Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
~EMMA~
Sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Donovan’s penthouse in wide, golden ribbons, glinting off glass, steel, and stone. With Central Park stretching out below the windows, my world suddenly feels green, and calm, and unreal.
Doesn’t help that the entire place smells like expensive coffee, musky soap, and sex.
So much sex.
Barefoot on Donovan’s kitchen’s heated stone floors, I wrench open the fridge, thinking of the sex, but so much more.
More like Donovan’s request, the thought alone making my stomach dip.
“Move in with me.”
The words replay uninvited, lodged somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
Especially when I remember—
The bedroom. The couch. The kitchen counter.
The shower…
Twice.
I lean against the kitchen island, tracing my thumb along the smooth edge of the marble. This kitchen alone could swallow my entire apartment whole—three bedrooms, he’d said. Space for a nursery. Space to breathe.
Space to depend.
That’s the part that makes my chest tighten.
I cross the room slowly, pretending I’m just wandering, pretending I’m not cataloging exits like I always do when something starts to feel too important, too loaded.
There’s a bowl of fruit on the counter, a knife block with blades I doubt Donovan ever uses himself. A faint hum from the espresso machine cooling down.
Everything here is controlled. Intentional.
Which should comfort me.
Instead, it makes every internal alarm start ringing.
Because I learned at an early age that taking up too much space wasn’t rewarded.
As the youngest of three overachieving sisters, I was the afterthought by default—the one who learned how to be low-maintenance because it was easier than asking to be seen. My parents loved me, but love stretched thin teaches you quietly: handle it yourself.
Approval came when I didn’t add to the load.
And then there was Josh.
Four years of proving I was worth staying for.
Working two jobs while getting my MBA part-time so he could survive law school. Swallowing my own opportunities so we could stay in Boston. Planning a wedding he let me shoulder alone.
I bent and adjusted and made myself smaller and more accommodating because love, I thought, was about compromise.
Until I came home early from a conference to surprise him.
And I found him in our bed with his boss.
I stop walking, fingers curling against the counter as the memory snaps sharp and unwelcome.
That was the lesson that stayed. That dependence doesn’t make you lovable. It makes you replaceable.
And moving in means admitting I can’t do this alone.
It means letting someone provide.
It means trusting that the ground won’t disappear the second I put my heals down.
I take another slow lap of the kitchen, grounding myself in motion, movement I control.
Until I realize that Donovan is standing in the kitchen doorway.
Watching me. Fully dressed.
In perfectly pressed slacks and a crisp white button-down, he is the very picture of the perfect CEO.
Except…his hair is still slightly damp, silver strands slicked near his temples, his sleeves unbuttoned at his wrists. His gray eyes take me in slowly, and for the hundredth time, I’m acutely aware...
Of how much trouble my heart is in when it comes to him. How crazy it is to have to depend on a man like Donovan Titan.
And how screwed I’ll be, if he ever changes his mind again.
He takes a step towards me, gaze sweeping the oversize shirt on my shoulders. It’s his—a charcoal gray tee that’s soft from too many washes, long enough to skim against my thighs.
Thighs that Donovan openly ogles as he reaches the kitchen island and places his palms on top.
“Coffee?” he asks mildly, as if he didn’t spend the last forty-eight hours ruining me in increasingly creative ways.
“I can’t have coffee,” I remind him, lifting an eyebrow. “Pregnant.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, turning to the counter and pouring from a different carafe. “Decaf.”
He slides the mug toward me and adds exactly the right splash of cream. “I ordered it Friday.”
Of course he did.
My fingers close around the mug’s handle. “Thank you.”
Our fingers brush, and my body instantly comes alive, nipples tightening.
We stand there in the cavernous, immaculate kitchen—me half-naked in his shirt, him looking like he’s on his way to run a Fortune 500 company—and the silence settles, heavy and unavoidable.
This isn’t just post-sex quiet.
This is “we probably need to talk” quiet.
I take a sip of the decaf, trying to calm the wave of tingles sweeping across my neck and breasts.
“Donovan—”
“Emma—”
We stop at the same time.
He gestures with his mug, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Go ahead.”
I inhale. “I should go home. Get ready for work. We have the strategy meeting at ten.”
Something shifts in his expression—a control snapping back into place.
“You could get ready here,” he says carefully. “I have a guest bathroom. You could bring your things—”
“Don't.” I set the mug down before my hands can start shaking. “This weekend was… incredible.”
One corner of his mouth curves. “That’s one word for it.”
“But,” I press on, “we can’t pretend everything’s solved just because we had really, really great sex.”
His gaze sharpens. “I’m not pretending anything’s solved. I’m suggesting you stay.”
“For the weekend? Fine. But I have a life. I have an apartment.” I exhale. “I can’t just move in with you because we slept together.”
“We didn’t just sleep together,” he says, voice lower now. “We made a decision to try this. Together. That includes figuring out logistics.”
“Logistics like whether we’re actually dating? Or whether this was just… weekend stress relief in thousand-thread-count sheets?”
That lands, and his impossibly sharp jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think this was?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I admit, skin still heated, still prickling. My heart pounds. Probably because I’ve been practicing this spiel all morning. “Four days ago you weren’t sure you wanted this baby. Now you’re casually offering closet space. That’s… a lot, Donovan.”
“I know it’s a lot.” He sets his mug down. “But I meant what I said. I want this baby. I want you. And I want to figure out how to make this work.”
“Then we need boundaries,” I say softly. “Especially at work.”
He studies me. “Go on.”
“We can’t let people know about us. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” I swallow. “Rumors alone could destroy my credibility.”
Understanding flickers behind his eyes.
“You’re worried about perception.”
“Of course I am.” A strained laugh slips out. “I’m twenty-six, pregnant, and sleeping with my boss. That’s not a great look on LinkedIn.”
“No one would think you earned your position because of that,” he says.
But he hesitates.
And I see it—the crack in his certainty.
“You don’t know that,” I reply quietly, reaching for my purse. “I need to go home. I’ll see you at the office.”
“Emma—”
“Please, Don.” I meet his eyes. “I just need a little space to think.”
He nods, jaw tight, shoulders tense. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t stop me as I gather my things—just offers his house manager’s help, which I decline. My pulse is still jack-hammering by the time I step out of the penthouse—out of the quiet, the luxury, the dangerous intimacy—already knowing one thing.
Leaving was the right call.
Even if it feels like hell.
By the time I get to Titan, I'm forty-five minutes late and Carmen is waiting at my desk with raised eyebrows.
"Rough morning?" she asks.
"Something like that." I drop my bag and boot up my computer. "What did I miss?"
"Nothing major. But Emma?" She glances around, then lowers her voice. "Can we talk? Privately?"
My stomach sinks. "Sure. Conference room?"
Five minutes later, we're sitting in a glass box overlooking the third floor, and Carmen has that look on her face—the concerned-but-kind expression that means I'm about to hear something I don't want to hear.
"I'm going to be direct," she says. "Because I care about you, and I don't want to see you get hurt."
"Okay."
"People are talking."
Three words. Complete devastation.
"About what?" I ask, even though I already know.
"About you and Donovan." Carmen leans forward. "The closed-door meetings. The way he watches you in presentations. The fact that you were both conspicuously absent from the office Friday afternoon."
"We had the product launch Thursday night. Friday was a recovery day—"
"Emma." Her voice is gentle but firm. "I don't know what's going on between you two after…everything. And honestly? It's none of my business. But as your supervisor and your friend, I need to warn you: office romances rarely end well. Especially when there's a significant power dynamic."
I feel sick. "People think I'm sleeping with him for advancement."
"I don't know what people think. But I do know that perception matters. And right now, the perception is that Donovan is paying special attention to his newest strategist." She pauses. "If there's something going on, you need to be careful. For your career. For your reputation."
"There's nothing going on," I lie.
Carmen gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me but won't push. "Okay. But Emma? Just... be smart about this."
After she leaves, I sit in the conference room for a full five minutes, trying not to panic.
This is exactly what I was afraid of.
People are already noticing. Already talking. And if they find out I'm pregnant with Donovan's baby?
My career is over.
The strategy meeting at ten is excruciating.
Donovan runs through Q4 projections while I take notes and try to avoid eye contact. When he asks for my input on the Chicago expansion, I keep my response brief and professional.
"The market analysis supports continued investment," I say. "I'll have detailed projections by Wednesday."
"Wednesday?" Donovan frowns slightly. "I thought we agreed on Monday."
"I have other projects that take priority."
"Such as?"
I can feel everyone watching us. "The Asia-Pacific assessment Carmen assigned last week."
"That can wait. The Chicago expansion is time-sensitive."
"With respect, Mr. Titan, Carmen determines my project priorities. Not you."
The room goes silent.
Donovan's jaw clenches. "Of course. My apologies, Ms. Sinclair."
The meeting continues, but the tension is palpable. When it finally ends, Donovan catches my arm as I'm leaving.
"Emma, what the hell was that?"
I pull away. "Professional boundaries, remember? That's what we agreed on."
"That wasn't professional boundaries. That was you deliberately shutting me down in front of the entire strategy team."
"You were overstepping. Carmen's my supervisor, not you."
"I was asking about a project deadline—"
"You were treating me differently than everyone else in that room, and people notice."
"So what, we're supposed to pretend we barely know each other?"
"Yes!" The word comes out sharper than I intended. "That's exactly what we're supposed to do. At work, you're my CEO and I'm your employee. That's it."
"And outside of work?"
"I don't know yet." I can feel tears threatening and I refuse to cry at the office. "I need to go."
I walk away before he can respond, ignoring the concerned looks from my coworkers.
By six PM, my phone is blowing up.
DONOVAN (2:47 PM): We need to talk about this morning.
DONOVAN (3:15 PM): You can't just shut me out because you're scared.
DONOVAN (4:23 PM): Sinclair, pick up.
DONOVAN (5:41 PM): I'm coming to your apartment.
ME (6:02 PM): Don't. I need space.
DONOVAN (6:03 PM): How much space? Because from where I'm standing, you're running away.
ME (6:05 PM): I'm not running away. I'm protecting my career.
DONOVAN (6:06 PM): By treating me like a stranger in meetings?
ME (6:07 PM): By keeping our boundaries intact. Like we agreed.
DONOVAN (6:09 PM): That's not what we agreed. We agreed to figure this out together. Not for you to shut me out the second things get complicated.
My phone rings. Donovan.
I stare at it for three rings before answering. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me." His voice has that gritty CEO growl I’ve come to know in meetings…and in bed. "Emma, talk to me. What the hell is going on?”
"Carmen pulled me aside this morning. People are talking about us. About the way you look at me in meetings. About closed-door conversations." I press my fingers to my eyes. "My worst nightmare is coming true. People think I'm sleeping with you for career advancement."
"You're not—"
"But they don't know that! They just see a young woman getting special attention from the CEO. And when they find out I'm pregnant?" My voice cracks. "It's over. My credibility, my reputation, everything I've worked for."
Silence on the other end.
"So what are you saying?" His voice is measured. Controlled. "That we can't be together because of what people might think?"
"I'm saying we need to be more careful. At work, we maintain complete professional distance. No special treatment. No closed-door meetings unless absolutely necessary. No looking at me like..."
"Like what?"
"Like you're remembering what I look like naked."
He exhales roughly. "That's going to be difficult considering I spent the entire weekend memorizing every inch of your body."
"Donovan—"
"But fine. If that's what you need, I'll do it. I'll be completely professional at work. But Emma?" His voice drops. "Outside of work, I'm not backing off. I meant what I said this weekend. I want this. Us. The baby. All of it."
"I know you do. I just..." I trail off, not sure how to explain the fear clawing at my chest.
"You're scared," he says quietly. "I get it. I'm scared too. But pushing me away isn't going to make this easier."
"Maybe not. But it might save my career."
"Your career is safe, Emma. You're brilliant. Everyone knows that."
"Do they? Or do they just know I'm fucking the boss?"
The words hang in the air, ugly and true.
"I should go," I say finally. "It's been a long day."
"Emma—"
"Goodnight, Donovan."
I hang up before he can respond, then immediately regret it.
Because he's right. I am running away.
I'm protecting myself the only way I know how—by keeping distance, maintaining control, not letting anyone close enough to hurt me.
Including the father of my child.
Including the man I'm pretty sure I'm falling in love with.