"Really?"
"Really." I run my thumb over her knuckles, and she stares at our joined hands like she's trying to memorize the sight.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly.
"Now, we get you to a doctor. Make sure you're actually okay and not just stress-sick." I squeeze her hand. "And then... we figure us out. Together. No more avoiding. No more pretending.”
"The product launch is next week."
"I know."
"People will talk if they think we're... involved."
"Let them talk." I mean it. "Emma, I've spent twenty years building Titan. I've never once let personal feelings influence business decisions. But I'm also not going to let business prevent me from being with someone who matters."
I lean back, releasing her hand before I do something inadvisable at thirty thousand feet. "Now eat your crackers and try to sleep. We've got two more hours."
She obeys, curling up in her seat with a blanket I pulled from the overhead compartment. And I watch her—because I can't seem to stop watching her—as she closes her eyes.
Half an hour later, Emma’s asleep. Finally.
Across from me, she’s curled beneath a Titan-branded blanket, face turned toward the window, lashesfanning over flushed cheeks. The nausea’s eased, thank God.
I should be sleeping too. Instead, I’m staring at the muted cabin lights and thinking about Thane, of all damn people.
Thane—my business partner, the pragmatic conscience of Titan. The one who actually reads the fine print while Logan cracks jokes and I bulldoze deadlines.
He’s in the Maldives right now with Julia and their kids, probably wearing linen and drinking something with mint. And when he gets back and realizes I’ve crossed every HR line in existence with my new associate head of strategy, he’s going to lose his mind.
And he’ll be right to.
Because this—Emma—wasn’t supposed to happen.
I run a hand through my hair and let my head fall back against theseat.
The hum of the engines blurs into memory: my mother’s voice, low and tired, telling me to lock the door when she left for her night shift.
The smell of dish soap on her hands. The way her smile never quite reached her eyes those last few years.
Marie Mitchell. She worked herself to the bone for me. Three jobs. No help. No husband.
He left before I was born—some smooth-talking coward who couldn’t handle the weight of responsibility. My mother paid for it every day until her body quit on her.
Sixteen years old, and I was the one who found her.
That kind of thing brands you. Makes you swear you’ll never need anyone, never rely on anyone. You build control like armor because losing it once almost killed you.
And now? I’m undoing it all for a woman who smells like citrus and sin and drives me insane just by existing.
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. It never does when she’s that close.
I feel her before I see her. The shift in the air. The soft rustle of fabric.
And then— Weight. Heat.
I open my eyes.
Emma is straddling my lap.
