Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
~EMMA~
Saturday morning—eight days after the terrace disaster—I'm sitting in a pastel-painted waiting room that smells like lavender and anxiety, trying not to throw up into a potted fern.
My first official OB appointment.
The one I told Donovan about in a stiff, professional email because apparently that's what we do now—communicate like colleagues instead of the people who made a baby together after screwing in an Miami hotel suite.
ME (Sunday, 3:47 PM): First OB appointment is next Saturday at 10 AM. Dr. Sarah Chen at Manhattan Women's Health. You don't have to come.
That last line was important. A very clear “I’m not expecting anything from you” that I meant with every fiber of my being.
His response came six minutes later.
DONOVAN: I'll be there.
No explanation. No “if you want me to” or “unless you'd prefer I don’t.”
Just “I’ll be there.”
And now it's 9:58 AM, and I'm sitting alone in a waiting room full of happy couples, trying to convince myself that I'm totally fine with Donovan not showing up.
Because there’s no way he’s coming.
I’m not sure my very stiff—pun intended—boss has even figured out if he even wants this baby. And I certainly can't expect him to just show up and play supportive partner when he doesn't even know what he wants yet.
"Emma Sinclair?"
I look up. The receptionist is smiling at me.
"Yes?"
"We're running about ten minutes behind. Can I get you anything? Water? Crackers?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
She nods and goes back to her desk, and I go back to staring at my phone like it’ll up and speak.
It's 10:02 now.
He's not coming. I knew he wasn't coming. Which is fine. Totally fine.
I'm an independent woman with a good job and supportive friends and I absolutely do not need Donovan Mitchell Titan to hold my hand through a doctor's appointment.
Even if part of me—the stupid, hopeful part I've been trying to ignore—desperately wants him here.
The waiting room door opens.
I don't look up. It's probably just another happy couple here for their routine checkup, ready to coo over ultrasound pictures and discuss nursery colors.
"Sorry I'm late."
I freeze.
That voice.
I look up, and there he is.
Donovan, standing in the doorway of a Manhattan OB-GYN office wearing jeans—actual jeans—a gray t-shirt, and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
He looks like a normal person.
A devastatingly handsome, tall, muscular person who just walked into a pastel waiting room full of pregnant women and their partners.
"You came," I say stupidly.
"I said I would." He walks over, sitting in the chair next to mine. “My apologies. Traffic was a fucking nightmare."
"You're wearing jeans."
"Is that a problem?"
"No, I just—I've never seen you in jeans."
"I own jeans, Emma. I don’t come custom in a suit like a Ken doll.”
I snort.
Could have fooled me.
He pulls off the baseball cap, swiping a hand through his thick dark hair. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine. Nauseous. Terrified. The usual."
"Yeah." He leans back in the chair, and I notice he's even stiffer than usual. “Understood.”
We sit in awkward silence for a moment, surrounded by couples who seem to have their shit together in ways we definitely don't.
To my right, a woman is showing her partner paint swatches. "I'm thinking sage green for the nursery. Calming but not boring."
To my left, another couple is discussing baby names. "If it's a boy, I like Sebastian. If it's a girl, maybe Olivia?"
And here we are. Not touching. Barely speaking. Two people who made a baby together and have no idea how to be in the same room anymore.
“By the way…” Donovan's voice is quiet. "I got your text. The one you left after the food drop-off.”
I stiffen. The text I wrote at two AM while eating pad thai and crying.
“Thank you for the food. Thank you for being honest. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I appreciate it. -E”
"You don't have to—" I start.
"I want to.” Dark brows knitting together, he turns slightly to face me, his handsome face furrowing. "I just need you to know that I—“
"Emma Sinclair?" A nurse appears in the doorway. "We're ready for you."
I stand, and Donovan stands with me.
"You're coming in?" I ask.
"If you want me to."
I should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should protect myself from getting hurt when he inevitably decides he doesn't want this.
Instead, I say, "Okay."
The exam room is smaller than I expected, with an ultrasound machine in the corner and stirrups that make my stomach churn for reasons that have nothing to do with morning sickness.
Dr. Chen is a woman in her forties with kind eyes and an efficient manner. She introduces herself, asks routine questions about my last period and symptoms, then turns to Donovan.
"And you're dad?"
Donovan freezes for half a second. "Yes."
The word comes out rough. Uncertain.
But it's a yes.
"Great." Dr. Chen doesn't seem to notice the tension. "Let's take a look at what we have here.”
She has me lie back on the exam table, and I try not to think about how vulnerable I feel with my shirt pushed up and Donovan standing awkwardly by my head.
"This will be cold," Dr. Chen warns, squeezing gel onto my stomach.
It is cold. Shockingly cold.
And then the ultrasound wand is moving across my skin, and Dr. Chen is studying the screen with professional focus.
"There we are," she says, smiling. "See that flicker?"
I look at the screen. It's mostly gray static and vague shapes I can't identify.
"That's the heartbeat," Dr. Chen explains, pointing. "Your baby is measuring right on track for eleven weeks. Everything looks good."
And then I hear it.
A rapid whooshing sound. Fast and strong and undeniably real.
My baby's heartbeat.
Our baby's heartbeat.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
Donovan's hand finds mine. His strong fingers lace through mine, squeezing gently, and when I glance up at him, his cloudy gray eyes are fixed on the screen.
He looks stunned. Overwhelmed. Like he's seeing something that's fundamentally changing his understanding of the universe.
"Heart rate is 165," Dr. Chen continues, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis happening in her exam room. "That's perfect. Due date looks like late January. Any questions?"
I have about a million questions.
Instead, I just shake my head, still staring at the screen where my baby—our baby—is flickering like a tiny, determined heartbeat.
"I'll print some pictures," Dr. Chen says, wiping the gel off my stomach. "Congratulations. Everything looks great."
Ten minutes later, we're standing outside the building in the heavy July air, and I'm holding a strip of ultrasound photos with a smudge of gel still tacky on my skin under my shirt.
"That was..." Donovan trails off.
"Yeah." My voice is barely there. "That was."
"The heartbeat—" His jaw flexes. "I can still hear it."
I can too. That fast, insistent whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, still ricocheting around my ribcage with my own pulse.
We stand there on the sidewalk like idiots, not touching, not knowing how to be the people who just heard their child's heartbeat together.
Eight days ago, on the terrace, I told him I was pregnant and he gave me…nothing. No smile. No assurance. No excitement.
Just that careful, shell-shocked blankness… like I’d told him the champagne was running low.
"Emma." He finally turns fully toward me. “We need to talk. Let’s head to my place. Have some privacy.”
My stomach clenches. "I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Please." The word scrapes out—rough. "Just an hour. No ambushes, no speeches. I need to explain some things, and I’d rather not do it on a Manhattan sidewalk next to a juice bar."
I should say no. I should protect whatever's left of my dignity and go home to my tiny apartment and my pad thai leftovers.
"Okay," I hear myself say instead.
Because I’m constitutionally incapable of saying no to this man when his gray eyes look like that.
Fourteen minutes later, I step out of a private elevator into Donovan Titan’s world.
His penthouse feels like walking into the pages of an architectural magazine and then realizing the pictures have a heartbeat.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Central Park, its summer green stretching out beneath a hazy sky. The living room is all clean lines and masculine neutrals—charcoal sofa, low-slung walnut coffee table, a rug that’s probably older than me.
But there are also signs of actual human life.
A leather jacket tossed over the back of a chair. A glass left on the console. A vintage motorcycle magazine open on the counter.
Framed photos line a built-in shelf—his mother, I guess, younger and smiling.
Logan and Thane in tuxes, flanking Donovan at some event.
His secretary Margaret in a cocktail dress, smirking at the camera.
It’s beautiful. And expensive. And utterly him.
"Water? Ginger ale?" Donovan asks, as the private elevator door closes behind us. "I have juice, tea, sparkling—"
"Water’s fine," I say.
He crosses to the kitchen and opens the fridge. For a second I just stand there, watching him move in jeans and a fitted T-shirt, and it’s…unfair.
He looks less like a CEO and more like the hot neighbor who ruins your life in chapter three.
The kitchen itself is ridiculous. Long stretch of veined white marble. Dark custom cabinets. Built-in Sub-Zero, a Wolf range that looks like it could launch rockets, and soft under-cabinet lighting that makes the whole space glow. Copper pans hang over the island like functional art.
It smells faintly of coffee, lemon oil, and something darker—his cologne, sinking softly into the air.
He slides a glass of water toward me across the island. "Sit."
My brows lift. "Did you just CEO command me in your kitchen?"
"Yes." His mouth threatens a smile. "You’re pale. Sit, Sinclair."
The command wraps around my frayed nerves like warm hands, and I sink onto a leather stool, setting my purse and the ultrasound photos on the marble.