Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
~DONOVAN~
One day after Emma told me she should never have told me about the baby—I'm sitting in my office with one goal…
Give her what she wants.
Distance. Space.
Nothing.
It's what I'm good at, after all. What I've always done when things get too hard, too messy, too real.
Leave before I can be left.
Walk away before someone can walk away from me.
My father did it before I was born. Vanessa did it when she left with the jackass she was fucking. And now Emma's doing it by saying the one thing guaranteed to destroy me.
“I should have never told you about the baby.”
The words have been looping in my head for twenty-four hours, on repeat, each repetition feeling like another nail in a coffin I'm building myself.
She doesn't want me. Fine.
She regrets telling me about the baby. Fine.
She wants to leave Titan and pretend I don't exist. Absolutely fucking fine.
I can give her that. I can give her exactly what she's asking for—my absence.
It's what I'm best at. According to Vanessa. According to the fact that my own father couldn't even stick around long enough to see if I had his eyes.
"You look like shit," Logan observes from my doorway.
"Thanks. That's helpful."
"When was the last time you slept?"
I glance at my watch. It's 4:47 PM. I've been at the office since 5 AM. Before that, I was here until 2 AM.
"I slept."
"Passing out at your desk doesn't count." Logan walks in, closing the door behind him. "Thane gets back from his trip with Julia and the kids next week. He's going to take one look at you and lose his mind."
"There's nothing to lose his mind about. I'm working. That's what CEOs do."
"CEOs also occasionally go home. Eat real food. Acknowledge that other humans exist." Logan sits in the chair across from me. "Have you talked to Emma?"
"No."
"Are you planning to?"
"She made it clear she doesn't want to talk to me."
"So you're just giving up?"
"I'm giving her what she asked for. Space. Distance. The absence of me complicating her life." I lean back in my chair. "It's what she wants, Logan."
"Is it? Or is it what you want to believe because it's easier than fighting?"
I don't answer. Logan's quiet for a moment, studying me with those sharp green eyes that miss nothing.
"This is classic you," he says finally. "Someone gets too close, things get messy, and you retreat. Convince yourself it's noble. That you're doing them a favor by disappearing."
"She said she regrets telling me about the baby."
“I’m sure she said that because she's hurt and scared. Not because she means it."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you. But instead of finding out, you're sitting here martyring yourself.
" Logan stands. "Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do.
But I've known you twenty years. And this?
Hiding in your office, convincing yourself you're respecting her wishes?
This is just you running away with better branding. "
"I'm not running away. I'm giving her space."
"Keep telling yourself that."
After Logan leaves, I sit in my office for a long time, staring at the city skyline as it darkens.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I am running away.
But what's the alternative? Chase after Emma when she's made it clear she doesn't want me? Force my presence on her?
No.
The kindest thing I can do is respect her boundaries. Give her the distance she's asking for.
Even if it's killing me.
My phone buzzes. Margaret.
MARGARET: Your 5 PM is here. The lawyers.
Right. The lawyers.
I scheduled this meeting yesterday, in the cold aftermath of Emma's words. Because if she's going to leave Titan, if she's going to pretend I don't exist, the least I can do is make sure she and the baby are taken care of.
Financially, anyway.
Since I've apparently proven incapable of taking care of them any other way.
David Walsh—Titan's general counsel—and his associate arrive with briefcases and professionally sympathetic expressions.
"Donovan," David says, shaking my hand. "Margaret mentioned you needed to discuss some personal legal matters?"
"Yes. Sit."
They sit. I remain standing, too restless to stay still.
"I need you to draw up custody and financial support documents," I say without preamble. "For a child. My child. Due in January."
David's eyebrows rise slightly. "I see. Congratulations."
"Thank you."
"And the mother?"
"Will have primary physical custody. I want to set up a trust fund. Monthly support payments that are... generous. More than generous. Whatever she needs—health insurance, housing, education, childcare. Everything."
"That's very thoughtful. And your custody arrangement?"
"Whatever she wants. If she wants supervised visitation, fine. If she wants nothing, I'll respect that too. I just want to make sure they're provided for."
David exchanges a glance with his associate.
"Donovan," he says carefully. "These are typically discussions that happen with both parties present. Not unilateral decisions."
"The mother has made it clear she wants minimal contact. I'm respecting that."
"By deciding custody terms without her input?"
"By making sure she has options. Security. So she doesn't feel trapped." I turn back to the window. "Can you do it or not?"
"Of course we can. But I'd strongly recommend—"
"I don't need recommendations. I need documents. Have them ready by next week."
After the lawyers leave—with concerned backward glances I steadfastly ignore—I sink into my chair and stare at my computer screen.
This is the right thing to do.
Emma wants to leave Titan. Wants distance from me. The least I can do is make sure she and the baby have everything they need to build a life without me.
Even if the thought of it makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
The weekend is endless.
Saturday, I'm at the office by six AM. Work through lunch. Work through dinner. When Margaret texts me at eight PM asking if I'm still alive, I lie and say I went home hours ago.
Sunday is worse.
I go to my penthouse—the one where Emma and I made pasta, where we had sex on the kitchen counter, where I imagined what it would be like if she actually moved in—and I can't stand it.
Everything reminds me of her.
The stool where she sat, teasing me about my cooking. The marble where I laid her out and made her come. The bedroom where she slept in my arms, trusting and perfect.
I last forty-five minutes before I'm back at the office.
Sunday in Manhattan feels different from every other day—like the whole city exhales. Less traffic. Fewer horns. The skyscrapers glow from within instead of humming with movement.
Titan Headquarters, however, smells like what it always smells like at the end of a long week—steel and wood pulp, the remnants of bleach in the industrial cleaner the overnight crew uses.
I swipe into the fortieth floor at 5:02 PM, and as I head into my office, flick on the lights, I feel it immediately—the echo of Emma Sinclair.
The faint citrus shampoo she uses, lingering on the throw blanket draped over the back of my guest chair. The ghost of her laugh when I teased her about color-coding her reports.
The memory of her lips on my overheated skin.
I sit down, open my laptop, and pretend to work. Spreadsheets blur. Slides blend. Words dissolve.
And all I see is her face when she told me I'm not the man she needs me to be.
Leaning back, I rub the bridge of my nose, and breathe out a breath that never seems to stop.
I’m the fucking CEO of a billion-dollar conglomerate. The man who negotiated Titan’s Series C while running a fever and a 101-degree migraine. I don’t break.
But this? This is getting damn close.
A soft knock hits my doorframe. I straighten on reflex, armor snapping back into place.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and I expect Logan’s blond, irritating head to appear again.
It’s not Logan.
It’s Carmen Rodriguez, Director of Strategy Development. Emma’s direct supervisor. A woman I personally hired five years ago.
Clad in a button-down blouse, dark jeans, her dark hair in a messy knot, she’s holding a laptop under one arm and a cup of something that smells like burnt espresso and despair.
She stops short when she sees me.
“Oh. I thought Logan might still be here.”
My skin heats. “Fucker. I knew the bastard was using my office desk when I wasn’t around.”
“Yeah.” She grins sheepishly. “He says your office bar cart is better than his.” Her gaze drops to the floor and then back to my face. “I didn’t expect you.”
“I could say the same to you.” I nod to the open door. “It’s Sunday.”
“So it is. Yet here you are. Titan’s very own ghosts haunting the 40th floor.”
I give her a look, and she gives one right back. It’s why I’ve kept the director around so long. Carmen Rodriguez has always been annoyingly immune to my presence.
“What are you doing here, anyway, Carmen?” I ask.
She shrugs. “My apartment is above a nightclub. The DJ discovered a new subwoofer this week. I came here to work in peace.” She lifts a brow. “What’s your excuse?”
I turn back to my monitor. “Work.”
“I know what work looks like. That”—she gestures at me—“is not work. That is brooding.”
“I’m reviewing deck revisions.”
“You were staring at the screen but your thoughts were somewhere else when I walked in.” She nods to the glass wall behind me. “I can see your reflection.”
I exhale slowly. “Why are you reading into how I look at my monitor?”
“Because you’re my boss,” she replies simply, “and currently acting nothing like the man who hired me.”
“I’m fine, Carmen.”
She snorts. Actually snorts at me. “Yeah, and I’m the Duchess of Sussex.”
She steps inside cautiously as if approaching a cornered animal she fully expects to bite her. Sitting in the chair opposite mine, she crosses her legs. “Okay. Let’s try this again. What’s going on?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“We both know that’s bullshit. And unfortunately for you, my tolerance for bullshit is low on weekends.”
The silence between us stretches, and Carmen folds her arms and waits.
She’s not going anywhere. And against my every better instinct, my mouth betrays me.
I can’t help myself. “How’s Emma?”
The second the words are out, I regret them.
Carmen’s dark brows lift slowly, like she’s examining a fascinating specimen that just moved unexpectedly.
“Well,” she says, smiling softly, “that answers one question.”
I grit my teeth. “The question is simple, Rodriguez. Either you can answer it or not.”
“And I’m trying to decide how honest to be,” she exhales, dark eyes lowering. “Emma’s… Emma. Stubborn. Smart. Overachieving. The kind of person who would apologize to a knife for cutting herself.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
Christ.
“She’s been quieter than usual,” Carmen continues. “Working late. Coming in early. Pretending she’s fine when she looks like she’s two breaths away from crumbling.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“And she’s nauseous. A lot. More than she admits.”
I swallow hard. “Has she been eating?”
“A little.” Carmen hesitates, voice softening. “She keeps pretzels in her desk drawer now. Salt helps.”
Of course she is. She’s trying to power through. As always.
My voice is rough when I speak. “She shouldn’t be at the office when she’s feeling like that.”
“Try telling her that.”
“I would… if she’d let me within ten feet of her.”
Carmen watches me quietly. And I hate that it makes me feel flayed open.
“You know,” she says finally, “for someone who projects control better than any executive I’ve ever met, you’re surprisingly helpless when it comes to Emma.”
My jaw flexes. “Thank you for that wonderful observation, Carm. And for the record, I’ve never been helpless a day in my life.”
“Oh, no. You are extremely helpless.” A ghost of a grin graces her lips. “It’s actually endearing. If it weren’t also slowly killing both of you.”
I glare, and she doesn’t blink.
“What exactly did Emma tell you?” I ask.
“That she has…regrets. That’s all she’ll say. Which is a lie she only tells herself because she’s terrified.”
Terrified.
The word hits me harder than guilt ever could.
Carmen leans forward, lowering her voice. “Donovan… she’s in love with you.”
I look up sharply.
“Don’t panic.” Carmen raises her palms. “I’m not here to meddle in your personal life. I’m here because I care about my team—and whether you want to admit it or not, Emma is part of yours. And right now? She's bleeding internally while pretending her cardiovascular system is made of steel.”
I stand abruptly and walk to the floor-to-ceiling window, watching Manhattan sprawl beneath me—alive.
Lite.
And indifferent.
“I tried to give her what she asked for,” I say quietly. “Space.”
“Space?” Carmen echoes. “What she asked for was reassurance. She weaponized space because she was afraid you wouldn’t give her reassurance.”
I turn. “She told me she shouldn’t have told me she was pregnant.”
Carmen winces. “And I’m sure that was…brutal. But I think I know why. And I think you do, too.” She leans forward. “Because Emma Sinclair’s greatest fear is needing someone who doesn’t want to stay.”
I stop breathing, but Carmen continues softly.
“She supported a man through law school. Worked two jobs. Did an MBA at night. Planned their entire future. And he cheated on her right before their wedding. In their apartment.”
My spine turns into stone.
“She doesn’t trust herself not to pick another man who will eventually leave,” Carmen says. “And unfortunately for both of you… your first instinct was to react exactly like the man she fears most.”
The words hit with precision. Because they’re true. Painfully true.
I lower my head, gripping the edge of the window frame.
Behind me, I can hear Carmen standing slowly, gathering her things.
“I’m not here to tell you what to do,” she says to my back. “You’re the CEO. You’re also a grown man who can make his own choices.”
The sound of her stilettos grow quieter before stopping.
“But Donovan?”
I turn slightly.
She offers a small, wry smile. “Emma doesn’t break easily. But when she does? She doesn’t repair quickly. She’s a keep-it-together-until-she-collapses kind of woman. And right now, she’s collapsing.”
“And you?” she finishes. “You’re the first person she’s ever been afraid to lose… even before she really has you. Make of that what you will.”
She slips out, closing the door softly behind her, and I stand in the silence, heart threatening to beat its way out of my goddamned chest.
Because Emma just may be on the verge of collapsing.
Because of me.
Because I didn’t fight.
And suddenly, distance doesn't feel noble.
It feels like cowardice dressed in a fucking three-piece suit.