"Is that a promise or a threat?"
"Both." He presses a quick kiss to my temple—professional enough for public but intimate enough to make my heart race—then moves toward the stage.
Donovan's speech is perfect.
He thanks the team, acknowledges the hard work, explains the vision behind the AI platform. He's confident and charismatic and completely in his element.
And then he does something that makes my heart stop.
"I also want to recognize someone who's been instrumental in getting us to this point," he says, looking directly at me. "Emma Sinclair joined Titan nearly a month ago, and in that time, she's proven herself to be one of our most valuable strategists. Her market analysis and expansion plans were crucial to tonight's success. Emma, thank you."
The room applauds, and I'm trying very hard not to cry.
Because that acknowledgment—public, professional, completely earned—means everything.
Carmen nudges me. "See? You belong here."
After the speech, there's mingling and networking and approximately fifty conversations about the product launch. I'm talking to an investor about user adoption metrics when I feel Donovan's hand on my lower back again.
"Excuse us," he says smoothly. "I need to steal Emma for a moment."
He guides me through the crowd toward the terrace, where the summer night is warm and the city lights sparkle like promises.
We're alone out here—finally—and Donovan turns to me with two glasses of champagne.
"To us," he says, handing me one. “And to the new launch—thanks to the most gorgeous fucking Associate Head of Strategy to ever grace these damn walls.”
I take the glass automatically, staring at the bubbles rising, golden and effervescent under thestring lights.
My stomach churns.
Not now. I was going to tell him later. After the party. Somewhere private.
But Donovan's watching me with those sharp gray eyes, and I realize he's waiting for me to toast with him.
I can't.
I set the glass down on the terrace railing, hands shaking.
“Emma?” His voice shifts, concern creeping in. "You good?”
"I—" My throat closes. "I can't drink that."
“Not a champagne fan? I’ll have the waiter—“
"No, I mean I can't." The words are coming out wrong, all jumbled and panicked. "I can't drink. At all. Not champagne, not wine, not anything because—"
I watch it happen inreal time.
The way his eyes drop to the untouched glass. Then to my hands, which have moved protectively to my stomach. Then back to my face, where I'm sure every emotion is written in neon letters.
"Emma." His voice is very quiet. Very careful. “Are you—“
He stops, unable to finish the sentence, and the world tilts.
This isn't how I wanted to tell him. Not here, not now, not like this—blurted out on a terrace at his company's celebration with two hundred people inside.
But there's no taking it back. No rewinding.
