The Forbidden Throb Chapter 107

Emma's POV:

The door clicked shut behind Daniel, and I remained frozen on the couch, my fingers still pressed against the stack of research papers where his hand had just been.

*What just happened?*

My cheek tingled where his fingers had brushed against my hair. That simple gesture—so casual, so natural—had left my heart racing in a way that felt dangerous.

Standing up, I gathered the research papers into a neat stack, my movements mechanical.

The apartment suddenly felt too large, too quiet. Through Daniel's closed bedroom door, I heard the faint sound of running water—he must have been showering after his long day.

My phone buzzed against the coffee table. Olivia's name flashed across the screen.

I swiped to answer, keeping my voice low. "Hey."

"Well?" Olivia's voice exploded through the speaker before I could even press the phone to my ear. "How did it go? Did he notice the dress? Did you use any of my lines?"

I walked quickly to my bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click. "I... yes. He noticed."

"And?" The excitement in her voice was palpable. "What did he say? Did you see his reaction?"

Sinking onto my bed, I pressed my hand against my heated cheek. "He said I looked beautiful."

Olivia squealed so loudly I had to pull the phone away from my ear. "Emma Johnson! I knew it! What else? Did you touch him? Did he touch you?"

"Olivia—"

"Did you use the compliments I taught you? Tell me everything!"

I took a breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "The dinner went well. He seemed... touched. I followed your advice about praising his work, about how he's saved so many lives."

"Good, good. And?"

"But..." I paused, uncertain how to explain the shift that had occurred. "I think he's been receiving compliments his whole life, Olivia. Your theory about flattery might not work the same way with someone like him."

There was a beat of silence. "What do you mean?"

"He's Daniel Prescott. He probably grew up hearing how brilliant he is, how extraordinary. One more person saying it probably doesn't—"

"Emma." Olivia's voice turned serious. "Trust me. It's different when it comes from someone you care about. Keep going. What happened next?"

I told her about Blake's notes, about Daniel's reaction when he saw them.

"Wait, wait." Olivia's tone sharpened. "He got jealous of some student's study materials?"

"I don't think it was jealousy," I said quickly. "He said the notes had errors. That they might mislead my project. It was probably just... professional concern."

"Emma, you're so naive sometimes." I could practically hear Olivia rolling her eyes through the phone. "That was absolutely jealousy."

My stomach flipped. "Blake's just a student. Daniel wouldn't be jealous of—"

Olivia sighed dramatically. "So what happened after he saw the notes? Did he storm off? Throw them away?"

"No, he..." I recalled the moment, Daniel's careful movements as he set the papers aside. "He offered to prepare better materials for me. More current notes. Since he's the original author, he said he could provide more accurate context."

"See?" Olivia sounded triumphant. "Jealous. He's replacing that Blake guy's work with his own. Classic territorial behavior."

I wasn't sure I agreed, but a small part of me hoped she was right.

"Okay, but here's the important part," Olivia continued. "Did you use any of the sweet talk I taught you?"

Heat flooded my face. "I told him he was amazing."

"That's it?" Olivia sounded disappointed. "Emma, those were the starter lines! What about the other phrases I gave you? Like 'Daniel, I'm so lucky to have chosen you. Standing beside you makes me so proud, so happy. I really, really—'"

"Stop!" I cut her off, my voice rising. "Olivia, I can't say those things! They sound like... like I'm trying to seduce him with puppy eyes."

"That's literally the point—"

"I want to be natural about it," I insisted, pressing my palm against my burning cheek. "I said 'You're amazing' and 'Others can't compare to you.' That's... that's already a lot for me."

"Emma Johnson!" Olivia sighed dramatically. "You literally extracted the most powerful parts of my entire speech and threw them away. The compliments you kept are like... like telling a Michelin-star chef 'this tastes good.'"

I covered my face with one hand, deflating. "Maybe I should just stop trying to compliment him altogether. I'm terrible at this. I can't do it."

Maybe it was the age gap? Seven years wasn't huge, but sometimes it felt like we existed in different universes.

Because he was gentle, he was kind to me.

Because he was a gentleman, that kindness had boundaries—measured, appropriate. He asked about my day, made sure I was comfortable, but there was always this invisible line between us that I couldn't seem to cross.

He looked close, felt close. But when I tried to walk toward him, I never seemed to get any nearer.

Maybe... maybe he had married me to avoid something. Or wait for someone.

After hanging up, I sat on my bed, phone clutched in my hand, and stared at nothing.

*The untouchable one.*

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

---

The next morning, I woke to find Daniel already gone.

There was a note on the kitchen counter in his precise handwriting:

*Emergency surgery. Back by evening.*

And next to it, a box of my favorite pastries from the French bakery downtown.

I touched the note, tracing the letters with my fingertip. He had remembered. Even in the middle of an emergency, he had thought to leave me breakfast.

Something clicked into place in my chest.

Last night, I had convinced myself he was waiting for someone else. That I was just convenient, temporary, replaceable.

But now, I had changed. If Daniel Prescott had walls, then I would find a way through them.

By four o'clock that afternoon, I was a nervous wreck.

I had changed outfits three times, settling finally on a pair of camel-colored cashmere pants Daniel had bought me weeks ago and an ivory cashmere cardigan with delicate pearl buttons. Underneath, a silk camisole—V-neck but not too revealing.

The outfit felt sophisticated, grown-up. Like someone who belonged in Daniel's world.

I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in his—our—bedroom, adjusting my hair for the hundredth time, when my phone alarm went off.

6:15 PM. Fifteen minutes until Daniel usually got home.

My stomach did a nervous flip.

In the living room, I arranged myself on the couch with a copy of *The New Yorker*. My hair was half-up, showing the line of my neck. The pearl earrings Daniel had given me weeks ago caught the evening light.

*Casual but elegant*, I reminded myself. *Natural but put-together.*

The minutes ticked by. 6:20. 6:25.

I was so focused on appearing relaxed that I almost missed the sound of a key in the lock.

My heart leaped into my throat. He was early.

I scrambled up from the couch, nearly dropping my magazine, and hurried toward the entryway. I needed to look like I had just happened to be passing by, not like I had been waiting—

The door opened.

Daniel stood in the threshold, still in his charcoal suit jacket, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms. But that wasn't what made me freeze.

He was carrying a large wooden crate—the kind used for shipping artwork, complete with "Fragile - Handle with Care" labels and a gallery logo stamped on the side.

"You're home early," I managed, stepping forward.

"What is that?" I asked, curiosity overriding my nervousness.

"It's a gift."

My eyes widened. "A gift? For whom?"

He took a step closer, and suddenly the air felt charged. His voice dropped, intimate and warm:

"For Mrs. Prescott."