Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
~EMMA~
Saturday afternoon—fifteen days after last speaking to Donovan, I stand in my shoebox apartment, attempting to finish painting the nursery.
And, well, calling it a “nursery" at all is generous.
It's the corner of my studio apartment that I've sectioned off with a folding screen I found on Facebook Marketplace.
But it's mine.
And I'm painting it gender-neutral yellow because I still haven't decided if I want to know the sex, and yellow feels hopeful in a way I desperately need right now.
The August heat is oppressive even with my one window AC unit wheezing at maximum capacity. I'm wearing an old t-shirt that no longer fits over my growing belly—seventeen weeks now, officially in the second trimester, officially showing enough that strangers on the subway offer me seats.
I dip my brush in the paint and carefully edge around the window frame.
My phone rings. I ignore it.
It rings again.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter, setting down the brush and wiping my hands on a rag.
The caller ID says Margaret Hill—Donovan's assistant.
My stomach drops.
I almost don't answer. But Margaret's never called me before, and if something's wrong…
If Donovan's hurt or—
"Hello?"
"Emma." Margaret's voice is warm, professional. "I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday."
"Is everything okay? Is Donovan—"
"He's fine. But I need you to come in and sign some paperwork. HR documents related to your departure from Titan."
Right. My departure.
The new job I accepted yesterday at a smaller consulting firm that doesn't care that I'm pregnant. The pays less and offers fewer opportunities but at least doesn't come with a boss I'm in love with.
"Can't it wait until Monday?"
"Unfortunately, no. There are some time-sensitive clauses in your benefits package that need to be finalized before the weekend ends." She pauses. "I'm sending a car for you. It'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Margaret, I'm covered in paint—"
"Bring the paint. We'll work around it."
Before I can argue, she hangs up.
I stare at my phone, at the yellow paint under my fingernails, at the half-finished nursery corner that was supposed to be my Saturday accomplishment.
"Fine," I mutter to no one. "Let's get this over with."
I change into maternity jeans and a clean shirt, tie my paint-splattered hair back in a bun, and wait for the car that's apparently coming to drag me to Titan on a Saturday to sign my life away.
Except when the car arrives—a sleek black sedan that's definitely nicer than any Uber I've ever taken—the driver doesn't head toward Titan's offices in Midtown.
He heads uptown. Toward Central Park.
"Excuse me," I say, leaning forward. "I think you have the wrong address. I'm supposed to go to Titan Industries—"
"No, ma'am. I have the correct address."
"But we're going in the wrong direction—"
"Mrs. Hill was very specific about the destination."
My pulse kicks up. "Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer, but ten minutes later, we pull up in front of a building I recognize.
Donovan's building.
"This is wrong," I say. "I'm supposed to sign paperwork at the office—"
"Mrs. Hill is waiting for you inside. Penthouse level."
He opens my door, and I have a choice.
Get back in the car and go home, or face whatever the hell this is.
I choose the latter.
Because I'm tired of avoiding. Tired of pretending I'm fine when I'm falling apart.
And if Donovan wants to ambush me at his penthouse? Fine. We'll have this out once and for all.
The lobby is all marble and understated wealth. The elevator requires a keycard, which the doorman provides with a knowing smile that makes me want to punch him.
The ride up is silent except for my pounding heart.
When the doors open directly into Donovan's penthouse, Margaret is waiting.
"Emma." She smiles warmly. "Thank you for coming."
"Where's the paperwork?"
“It’s…not here.”
I stare at her. "You lied to me?"
"I creatively reinterpreted the truth." She steps aside. "Come in. Please."
"Margaret—"
"Emma. Just come in."
Against my better judgment, I do.
The penthouse looks exactly as I remember—floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek furniture, the kitchen where we made pasta and then had sex on the counter.
I push that memory away.
"Where's Donovan?"
"He's here. But first—" Margaret gestures toward a hallway I've never been down before. "I need to show you something."
"I'm not in the mood for games—"
"It's not a game. I promise."
She walks down the hallway, and after a moment, I follow.
Past a home office. Past what looks like a guest bedroom. To a door at the end of the hall that's slightly ajar.
Margaret pushes it open. And I stop breathing.
Because it's a nursery.
Not a corner sectioned off with a folding screen. Not a half-finished paint job in a studio apartment.
A real nursery.
The walls are painted a soft sage green. There's a white crib with a mobile of stars and moons hanging above it. A changing table. A rocking chair by the window. Shelves lined with books and stuffed animals. A rug with clouds and rainbows.
It's beautiful—everything I've been trying to create in my shoebox apartment and failing.
"He did this?" My voice comes out strangled.
"He's been working on it all week." Margaret's voice is gentle. "Ordered the furniture. Picked out the paint. Even assembled the crib himself, which—" she smiles slightly "—did not go well at first."
My eyes are burning. "Why would he do this?"
"Because he loves you. And he's terrified. And he doesn't know how to show it except by building things." She squeezes my shoulder. “I do have the paperwork ready for you. I just…wanted you to see this first.” She offers me a small smile. “I’ll fetch it now.”
She leaves before I can respond and I'm standing alone in this perfect nursery, trying not to cry.
I hear something from deeper in the room—a soft curse, the sound of a paint roller hitting a tray.
Thrown, I walk around the crib, venturing towards the sound that gets louder and louder.
Until I see it. Him.
Donovan.
Standing in front of a half-painted accent wall, wearing old jeans and a t-shirt that's splattered with sage green paint. His dark hair is a mess. There's a streak of paint across his chiseled jaw.
He looks up when I appear, roller frozen in his hand, gray gaze soft.
"Emma."
"Hi."
We stare at each other for a long moment.
He sets down the roller. "I didn't think you'd come.”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t if Margaret hadn’t ambushed me.” I gesture at the room. "This is... it's beautiful."
"It's not finished. The accent wall still needs—"
"Donovan." I cut him off. "Why?"
He's quiet for a moment, and I watch him struggle with whatever he's trying to say.
"Because I'm a fucking idiot," he says finally. "Because I let you push me away instead of fighting. Because I've spent two weeks convinced I was respecting your boundaries when really I was just scared of being rejected."
My throat tightens. "Donovan—"
"I'm not done." He steps closer, tall and muscular, smelling of paint and sandalwood and the scent of his warm skin. “And I’m not letting you throw me away. How about that?”
I can't speak. Can barely breathe.
"My father left before I was born," Donovan continues. "Never even met me. And my mother—God, my mother—she worked three jobs trying to make up for it. Killed herself trying to be enough. And then she died when I was sixteen, I found her, and I learned that loving people means losing them."
"Donovan—"
"And then Vanessa." His jaw tightens. "I proposed to her thinking I was ready for marriage. For family. For all of it. And she cheated on me for six months with her tennis instructor and then told me it was my fault for being married to my work. Then she got… pregnant.” He meets my eyes. “And I had to discover the hard way that the baby wasn’t mine.”
My vision is blurring with tears.
I can only imagine the hurt Donovan must have felt, the shame.
I felt it with Josh, but it’s nothing compared to thinking that you’re not only going to share a life with someone, but also a family, only to have the rug pulled from beneath your feet.
His expression is pinched, his handsome features pulled into something indecipherable.
He steps closer, and I can feel the heat from his oversized body.
“And this…” he soldiers on, “is why I want you to understand why I'm so fucking bad at this.
Why I walked away instead of fighting. Why I convinced myself that giving you space was noble when really I was just protecting myself.
" He steps closer. "I'm terrified of being a father.
Of failing our child the way my father failed me.
Of proving Vanessa right. Of losing you the way I've lost everyone else. "
His voice is raw. “And when you pushed me away—“
"I shouldn’t—“
"That's on me." He's close enough now that I can see the paint on his hands, the exhaustion in his steely eyes.
"I'm not good at this, Emma. I don't know how to be vulnerable without feeling like I'm going to die.
But I know that losing you—really losing you—is worse than any risk.
I love you. I've loved you since Miami, maybe before I even knew your name.
And I'm so fucking sorry I didn't fight for you when I should have. "
The tears spill over, and Donovan cups my face, thumbs wiping away tears.
“Because you are everything to me, Emma Nicole Sinclair. Your independence. Your ambition. Your smile and sense of humor and wit.” His forehead touches mine.
“If you don’t choose me out of all your options, it’s because I didn’t make you feel safe that you could.
I don’t want to run from this like my father did.
Let me stay and matter… like my mother showed me how. ”
I'm crying in earnest now, shoulders shaking.
Since I left Donovan, I’ve had a chill in my bones that no summer day, no heat wave could push away.
It’s only in his arms that I feel warm, that the cold disappears.
I nod, as he nuzzles his nose against mine. "I choose you. I've always chosen you. Even when I was pushing you away, I was choosing you."
"Then let me choose you back." His voice is rough. "Let me be your partner. Let me help with the nursery and the late-night cravings and the doctor's appointments. Let me fail at being a perfect father and try again. Let me love you even when we're both scared."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes." I kiss him through my tears. "I love you. And I'm sorry I said that I regretted telling you about the baby. I didn't mean it. I was just hurt and—"
He kisses me back, cutting off my rambling apology, and it's different from our other kisses. It’s slower. Tender. Like we're both letting the warmth in.
When we pull apart, we're both practically panting.
"You have paint on your face," I observe.
"You have paint under your fingernails."
"I was painting my shitty nursery corner when Margaret called."
“I’m more than certain that your nursery corner is far from shitty." He brushes hair from my face. "But this one has more space. And a rocking chair. And—" His hand moves to my stomach—tentative, asking permission. “Enough space for the both of you.”
I cover his hand with mine. "Okay."
"Okay?"
“Jesus, Don, I feel like a broken record.” I laugh through my tears. "I'll let you finish painting because I'm exhausted and my back hurts and I really want to sit in that rocking chair."
He kisses me again. "Deal. But first—"
He disappears for a moment, then returns with another paint roller.
"What are you doing?"
"We're finishing this accent wall together." He hands me a roller. "This wall. Our lives. All of it. Together."
I take the roller, and we turn back to the wall. And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe.
Minutes later, we’re standing barefoot in a half-painted nursery, hands smudged with color, hearts wide open and in love—and for the first time in my life, I’m not bracing for the moment it all falls apart.
I’m finally letting it hold.
We finish the accent wall together.
And somehow, without even realizing it, we start being a family.