The Forbidden Throb Chapter 119

Emma's POV:

The glass booth felt like a fishbowl—every movement visible to the audience below, every breath amplified through the headset.

I adjusted the microphone one last time as Professor Hermann's assistant helped him to the podium.

*Don't mess this up, Emma.*

The first few sentences were standard opening remarks. I listened carefully through the headset as Daniel's voice filled the room, his English crisp and measured.

Then he dove into the technical content.

"Mitral valve repair through minimally invasive approach..."

"*La réparation valvulaire mitrale par approche mini-invasive...*" My French translation flowed smoothly, days of studying Daniel's papers suddenly crystallizing into practical knowledge.

I could almost predict what he would say next—the same terminology, the same logical progression I'd encountered countless times in his research.

The rhythm took over.

English syllables dissolved into French comprehension, medical jargon transforming into accessible language for Professor Hermann and the French physicians in attendance.

The conversation continued for forty-five minutes.

Professor Hermann fielded questions from the floor, some in rapid-fire English that required me to juggle both translation and the nuanced medical debate. My voice remained steady, professional, even as my heart raced with adrenaline.

When the moderator finally announced the session's conclusion, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

My shoulders dropped, tension draining from muscles I didn't know had been clenched for the past forty-five minutes.

Professor Hermann stood, and he turned toward my booth, raising his hand in acknowledgment.

The gesture was small, but it meant everything—recognition that I hadn't just translated words, but preserved meaning, nuance, professional respect.

My eyes burned with unshed tears—whether from nerves or exhilaration, I couldn't quite say.

All those nights in the library, pushing through French grammar while my mother's voice echoed in my head: "*You're spreading yourself too thin. One major is enough. French won't pay the bills.*" Robert had been worse, calling it a "romantic indulgence" that would lead nowhere.

But I'd loved it. The rhythm of the language, the precision required, the way French could express things English couldn't quite capture.

So I'd persisted—staying up late to finish translations, squeezing study sessions between journalism assignments, refusing to let anyone's dismissiveness extinguish that passion.

The journalism degree had given me confidence, taught me to speak up, to present myself professionally.

And now, standing in this conference room in Paris with Professor Hermann's applause still ringing in my ears, I felt vindicated in a way I'd never expected.

*None of it was wasted.*

---

The moment I stepped out of the booth, people surrounded me.

"Miss Johnson!" The French Cardiology Society's secretary-general pressed his card into my palm. "Your interpretation was flawless. We frequently host international symposiums—"

"Outstanding work," interrupted a woman from a Swiss medical device company. "Our market expansion requires precisely this caliber of linguistic expertise."

Two professors from Sorbonne University waited their turn, complimenting my grasp of technical vocabulary. I smiled, thanked them, exchanged cards with hands that wouldn't quite stop shaking.

Across the room, Professor Laurent gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Sarah stood beside her, arms crossed with that satisfied "I told you so" expression.

Then the crowd shifted, and I saw Daniel.

He leaned against the conference room doorframe, head tilted at that familiar angle.

His dark eyes held something warm, something that made my breath catch. His lips moved silently, forming words I could read even at this distance:

*You were brilliant.*

The tears I'd been holding back threatened to spill over.

---

The taxi ride back to Le Meurice blurred past rain-slicked Parisian streets.

Daniel sat beside me in the back seat, his presence filling the small space despite the careful distance he maintained.

Silence stretched between us, comfortable and charged simultaneously.

My fingers traced patterns on the leather seat, hyperaware of the mere inches separating his hand from mine.

The words bubbled up before I could stop them: "If I ever fail at this translation, would you... sponsor me? Like, keep me around?"

*Oh god, Emma. What are you saying?*

I tried to laugh, make it sound like a joke, but my voice came out too soft, too uncertain.

Daniel turned to face me fully. His expression had gone carefully blank.

"No," he said.

My stomach dropped. "Oh. I—I wasn't serious, I just—"

"It's not that I wouldn't want to." His hand moved, reaching toward me, and before I could process what was happening, his palm settled gently on top of my head. "It's I know you won't need it."

The ice began to thaw. "Daniel—"

"Besides." The corner of his mouth quirked up. "At the rate you're going, your annual salary will surpass mine soon. Maybe I should be asking if you'd support me."

Heat flooded my face.

I couldn't hold back the smile anymore—not the restrained, professional curve I'd maintained at the conference, but something genuine and uncontained.

My lips curved upward, and I felt warm all over, like being submerged in honeyed tea on a winter morning.

The taxi pulled up to Le Meurice's entrance.

The hotel lobby's chandelier cast prismatic light across marble floors. Professor Laurent stood near the desk, deep in conversation with Sarah and Marc. She waved when she spotted us, gesturing for us to join.

"Emma! Daniel!" Her smile widened. "We're organizing dinner—several French colleagues want to continue networking. You'll both join us, yes?"

I opened my mouth to accept, but Daniel spoke first.

"Thank you, but we made other plans." His tone was polite but final. "We promised ourselves we'd visit the Marché de Noël tonight."

Professor Laurent's eyebrows rose slightly, a knowing look crossing her face. "Ah, the Christmas markets. How lovely."

She winked at me. "Much more romantic than a restaurant full of academics."

My face heated, but before I could protest, Daniel's hand settled at the small of my back, gently steering me toward the elevators.