”
“You’re early,” I reply, trying to keep my breathing steady.
“I don’t like waiting when something’s worth my attention.”
The corners of his mouth lift just slightly, and before I can respond, he turns as two men approach.
“Emma,” he says, already shifting back into CEO mode, though his hand brushes lightly against the small of my back as he introduces us. “This is Michael Cho. And his legal counsel, Josh—”
He stops mid-sentence as the other man turns around.
And I nearly fall over.
Because standing there in a navy suit, looking exactly like the smug asshole I remember, is Josh Hanlin.
My ex-fiancé.
The man who cheated on me with his own boss.
The man who told me I was too ambitious, too independent, too much and not enough all at once.
"Emma." Josh's smile is plastic and sharp. "What a surprise. I didn't know you worked for Titan."
"Josh." My voice comes out strangled. “I didn’t know you were in Chicago again.”
“Moved back a few months ago. Made partner at Cho’s firm.” His eyes rake over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. "You look... great. Corporate life must be treating you well."
I'm vaguely aware of Donovan's expression darkening, but I can't look away from Josh.
"I'm doing fine," I manage. "How's Melissa?"
The barb lands. Josh's smile tightens. "We broke up actually. Turns out she wasn't as understanding about work demands as you were."
"What a shame," I say flatly.
Michael clears his throat. "Should we get a table? I'm starving."
We head to our seats, a corner table overlooking the water, Chicago glass and starlight stretching past us like a private skyline.
Donovan doesn’t ask where anyone wants to sit.
He just takes the chair at the head of the table, and without even looking, he places his hand on the back of the chair next to him.
For me.
Too bad the rest of the dinner isn’t anywhere near as smooth as Donovan’s chair move.
Michael Cho launches into pleasantries, wine selections, a brief run-down of how brutal the last quarter was for venture capital, but the tension doesn’t lift.
As for Josh, he’s too busy making subtle digs—about my career, my ambitions, my decision to leave Chicago.
“So, Emma,” Josh says once we’re settled, swirling his wine. “Still the hardest worker in the room?”
It’s a compliment dipped in poison, and Donovan doesn’t interrupt. He just sits back slightly, fingers steepled, watching. Letting me answer.
“I prefer ‘most effective,’” I reply, calm. “Hard work without impact is just exhaustion.”
Michael lets out a small laugh, but Josh’s smile tugs thin.
“Always with the smart answers,” he murmurs. “Some things never change.”
“And some things should’ve,” Donovan cuts in smoothly.
Josh’s gaze flickers to him.
“Oh?” he says lightly. “You’ve worked with Emma long enough to know that?”
Donovan’s gray eyes hold his. Unblinking.
“Long enough to know the difference between confidence and insecurity,” he answers. “And to know which one actually moves companies forward.”
Josh exhales through his nose, shifting in his seat, nearly squirming.
"Emma always was driven," he tells Michael, pivoting with a condescending smile. "Sometimes to the point of being unreasonable. I'm sure you've noticed, Donovan. She's not exactly low-maintenance."
Donovan's jaw tightens, but I jump in before he can respond.
"I prefer 'high-performing' to 'high-maintenance,'" I say coolly. "And I've never understood why ambition in women is considered a character flaw."
"It's not," Donovan says, his voice carrying an edge I've never heard before. "In fact, Emma's ambition and drive are exactly why she's one of our top strategists. She's brilliant, she works harder than anyone on my team, and she earned her position."
Josh's smile falters slightly.
"She also," Donovan continues, leaning back in his chair with casual authority, "has the kind of strategic mind that makes investors eager to sign with us.
She's already closed two major deals in her first month.
So if you're trying to undermine her credibility, Josh, you're wasting your time.
Emma speaks for Titan with my full confidence. "
Josh’s expression tightens a fraction. Because he didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect me to be standing here like this. Next to a man like Donovan Mitchell Titan.
“And you trust her that much?” he asks, trying for casual.
Donovan leans back, slow and unbothered.
“I don’t waste my time on people I don’t trust,” my beautiful boss answers. “And I don’t stake Titan’s future on people who haven’t earned it.” He lets that settle. “Emma earned it.”
There’s silence for half a second before Josh lifts his glass, fingers tightening around the stem.
“In that case,” my insufferable ex declares, forcing a smile, “I’ll look forward to seeing the numbers.”
“You will,” I reply.
And when I do finally glance at Donovan…
His eyes meet mine, simmering with more than just attraction. They’re heated with alignment, and I realize—
Josh didn’t just come here expecting to negotiate a deal.
He came here expecting to see the version of me he left behind, and instead, he’s watching me sit beside a man who doesn’t diminish me, doesn’t soften me, doesn’t need me to be smaller.
The table goes silent.
Michael looks impressed. Josh looks like he swallowed something sour. And I'm trying very hard not to cry or throw myself at Donovan or both.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of business talk and contract negotiations. By the time we're saying goodbyes in the lobby, I'm exhausted and emotionally wrung out.
"Emma," Josh says as we're leaving. "Maybe we could get coffee while you're in town? Catch up properly?"
"No." The word comes out firm and final. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Come on, Emma. It's been almost six months. Can't we be adults about this?"
"We are being adults about this," Donovan interjects smoothly, appearing at my elbow. "Which is why Emma is politely declining your invitation. Have a good evening, Josh. Michael, we'll be in touch about the contract."
He steers me toward the elevators before Josh can respond. My hotel room is several floors up, and we ride together in silence. I stand there, acutely aware of Donovan's hand on the small of my back, warm and steady.
"Thank you," I say quietly as we reach my floor. "For what you said at dinner. You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did." He steps out of the elevator with me. "That guy is an asshole. And everything I said was true. You are brilliant. You do work harder than anyone. And you absolutely earned your position."
We're standing outside my room now, and the air between us shifts again.
"Josh was my fiancé," I admit. “We were together four years, and…I found him cheating on me. Two months after we got engaged.”
Donovan’s expression darkens. “He’s an idiot.”
"He told me I was too ambitious. Too focused on my career. That I made him feel unimportant because I didn't need him enough." The words spill out before I can stop them. "For a long time, I believed him."
"Emma." Donovan steps closer, voice low—lethal. "That man is a fucking moron. Your ambition isn’t a flaw. Your independence isn’t a problem. Any man who can’t handle how brilliant you are doesn’t deserve to touch you."
The words hit something deep inside me—an ache I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
He steps closer—close enough that I feel his warmth.
“Because no one gets to make you feel small,” he rumbles. “Not anyone. Not ever.”
The words settle between us.
“And if that makes things complicated…” A slow, private smile touches his mouth. “Well, then they were already complicated the moment I saw you.”
"Don—"
He kisses me, his mouth claiming mine like he’s been holding back for weeks and just snapped the leash.
One hand cups my jaw, the other slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him—and his growing, massive erection—until there’s no space left between us.
I gasp, and he takes advantage, tongue sliding against mine, slow and commanding.
He tastes like scotch and heat and control—every rule I’ve been trying to follow burning down as his mouth finds my neck—trailing open, wet kisses across my collarbone.
I shudder, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Donovan…” My voice is a broken plea.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and wild. “Say my name again.”
“Donovan.”
“Good girl. You keep saying it like that, and I’m not going to make it back to my room.”
I arch against him, the heat between us simmering past reason, his palm sliding lower, over my thigh, up the slit of my dress until his fingers find my panties—already softly soaked.
He exhales sharply, his thumb flicking across my damp slit.
“Jesus, Emma.” His tone is raw and filthy all at once. “You really are trying to kill me.”
His fingers skim the edge of my panties, teasing, touching where I need him most.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs again, though he’s already kissing me like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He groans. “You make it impossible to be the good guy.”
“You’re not supposed to be the good guy.”
That earns me a rough, breathless laugh. Then his hand slides higher, pressing against my clit—just enough to make my knees buckle.
My gasp turns into a whimper. “Please…”
“Shh.” His mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deeper. “You deserve to be worshipped,” he murmurs against my lips. “But not like this. Not in a hallway. Not when I can’t take my time.”
He pulls back, breathing hard, cupping my cheek, and the tenderness in his gaze nearly unravels me completely.
He blinks once. Then twice. Gaze shuttering. “Good night, Emma.”
I can only blink, dazed, as he turns and starts walking away, every inch of him radiating with barely contained restraint.
“You’re leaving?” I squeak at his retreating back. “But—why—“
He turns.
“If I stay, I won’t stop.” His jaw ticks, his gorgeous face tightening almost in pain. “And sweetheart, not for nothing, but you deserve better than a rushed fuck against a hotel door.”
Taking three long strides, he closes the distance once again, planting a kiss on my forehead as he strokes my cheek.
His voice is a low thunder-roll I feel in my gut.
“Sleep,” he says softly. “Tomorrow’s another long day.”
And before I can find words, he’s gone—disappearing down the hallway, leaving me trembling against the door, lips swollen, heart racing, body aching for more.
I sink back against the wall, one hand pressed to my chest. Because for the first time in a long time, I believe it when he says I deserve more.
And God forgive me…I want that more to come from him.