15. Elisa
ELISA
The threat hangs in the air, sharp and unyielding over the metal prep table. No one moves.
The warehouse is dead quiet, save for the hum of the ventilation fans. My brother—the man who held my hand in the delivery room when I was alone—just threatened to pull our entire labor force and sabotage this contract to keep a Swanson out of our lives.
I step forward, opening my mouth to fight, to demand he stops.
A large hand gently catches my elbow.
Donovan steps in front of me, blocking Hector's view. He doesn't stand his ground or issue a counter-threat.
He lowers his chin.
"You are right," Donovan states quietly. "My presence here puts them at risk. My family ruins people."
Hector frowns, clearly thrown by the immediate surrender.
"I failed her five years ago," Donovan continues, meeting my brother's stare. "I let my mother manipulate the ledgers and my own grief. I shut everyone out and left Elisa to bear the heaviest burden in the world by herself."
Hector slowly uncrosses his arms, his hostility faltering against Donovan's confession.
"You pull the contract, you bankrupt this firm.
" Donovan takes a slow step forward. "Do not punish her for my mistakes, Hector.
Do not tear down the business she built from the dirt up just to keep me away.
Direct the anger at me. I will take every hit you throw.
But let her finish this job. Let her secure the financial stability she earned for our son. "
Hector stares at the man he spent half a decade cursing. He searches Donovan's face, taking in the quiet desperation in his posture.
Hector snatches the legal envelope off the aluminum table. He shoves it back into the interior pocket of his jacket.
"One strike, Swanson," Hector warns grimly. He points a thick finger at Donovan. "You let Catherine anywhere near this borough, you let a single headline touch my nephew, and I will tear apart the Swanson Gala piece by piece. They ruin everything they touch, El. Do not forget that."
Hector turns on his heavy work boots and marches out of the loading dock.
By eight o'clock that evening, the chaos of the warehouse is miles away.
Donovan's driver doesn't take me to Swanson Enterprises. Instead, the Cullinan navigates toward a quiet, cobblestone street in TriBeCa, pulling up to an unmarked residential building. It’s a property Donovan told me he holds under a blind trust— untraceable by Catherine and her auditors.
The private elevator opens directly onto a sprawling, multi-level rooftop terrace.
A long dining table is set for two under a heated pergola, bathed in the soft glow of pillar candles and string lights.
A private chef quietly pours champagne into crystal flutes before retreating inside, leaving us alone.
Beyond the glass barrier, the dark water of the Hudson River reflects the city's grid of amber streetlamps and red taillights.
Donovan stands near the terrace. He wears a dark cashmere overcoat over a simple black sweater. The candlelight catches the sharp lines of his profile.
He turns at the sound of my heels. His green eyes find mine immediately, his posture easing the second I step onto the terrace. He dismisses the waiter with a brief nod.
I cross the slate floor. "Louisa has him. He went down thirty minutes ago. He demanded three separate readings of the dinosaur encyclopedia."
"I would have read it four times," Donovan replies, a faint smile touching his mouth.
He steps forward, his hands finding my waist. He pulls me against the heavy cashmere of his coat.
His lips brushes mine in a slow, lingering kiss. The warmth of his mouth contrasts sharply with the chill of the evening. I lean into the contact, my hands sliding up his chest to grip his lapels.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his chest rising and falling against mine.
Instead of guiding me to the dining table immediately, we move to a curved sofa situated around a glass-enclosed fire pit. The flames cast a warm glow over the slate, chasing away the chill.
I sit, crossing my legs. Donovan sits beside me, his thigh pressed against mine. He drapes his arm along the sofa, his hand resting on my neck, his thumb tracing slow circles against my skin.
He watches the flames for a long moment. "Hector was right today," he says quietly. "I don't know the boy you raised. I don't know what you went through to keep him safe. Tell me about the months I missed."
I wrap my hands around my clutch, staring into the fire.
"The first year was difficult," I admit. "I was building the firm from nothing. Managing client meetings, hauling supplies. When the morning sickness hit, I hid in the supply closets so the contractors wouldn't see me struggling."
His hand flexes against my skin. He closes his eyes.
"The ultrasound appointments were the hardest." I watch the fire pit. "Sitting in a waiting room full of couples. Seeing the heartbeat on the monitor and knowing you weren't coming."
"I wasn't in a corner office," he replies, his voice tight. "I was strapped to a physical therapy table."
I turn my head, looking at him.
"The crash did extensive nerve damage." Donovan stares into the flames. "It took four months to learn how to walk without a cane. Six months to stop the tremors in my hands. I spent every hour trapped in rehabilitation, believing you had taken my mother's money and left."
He shifts, leaning forward slightly as if bracing against the memory.
"My older brother couldn't handle the expectations of this family.
" He looks down at his hands. "He took a bottle of pills because Catherine demanded perfection, and he was an artist. He couldn't survive her.
When he died, the entire company shifted to my shoulders.
I shut everything out just to function."
I reach out, resting my hand against his chest.
"And then I met you," he murmurs, turning his face to press a kiss to my palm. "You were the only real thing in my life. When I thought you walked away, the numbness took over . I became who my mother wanted me to be."
"We were both terrified of being left behind.
" I stroke the side of his face. "My parents were flighty.
They chased inspiration across Europe and left me in Brooklyn with a neighbor when I was eight.
Hector was a teen. They never came back.
I promised myself I would never rely on anyone else.
When Catherine told me I was just a fling, it validated every fear I had. "
"You are not disposable." He pulls me across his lap.
I straddle his lap, my coat bunching around my waist. He wraps his arms around my lower back, pulling me tight against his chest.
"You are everything," he says, his voice thick with emotion. He presses his face into my neck. "I am going to stop her. I am going to strip the board of her allies, empty those offshore accounts, and legally remove her from the trust. But until the paperwork is finalized, I need you close."
He holds me tighter.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are urgent, tracking my expression.
"Move into the penthouse."
The request settles into the quiet of the rooftop.
I freeze. "Donovan?—"
"Bring him to me." He slides his hands up to cup my face. "I have a secured elevator. I have an armed detail monitoring the lobby. Nobody accesses the floor without my direct approval. Move in with me. Tomorrow."
The suddenness of the request triggers my instinct to pull back. The life I built in Brooklyn. My hard-won independence.
"It hasn't even been that long since we reconnected," I whisper, holding his wrists. "This is moving too fast. Derick doesn't even know you are his father yet. We tell him together, in his own house, when he's ready. I won't drop that on him while uprooting his entire life."
"It has been five years, Elisa." He leans in, his mouth hovering fractions of an inch from mine. "Five years of stolen time. I am not spending another night here alone knowing Catherine is actively targeting your firm and you. Let me protect you."