His penthouse feels like walking into the pages of an architectural magazine and then realizing the pictures have a heartbeat.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Central Park, its summer green stretching out beneath a hazy sky. The living room is all clean lines and masculine neutrals—charcoal sofa, low-slung walnut coffee table, a rug that’s probably older than me.
But there are also signs of actual human life.
A leather jacket tossed over the back of a chair. A glass left on the console. A vintage motorcycle magazine open on the counter.
Framed photos line a built-in shelf—his mother, I guess, younger and smiling.
Logan and Thane in tuxes, flanking Donovan at some event.
His secretary Margaret in a cocktail dress, smirking at the camera.
It’s beautiful. And expensive. And utterly him.
"Water? Ginger ale?" Donovan asks, as the private elevator door closes behind us. "I have juice, tea, sparkling—"
"Water’s fine," I say.
He crosses to the kitchen and opens the fridge. For a second I just stand there, watching him move in jeans and a fitted T-shirt, and it’s…unfair.
He looks less like a CEO and more like the hot neighbor who ruins your life in chapter three.
The kitchen itself is ridiculous. Long stretch of veined white marble. Dark custom cabinets. Built-in Sub-Zero, a Wolf range that looks like itcould launch rockets, and soft under-cabinet lighting that makes the whole space glow. Copper pans hang over the island like functional art.
It smells faintly of coffee, lemon oil, and something darker—his cologne, sinking softly into the air.
He slides a glass of water toward me across the island. "Sit."
My brows lift. "Did you just CEO command me in your kitchen?"
"Yes." His mouth threatens a smile. "You’re pale. Sit, Sinclair."
The command wraps around my frayed nerves like warm hands, and I sink onto a leather stool, setting my purse and the ultrasound photos on the marble.
The strip of images catches his eye. He looks at them, at me, then braces his hands on the opposite side of the island, leaning forward.
"Emma." His voice is lower now. "I owe you an apology. An actual one. Not the half-assed version shoved between meetings and panic."
"You already—"
"No." A small, sharp shake of his head. "On that terrace, when you told me you were pregnant, I gave you nothing. No reaction. No words. I stood there like a fucking statue and then went back to glad-handing investors like you hadn’t just detonated my entire universe."
I flinch. Because yeah. That’s what it felt like.
"I was in shock," he says quietly. "That’s not an excuse. It's just the truth. You deserved…something. Questions. A conversation. Not a man-shaped blackout."
I stare down at my hands, twisting the condensation ring on my glass. "It felt like you disappeared while still standing right in front of me."
He exhales slowly, like the air is thick. "I know. And I'm sorry. That’s on me. Not on you. Not on the baby."
The word lands between us again.
Baby.
He continues. “I’m not good at feeling out of control. Or fucking helpless.” His gaze raises to mine. “And to be clear, fear is the one thing I’m not good at narrating in real time. I was terrified, Emma. Of failing you. Of failing this baby. Of proving that Vanessa was right and—"
I blink. “Who?”
