His absence.
Chapter twenty-one
~DONOVAN~
Wednesday evening, and Titan’s executive boardroom smells like cold lemon water and seven-figure anxiety.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Manhattan at dusk—glass towers catching fire in the sunset, the city looking untouchable, powerful. Unconcerned.
Much like the men and women seated around this table.
I’m at the head, jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed enough to project control—sharp enough that no one questions it. Even though I haven’t absorbed a goddamn word in the last forty minutes.
Patricia Lin is speaking, something about underwriting timelines and investor confidence. David Walsh is flipping through a deck I approved yesterday and barely remember.
Heads nod. Pens scratch. And no one directly calls me out.
Because when the CEO zones out, people assume it’s strategy.
Not distraction.
Not the fact that every time someone says January—Emma’s expected delivery month—my chest tightens.
“—so if we don’t stabilize messaging before the Goldman follow-up,” Patricia finishes, folding her hands, “we risk erosion of confidence.”
I straighten, meeting her gaze coolly. “We’ll stabilize it.”
No one argues.
“Good,” Patricia says. “Then we’ll reconvene Friday.”
The meeting dissolves into quiet efficiency. Chairs slide back. Tablets disappear. The board filters out, and I gather my notes, already thinking about nothing.
Until—
“Donovan.”
The voice stops me mid-step. It’s not sharp or deferential, but grounded. Familiar.
I look up and meet the gaze of Thane Van Burn—best friend and board member—standing just outside the boardroom doors, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone like he debated not coming in at all.
He looks naturally sun-kissed from his vacation with Julia and the kids. Wearing a tailored jacket, he looks relaxed, and the contrast between us is… stark.
“You’re back,” I say.
“This morning.” His chin tips. “Maldives were great. Kids learned how to snorkel. Julia forgot my work laptop on purpose.”
I huff faintly. “Traitor.”
Thane’s eyes flick over my face—too perceptive, too fast.
“You look like hell,” he says calmly.
“Good to see you too.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice as employees pass. “Walk with me.”
It’s not a request, and if this were anyone but him, I wouldn’t agree, but I do, and we move down the corridor—Italian marble underfoot, museum-grade art lining the walls, the soft hum of ambition and air-conditioning washing over us.
