"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 andperfect.
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.
