Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
~EMMA~
By next Thursday evening—the night before Titan's product launch—I'm standing in my shoebox apartment having a full-scale panic attack.
Not about the launch. I'm weirdly calm about that.
No, I'm panicking because in about two hours, I'm supposed to attend the pre-launch celebration looking glamorous and professional while hiding the fact that I'm eight weeks pregnant with my boss's baby.
My boss who I've been technically dating since he fucked my brains out in his Chicago hotel suite.
My boss who I’m terrified will start to notice the changes in my body—a body he knows all too well.
My slightly fuller breasts. The subtle curve to my stomach that wasn't there a month ago.
"You need to tell him," I fret at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Tonight. After the party. Somewhere private where you can actually have a conversation."
My phone buzzes. Carmen.
CARMEN: How are you feeling? Need anything before tonight?
ME: A time machine and possibly a paper bag to breathe into.
CARMEN: That's the spirit. You're going to be amazing. And Emma? Tell him tonight. I mean it.
Sure. Tell Donovan. After the party. When we're alone and I can actually think straight.
Simple.
Except nothing about this is simple.
There's a knock at my door, and I freeze.
It's too early for the car Donovan insisted on sending. Unless—
I open the door to find a woman in her forties holding a massive makeup case and a garment bag.
"Emma Sinclair?" she asks with a warm smile.
I blink, frowning. “Yeah?”
"I'm Valentina. Mr. Titan sent me to help you get ready for tonight."
"He what?"
"Hair, makeup, dress if you need it." She breezes past me into my apartment. "Though I was told you already have a dress?"
"I—yes. But he didn't need to—"
"Honey." Valentina sets down her case down and gives me a knowing look. "When a man sends a glam squad, you don't argue. You say thank you and let us make you look even more stunning."
A second woman appears with another case. “Hi there, Emma. I’m Sophia. Styling and accessories."
"This is too much," I protest weakly.
"This is a man who wants a woman to feel beautiful," Valentina corrects, already studying my face with professional intensity. "Now sit. We have ninety minutes."
Ninety minutes later, I barely recognize myself.
My chestnut brown hair's been styled in soft waves that fall past my shoulders. My makeup is flawless—smoky eyes that make my hazel irises pop, nude lips that somehow look both natural and glamorous.
And the dress.
The dress I bought last week in a moment of financial irresponsibility is a deep gorgeous sapphire silk that hugs every curve. It's got a high neckline and long sleeves, perfectly professional, but the back...
The back is completely open, dipping low enough to make a statement.
"You look like a goddess," Sophia declares, fastening a delicate gold necklace around my neck. "Mr. Mitchell is going to lose his mind."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I mutter.
My phone buzzes.
DONOVAN: Your car is downstairs. Take your time. I'll see you there.
My heart stutters. He's not coming with me?
ME: Why separate cars?
DONOVAN: Because if we get in the same car, I’ll be too busy sliding my hands up your thighs and reminding you how good you taste to care who’s watching. And unfortunately, for the first hour, I have to care.
ME: Just the first hour?
DONOVAN: After that, all bets are off.
I'm smiling like an idiot when Valentina hands me a small clutch.
"Emergency kit," she explains. "Lipstick, powder, breath mints. Everything you need."
"Thank you. Both of you. This is... I don't even know what to say."
"Say you'll knock them dead," Sophia winks. "And that you'll tell Mr. Titan his instincts were right—you're absolutely breathtaking."
The car is a sleek black town car, and the driver—an older gentleman named Robert—opens the door with a smile.
"Ms. Sinclair. You look lovely."
"Thank you." I slide in, trying not to wrinkle the dress.
As we pull away from my apartment, my phone rings. FaceTime. Sasha and Riley.
"Show us the dress!" Riley demands before I can even say hello.
I angle the phone so they can see.
Both of them scream.
"EMMA," Sasha yells. "You look like a goddamn movie star!"
"Donovan is going to die," Riley adds. "Like, actually expire. Are you prepared for that level of responsibility?"
"I'm prepared to throw up," I admit. "I'm so nervous I can barely breathe."
"About the launch or about telling him?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." I press a hand to my stomach. "What if he's angry? What if he thinks I trapped him?"
"Emma." Sasha's voice turns serious. "That man sent you a glam squad. That man has been texting you good morning every day for a week. That man gives your orgasms on private planes, and kisses you like you hung the moon. He's not going to be angry."
"He might be surprised," Riley adds. "But not angry. There's a difference."
"I hope you're right."
"We're always right," they say in unison.
We chat for a few more minutes before I have to hang up as we approach the venue—a historic building in Tribeca that's been transformed into a modern event space.
String lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A terrace overlooking the Hudson.
It's beautiful. Elegant. Absolutely terrifying.
"Ms. Sinclair?" Robert appears at my door. "We're here."
I take a deep breath, check my reflection one more time, and step out.
The venue is already filling up—board members, investors, press, key employees. Everyone dressed to impress, champagne flowing, the air buzzing with excited energy.
Carmen spots me immediately and rushes over.
"Emma! You look incredible!" She pulls me into a hug. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrified. Nauseous. Ready to bolt."
"Normal pre-event jitters." She hands me a glass of sparkling water. "Drink this. And breathe. You're going to be fine."
I'm taking a sip when I feel it—that prickling awareness that means Donovan has entered the room.
I turn, and there he is.
A midnight black tuxedo. Crisp white shirt. Perfect bowtie. Dark hair perfectly styled with that slight silver at the temples catching the light.
And he's looking at me like I'm the only person in the entire room.
He makes his way through the crowd, stopping to shake hands and accept congratulations, but his stormy gray eyes never leave mine.
When he finally reaches me, he leans in close enough that only I can hear.
"You're goddamned stunning," he murmurs. "Absolutely devastating."
"You clean up pretty well yourself."
"I meant what I said. I can barely keep my hands off you." His fingers brush my lower back—the bare skin exposed by the dress—and I shiver. "This dress is going to be the death of me."
"That was the idea."
"Cruel woman." But he's smiling. "I need to give the opening remarks in twenty minutes. After that, I'm stealing you away."
"Is that a promise or a threat?"
"Both." He presses a quick kiss to my temple—professional enough for public but intimate enough to make my heart race—then moves toward the stage.
Donovan's speech is perfect.
He thanks the team, acknowledges the hard work, explains the vision behind the AI platform. He's confident and charismatic and completely in his element.
And then he does something that makes my heart stop.
"I also want to recognize someone who's been instrumental in getting us to this point," he says, looking directly at me.
"Emma Sinclair joined Titan nearly a month ago, and in that time, she's proven herself to be one of our most valuable strategists.
Her market analysis and expansion plans were crucial to tonight's success. Emma, thank you."
The room applauds, and I'm trying very hard not to cry.
Because that acknowledgment—public, professional, completely earned—means everything.
Carmen nudges me. "See? You belong here."
After the speech, there's mingling and networking and approximately fifty conversations about the product launch. I'm talking to an investor about user adoption metrics when I feel Donovan's hand on my lower back again.
"Excuse us," he says smoothly. "I need to steal Emma for a moment."
He guides me through the crowd toward the terrace, where the summer night is warm and the city lights sparkle like promises.
We're alone out here—finally—and Donovan turns to me with two glasses of champagne.
"To us," he says, handing me one. “And to the new launch—thanks to the most gorgeous fucking Associate Head of Strategy to ever grace these damn walls.”
I take the glass automatically, staring at the bubbles rising, golden and effervescent under the string lights.
My stomach churns.
Not now. I was going to tell him later. After the party. Somewhere private.
But Donovan's watching me with those sharp gray eyes, and I realize he's waiting for me to toast with him.
I can't.
I set the glass down on the terrace railing, hands shaking.
“Emma?” His voice shifts, concern creeping in. "You good?”
"I—" My throat closes. "I can't drink that."
“Not a champagne fan? I’ll have the waiter—“
"No, I mean I can't." The words are coming out wrong, all jumbled and panicked. "I can't drink. At all. Not champagne, not wine, not anything because—"
I watch it happen in real time.
The way his eyes drop to the untouched glass. Then to my hands, which have moved protectively to my stomach. Then back to my face, where I'm sure every emotion is written in neon letters.
"Emma." His voice is very quiet. Very careful. “Are you—“
He stops, unable to finish the sentence, and the world tilts.
This isn't how I wanted to tell him. Not here, not now, not like this—blurted out on a terrace at his company's celebration with two hundred people inside.
But there's no taking it back. No rewinding.
"Yes."
The single word hangs between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Donovan doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stares at me with an expression I can't read.
"It's yours," I add, because apparently I'm incapable of shutting up.
"From Miami. I know we used protection but it wasn't enough, and I found out a few weeks ago, and I was going to tell you tonight—after the party, somewhere private where we could actually talk about it—but then you handed me champagne and I couldn't drink it and—"
"Emma." He cuts off my rambling. "How far along?"
“Eight weeks. Almost nine.”
"And you've known for..."
“Since Ampersand." Tears are burning behind my eyes. "I know I should have told you sooner, but I needed to prove myself first, needed to show that I earned my job, and I was scared you'd think I trapped you or that everyone would assume…”
I fall silent, watching his face, trying to read what he's thinking. He's still holding his champagne glass. Still standing exactly the way he was.
But his jaw is tight. His eyes are distant.
And my heart is breaking because this—this shocked, careful distance—is exactly what I was afraid of.
"Say something," I whisper.
Donovan opens his mouth and closes it, his steady gaze lowering.
"I need—" He stops, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, destroying it. "I need a minute to process this."
"Okay."
"You're pregnant."
"Yes."
"With my baby."
"Yes."
He sets his champagne glass down very carefully, like he's afraid he might drop it.
"I'm going to be a father."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
Donovan looks at me—really looks at me—and I can see about fifteen different emotions cross his face in a matter of seconds.
But the one that lingers is not joy. It's not excitement.
It's disbelief. And maybe…fear.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, voice cracking. "I didn’t want to do it like this. I wanted to wait until we could talk somewhere quiet. But I saw the champagne and panicked and—"
"Emma." His voice is tight. Like he's clinging to the edge of a cliff and trying not to fall. "I just… I need to think."
"Think about what?"
"About everything." He rakes a hand through his hair again, jaw tight. "What this even means."
The silence between us stretches, and I wait. I wait for something. For a touch. A word. A decision.
But nothing comes. Just stunned silence.
"Donovan," I say, my voice breaking, "say something. Please."
He opens his mouth… and nothing comes out.
That's when I realize.
That I've just detonated a bomb in the middle of Donovan Mitchell Titan’s perfect event. His perfect AI product launch. His perfect life.
And he's not ready.
Hell, the man made it this far without ever having kids. He was engaged before, according to Riley and Sasha’s Google searches. And if it didn’t happen then, with that woman, then…
Maybe he never wanted to be a father.
So I turn and take off, gripping the silk at my thighs to give my shoes room to turn.
"Emma, wait—"
But I'm already gone.
I push through the terrace door, heart pounding, heels echoing against the floor as I move past the party, past the questions in Carmen’s eyes, past the congratulations and clinking glasses.
I find the exit and push outside, breath heaving in the warm NYC night air.
"Robert!" I call out, spotting the driver leaning against the town car, fiddling with his phone.
He looks up, startled. "Ms. Sinclair? Are you alright?"
"Can you take me home? Now?"
"Of course." He scrambles to open the door, glancing over his shoulder, clearly trying to figure out what just happened, and I slide in, pulling the door shut just as footsteps echo behind me.
“Emma—” Donovan’s voice cuts through the night, desperate and raw.
I don’t turn around.
Robert pulls away from the curb, and I stare out the window, blinking hard against the tears.
Behind me, through the tinted glass, I see Donovan step into the street—handsome as ever. And just a second too late.
In the rearview mirror, I watch him fade into the city lights, the soft hum of Manhattan and the car’s tires drowning out the sound of my name coming from his lips.