The Forbidden Throb Chapter 104

Daniel's POV:

The afternoon light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk.

I leaned back in my chair, listening to Dr. Quinn Chen walk me through tomorrow's surgical schedule with the kind of nervous precision that reminded me of myself at his age.

"The first CABG is scheduled for seven-thirty," Quinn said, his tablet propped against a stack of patient files. "Mrs. Richardson, sixty-two, triple vessel disease. The second case—Mr. Patterson—starts at two. Four-vessel, higher risk due to his diabetes and renal function."

I nodded, making a few notes on my own tablet. "What's his ejection fraction?"

"Thirty-five percent, sir."

"Tight margins." I set down my stylus and met his eyes. "Walk me through your pre-op checklist for Richardson."

For the next twenty minutes, we reviewed every detail—arterial mapping, medication protocols, the positioning of bypass grafts.

Quinn had done his homework, but I caught the small hesitations, the places where textbook knowledge hadn't yet become instinct.

"Good work," I said finally, standing and reaching for my white coat. The familiar weight of it settled over my shoulders, then came off just as quickly as I draped it over my chair. "You're ready."

Quinn's eyes widened slightly. "Sir?"

"Tomorrow's surgeries." I reached for my jacket—charcoal wool, perfectly tailored. "Dr. Luke Richardson will be primary surgeon. "

"But—" Quinn glanced at the surgical calendar on the wall, then back at me. "You're scheduled—"

"Plans change." I buttoned my jacket, checking my watch.

Five-fifteen. If I left now, I could be home by six. "Dr. Richardson is more than capable, and it's time I stepped back from some of the ICU rotations."

Quinn looked genuinely distressed. "Is this about the departmental restructuring? I heard rumors you were moving to International Medical Cooperation, but I didn't think—"

"The rumors are accurate." I picked up my briefcase, organizing the files inside with practiced efficiency. "I'll be focusing on academic exchange programs with European institutions. The administrative work has been piling up, and someone needs to manage it properly."

"Right." Quinn swallowed. "Of course. That makes sense. It's just—" He gave me a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Should I plan on crying for two weeks, or are you taking me with you?"

The question caught me off guard, mostly because it was delivered with such earnest humor. I found myself smiling back.

"If you want to transfer, you're welcome to apply. But honestly, Quinn, you'd benefit more from another year in the ICU. Build your surgical hours, get comfortable with the emergency protocols. Then we can talk about research positions."

"Understood, sir." He gathered his things, then paused at the door. "For what it's worth, whoever convinced you to take a step back from surgery deserves a medal. You've been wound pretty tight these last few years."

I raised an eyebrow. "Have I?"

"Respectfully, sir? Yes." Quinn grinned. "But you seem... different lately. Lighter, maybe. It's good to see."

After he left, I stood alone in my office, watching the autumn sunset paint Boston's skyline in shades of amber and rose.

*Lighter.* Was that how I seemed?

My phone buzzed—a message from Emma, sent earlier in the day. *Don't worry about picking me up today. I have something to take care of.*

I'd called immediately, of course, unable to shake the concern that something might be wrong. But her voice had been steady, if a bit breathless, assuring me she just needed to run errands.

Still, I'd made her promise to text when she left, to let me know she'd gotten home safely.

I turned back to my desk, forcing myself to focus on the remaining task: finalizing the logistics for the Paris International Cardiovascular Forum.

Quinn had mentioned it earlier, asking about hotel arrangements. I'd been putting off the decision, but it couldn't wait any longer.

I send the room list before I could second-guess myself.

Thirty seconds later, my phone rang. Quinn's name flashed across the screen.

"Sir, I'm still at the hospital," he said, sounding confused. "The events coordinator just forwarded me the rooming list. There's an odd number of journalists, but you only requested several double rooms. One person more left over. Did you want me to—"

"The arrangements are correct," I said, my tone even but final. "Submit it as is."

"But—where will the third journalist stay? Is there a budget issue? I can talk to administration about—"

"That won't be necessary. That journalist has... alternative accommodations."

There was a pause. I could practically hear Quinn trying to puzzle it out.

"Oh," he said finally. "Oh. Right. Of course. I'll submit it now, sir."

After we hung up, I stood there for a moment, staring at my phone.

The lockscreen showed Emma's last message, and beneath it, the photo I'd set months ago—her profile at sunset, taken the day I'd driven her back from Portland after we'd gotten married.

She didn't know I'd taken it. I'd been pretending to check my phone while she watched the ocean, her hair catching the golden light, her expression thoughtful and unbearably lovely.

I pocketed my phone and grabbed my briefcase, heading for the elevator.

As I drove through Beacon Hill's narrow streets, the evening rush had started to clear.

At a red light on Charles Street, I noticed a flower shop still open on the corner.

On impulse, I pulled over and went inside. The elderly woman behind the counter smiled at me as I surveyed the buckets of autumn blooms.

"Anniversary?" she asked.

"No, just a normal day," I said, selecting a mixed bouquet—golden chrysanthemums and deep red roses, their petals still fresh with moisture. "These, please."

She wrapped them carefully in brown paper and twine, her practiced hands moving with efficiency. "She's a lucky woman, whoever she is."

I thought of Emma in that hotel room, asking me if the marriage offer still stood. Emma in my passenger seat, falling asleep with her cheek pressed against the window.

"I'm the lucky one," I said quietly.

The drive to my building took another ten minutes.

I parked in my usual spot and took the elevator to my floor, the bouquet in one hand and my briefcase in the other.

Outside my door, I paused.

I took a breath, inserted my key, and turned the lock.

The door swung open on a scene that made my heart stop.

Warm light spilled from the kitchen, where Emma stood at the stove. She was wearing a dress I'd never seen before—emerald green, the kind that hugged her figure in a way that made my mouth go dry.

Her hair was pinned up loosely, exposing the elegant line of her neck. My own gray apron was tied around her waist, somehow making her look both domestic and utterly devastating.

The apartment smelled incredible—herbs and roasted chicken and something sweet underneath it all.

Emma turned at the sound of the door, and our eyes met.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

"You're home," she said, her voice carrying a note of nervous hope that went straight through me. "Dinner's almost ready."

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me with my shoulder, unable to look away from her.

"You look beautiful," I said, and my voice came out rougher than I'd intended.

A flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks pink. "Thank you. I—" She gestured vaguely at the stove. "I hope you're hungry."

I was hungry, but not for food.