Epilogue
Four months late
DONOVAN
There are silver and white balloons everywhere. A dessert table that looks like it belongs in a magazine. Garland draped artfully across every surface. A Christmas tree in the corner covered in baby-themed ornaments.
And people. So many people.
Emma's sisters—Lily and Grace—are directing traffic like military generals. Margaret is fussing over Emma like she's made of glass. Carmen and half the strategy team are clustered around the gift table. Logan and Thane are standing by the bar looking as uncomfortable as I feel.
It's a baby shower.
A co-ed, Christmas-themed baby shower that Emma's friends insisted on throwing.
And I'm surrounded by more estrogen and baby games than I ever thought possible.
"Smile, Don," Logan says, green eyes alight, appearing at my elbow with a scotch. "You look like you're about to face a hostile takeover."
"I'd prefer a hostile takeover. At least I understand those."
"It's a baby shower. Not a war zone."
"Have you seen the game schedule? There's something called 'Guess the Baby Food' and I'm pretty sure it involves blindfolds."
Thane joins us, looking far too amused. "Julia made me do that at our first shower. Pro tip: the green ones all taste the same."
"That's not helpful."
"It wasn't meant to be." He takes a sip of his drink. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine. Great. Totally not terrified that in six weeks I'm going to be responsible for a tiny human."
"So, terrified."
"Completely."
Logan claps me on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. You just have to show up, make sure Emma’s safe and sound, and not drop the baby."
"Again, not helpful."
"Also not wrong," Thane adds.
Before I can respond, Emma's sister Lily appears with a clipboard and a smile that spells trouble.
"Donovan! We need you for the next game."
"I'm good here—"
"It's mandatory. Emma specifically requested you participate."
I look across the room to where Emma is sitting on the couch, eight months pregnant and glowing, laughing at something Margaret is saying. She catches my eye and waves, looking far too innocent.
"She's enjoying this," I mutter.
"Obviously," Logan says. "Go. Suffer. Report back."
The game turns out to be "Baby Price is Right," where I have to guess the cost of various baby items. I'm terrible at it. Diapers cost how much? And apparently a single onesie can run thirty dollars if it's "organic cotton."
Emma's laughing so hard she's crying, which makes the humiliation almost worth it.
"You're a billionaire and you guessed fifty cents for a pacifier," she manages between laughs.
"It's a piece of plastic! How is it twelve dollars?"
"Welcome to parenthood."
The afternoon continues in a blur of games and presents and more pink and blue decorations than should legally be allowed in one space.
Emma opens gifts—practical things like bottles and blankets, adorable things like tiny shoes and onesies, expensive things from my team like designer diaper bags and high-tech monitors.
Margaret gives Emma a beautiful handmade quilt, and I watch Emma tear up as she thanks her.
"She's like the mother I never had," Emma whispers to me later. "Or the mother my own mother never quite managed to be."
I pull her close, kissing her temple. "She adores you. The whole team does."
"Even the ones who thought I was sleeping my way to the top?"
"Even those ones. You proved them wrong."
She has.
In the four months since we moved in together, Emma's thrived at Titan. And so has the company. We created a new role for her—VP of Strategic Innovation, with Carmen as the President—that gives her flexibility and autonomy while still utilizing her brilliant mind.
Since the August public offering, Titan’s IPO has already out performed our initial projections.
The media’s calling it one of the smoothest tech-public transitions in the past decade, but the only headline I cared about was the one that mentioned Emma’s name beside mine.
“Titan Industries Goes Public: CEO Mitchell and VP Sinclair Reshape the Future of Innovation.” She framed it. It’s hanging in our home office now, right beside the ultrasound photos.
And as for “us,” we were transparent with HR. Filed all the proper paperwork. Made sure there was no conflict of interest.
And slowly, the whispers died down.
Because Emma is undeniably good at her job. And people respect that.
The party continues, and I find myself genuinely enjoying it. Watching Emma laugh with her sisters. Seeing Margaret fuss over her. Even participating in the ridiculous games that Lily keeps organizing.
This—family, friends, community—is what I've been missing my whole life.
And now I have it.
All because of the woman sitting across the room, eight months pregnant with our daughter.
Our daughter.
We found out the sex at the twenty-week ultrasound. Emma cried. I might have shed a tear, too. Neither of us will admit it.
We're naming her Marie, after my mother. Emma suggested it, and I couldn't speak for a full minute.
"You good?” Thane asks, appearing beside me again.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
I reach into my pocket, feeling the small velvet box I've been carrying for two weeks.
"About how I'm going to propose to Emma without completely fucking it all up."
Thane's eyebrows rise. "You're proposing? Today?"
"I'm planning to. If I can find the right moment."
"At a baby shower?"
"Why not? We're surrounded by people we love. Emma's happy. It feels right."
"It feels insane," Logan says, having apparently been eavesdropping. "But also very you. Go for it."
"I don't even have a plan—"
"Plans are overrated," Thane says. "Just speak from the heart. Emma doesn't need a grand gesture. She needs you."
Before I can respond, I notice Emma's not on the couch anymore.
"Where did she go?"
Lily looks up from organizing presents. "Bathroom, I think? Or maybe the nursery. She said she needed a minute."
I excuse myself and head down the hallway, past the guest bedroom, toward the nursery.
The door is slightly ajar, and I can hear soft music playing—the mobile above the crib.
I push the door open and find Emma, dark-haired and beautiful standing by the window, one hand on her very pregnant stomach, looking out at the city.
"Hey," I say softly. "You okay?"
She turns, smiling. "Yeah. Just needed a quiet moment. It's a lot of people."
"Too much?"
"No. Perfect, actually." She gestures at the room. "I was just thinking about how different my life is now. Four months ago, I was painting a corner of my studio apartment yellow and convinced I was going to do this alone."
"You're not alone."
"I know." She walks over, wrapping her arms around me as best she can with her belly in the way. "I know. And I'm grateful. For you. For this. For all of it."
I hold her, breathing in the scent of her citrus shampoo, feeling our daughter move between us.
This is it. This is the moment.
"Emma," I say quietly. "I need to tell you something."
"Okay."
"I've been thinking about the future. About what we're building. And I know we've only been together for four months, and maybe this is too soon, but—"
"Donovan." She pulls back, looking up at me with those hazel-green eyes. "Whatever you're about to say, just say it."
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the velvet box.
Emma's eyes widen. "Is that—"
"Emma Nicole Sinclair." I open the box, revealing the ring I spent three weeks choosing.
A simple solitaire diamond on a platinum band.
Classic. Elegant. Her. "I love you. I've loved you since Miami, and I'm going to love you for the rest of my life.
You make me want to be better. To be present.
To be the father our daughter deserves and the partner you need. " I take a breath. "Will you marry me?"
She's crying now, full tears streaming down her face.
"Yes," she says. "Yes, you unexpected, wonderful man. Yes."
I slide the ring onto her finger with shaking hands, and then I'm kissing her, and she's kissing me back, and everything else falls away.
Just us. Our daughter. Our future.
"I love you," she whispers against my lips. "I love you so much."
"I love you too."
We stand there for a long moment, holding each other, and I feel something shift.
Not fear. Not anxiety. Not the weight of all the ways I could fail.
Just peace. And certainty. And the bone-deep knowledge that this—Emma, Marie, the life we're building—is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"We should probably get back to the party," Emma says eventually. "Before someone comes looking for us."
"Probably." But I don't move, voice lowering. "Or we could stay here a few more minutes."
"Donovan, we're not having sex in the nursery during my baby shower—"
"I wasn't suggesting sex." I lie. "I was suggesting we take a moment to appreciate this. Us. The nursery we built together."
"That's surprisingly romantic."
"I have my moments."
She laughs, and the sound fills the room, fills my chest, fills every empty space I've been carrying my whole life.
"Okay," she says. "A few more minutes. But then we really do need to go back. Your daughter is making me need to pee constantly and I'm pretty sure Lily has more games planned."
"Our daughter."
"Our daughter." She kisses me again. "Who's going to have the most overprotective father in the history of overprotective fathers."
"Damn right she is."
We stand there by the window, Emma in my arms, our daughter between us, and I think about how far we've come.
From a one-night stand in Miami to this. To family. To forever.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"For what?"
"For choosing me. For giving me a chance even when I didn't deserve it. For being patient while I figured out how not to be terrified of this."
"You're still terrified."
"Completely. But now I'm terrified with you, which makes it manageable."
She laughs again, and I commit the sound to memory.
Eventually, we make our way back to the party, trying to look casual despite Emma's swollen eyes and the massive ring on her finger.
We don't make it three steps before Lily notices.
"Oh my God!" she shrieks. "Is that what I think it is?"
Everyone turns to look at us.
Emma holds up her hand, showing off the ring, and the room erupts.
Margaret is crying. Lily and Grace are squealing. Carmen is grinning. Logan and Thane are giving me knowing looks that say “I told you so.”
"You proposed at the baby shower?" Grace asks. "That's so romantic!"
"Or insane," Lily adds. "But definitely romantic."
Emma laughs, pulling me close. "It's perfect. He's perfect."
"I'm really not," I say.
"You are to me."
The party continues with renewed energy, everyone wanting to see the ring, hear the story, toast to our future.
And I stand there with Emma by my side, surrounded by family, and think about how lucky I am.
That one night in Miami changed everything.
It gave me Emma. It gave me Marie. It gave me a life I never knew I wanted but now can't imagine living without.
"Happy?" Emma asks, squeezing my hand.
I look at her—at my fiancée, the mother of my child, my partner in every sense of the word.
"Happier than I've ever been," I say honestly.
And for the first time in forty-two years, I actually believe it.
Six weeks later
Marie Rose Mitchell enters the world at 3:47 AM on January 28th, weighing seven pounds, four ounces.
She has Emma's nose and my eyes and absolutely perfect tiny fingers that wrap around mine the moment the nurse places her in my arms.
I'm completely in love.
"She's beautiful," Emma whispers from the hospital bed, watching us.
"She's perfect." I can't look away from our daughter. "You're perfect."
"I just pushed a human out of my body. I'm the opposite of perfect."
"You're everything."
Emma smiles, tired but radiant, and gestures for me to bring Marie over.
I place our daughter in her arms, and watch Emma's face transform with pure love.
This. This is what I was afraid of my whole life.
Love. Vulnerability. The possibility of loss.
But now, watching Emma with our daughter, I understand what Thane tried to tell me.
That fear doesn't mean you're not ready. It means you care enough to be scared.
And caring—really caring—is the bravest thing you can do.
"We did it," Emma says softly.
"You did the hard part."
"We're a team."
She's right. We are a team.
And what comes next—sleepless nights, dirty diapers, the responsibility of raising a tiny human—we'll face it together.
Just like we've faced everything else.
With love. With honesty. With the willingness to fail and try again.
"I love you," I say.
Emma looks up, eyes shining. "I love you too."
Marie makes a small sound, and we both laugh.
"And we love you," Emma tells our daughter. "So much."
I settle into the chair beside the bed, and let myself take it all in.
This—Emma and Marie and the unexpected chaotic life we're building—is everything I never knew I needed.
And I'm never letting it go.
THE END