"Might make you feel better though." She stands. "Seriously, Emma. If you need anything—time off, a different assignment, someone to choke Donovan with one of his expensive ties—just say the word."
"I'm fine," I repeat, because it's easier than admitting I'm falling apart.
After Carmen leaves, I stare at my computer screen, trying to focus on the Asia-Pacific expansion analysis that's due tomorrow.
My phone buzzes.
DONOVAN (7:47 AM): We need to talk.
I delete the message without responding.
It buzzes again.
DONOVAN (8:15 AM): I know you're reading these.
Delete.
DONOVAN (8:43 AM): I'm coming down there.
I’m halfway through pretending to understand a spreadsheet when the air on the thirty-seventh floor changes.
It’s subtle, not something you can point to. More like a pressure shift—the way the room inhales collectively.
It’s him. Donovan. Stepping off the private elevator and into the open floor like he owns every molecule of oxygen in the building.
Dressed to kill—or visually maim—in a deep gray suit that matches his intense eyes. He’s wearing no tie, his white shirt open at the collar exposing sculpted, tanned skin.
Thedominant calm in his posture is unmistakable.
The long strides, broad shoulders rolling with unhurried confidence, jaw set in that way that usually precedes boardrooms falling into line.
Every conversation dies around him.
He isn’t smiling, his stormy gaze cutting across the floor—skimming, assessing—until they land on me.
I don’t look away. I should. But today I’m running on rage, hormones, and the residual humiliation of watching him walk down a Manhattan sidewalk yesterday with a blonde who fit seamlessly into his world.
So I stay seated.
Ice.
“Miss Sinclair.” His voice is calm, deep enough that it vibrates straight through me. “Do you have a moment to discuss the Chicago projections?”
Ah. So we’re doing this the hard way.
“Yes, Mr. Titan.” I stand, lifting my tablet. “Conferenceroom A is open.”
The formal address earns me exactly the reaction I expect. A muscle jumps in his cheek.
We walk side by side, close enough that I feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my blouse. People watch. They always do. Whispers ripple through the open floor.
At the power walking CEO and his strategist.
Nothing to see here.
Conference Room A is all glass and steel—no privacy, no mercy. He closes the door behind us and immediately turns, mask dropping.
“Emma—”
