The Forbidden Throb Chapter 128

Emma's POV:

Daniel stood there for a long moment, just looking at me.

Something shifted in his expression. Not disappointment, but a kind of quiet resignation mixed with understanding.

"I know," he said finally, his voice soft. "Take all the time you need."

He reached for his briefcase on the side table, movements careful and deliberate, like he was giving me space even in the simple act of gathering his things.

At the door, he paused, his hand resting on the handle. When he looked back at me, there was something almost helpless in his eyes.

"Emma." His voice carried a note of gentle concern. "Don't go out alone tonight. Some of the neighborhoods aren't safe after dark."

"I know, Daniel." The words came out sharper than I intended, threaded with something that tasted like tears. "I'm not a child."

"I'm not angry with you," I heard myself say, the words tumbling out in a rush. "About... about everything. I just—" My throat constricted. "I need time."

His hand fell to his side.

Down the hallway, footsteps approached. A blonde woman in hotel livery paused, her French-accented English tentative: "Is everything alright? Do you need assistance?"

"No, thank you." Daniel's response was swift, polite.

The door clicked shut.

I stared at the space where he'd been standing, at the slight indentation his shoes had left in the plush carpet, and tried to understand why knowing the truth made everything feel so impossibly heavy.

---

I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the Gothic spires of Notre-Dame pierce the grey Parisian sky. The light filtered through thin clouds, painting the Seine in shades of silver. Beautiful. Cold. Distant.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. Fourteen unread messages. Twenty-three emails.

I'd been completely disconnected from the world for over a week. In this dizzying whirlwind of conference work, revelations, and emotional upheaval, I hadn't even glanced at messages from anyone except my pinned contacts.

I set down the drawing carefully, tucking it between the pages of my notebook, and picked up my phone. Maybe focusing on mundane things would help.

Maybe I could force my brain to stop spinning in circles about Daniel, about childhood beaches, about everything I'd forgotten and everything I now remembered.

I opened my messages and email, tapping through the clusters of unread notifications one by one.

Most were routine.

Lily Madison: "Emma! Do you have time to look over a few pages of French material for me? Also, let's grab dinner when you're back in Boston?"

I scrolled down.

Luke Richardson had sent several days' worth of messages—morning greetings, evening check-ins, asking how I was doing with those project notes we'd discussed.

His texts were friendly, casual, tinged with genuine concern.

Then Olivia's messages, a chaotic string of updates: Robert Williams—my stepfather—had been detained by police for investigation after the committee got involved. She asked if I was eating well abroad, if I was enjoying the "company-sponsored vacation."

A whole pile of messages. But my mental state was so depleted that nothing really registered. Everything felt distant, like I was reading about someone else's life.

Until I opened my email and saw the formal offer letter from Sarah Martinez's firm.

That made my heart beat a little faster.

My thumb hovered over the screenshot button. My first instinct—always—was to send it to Daniel. To share the small victories.

Then my finger moved on autopilot and tapped on the pinned conversation at the top of my list.

Daniel Prescott.

Our last exchange was still his message from this morning: "I'm here. It's cold outside."

Sent before he'd left for the medical college.

I locked my phone. Pressed it face-down against the duvet.

Then grabbed the hotel's down pillow and pressed it over my face, letting out a muffled scream that was half frustration, half something I couldn't name.

*Why did knowing make it worse?*

I must have fallen asleep like that because the next thing I knew, a knock at the door made me jump.

I stumbled over, still half-asleep, and found a young French woman standing in the hallway. She wore the hotel's crisp uniform and held an insulated delivery bag that smelled like heaven.

"Ms. Prescott?" Her English was flawless, tinged with a Paris accent. "I'm here on behalf of Dr. Prescott."

My chest constricted. "He... sent you?"

"*Ja.*" She smiled, hoisting the bag. "He was quite specific about the menu. He said, and I quote, 'She must eat properly. Her stomach is sensitive.'"

Heat crept up my neck as she transferred the containers into my hands.

Inside: poached eggs with perfectly runny yolks, whole grain toast with avocado, a small container of Greek yogurt with fresh berries, and steel-cut oatmeal with honey and almonds. Nothing heavy. Nothing that would upset my stomach after days of rich French cuisine.

"There's also this." The woman produced a massive bouquet of yellow roses from behind her back, still beaded with morning dew. "In French culture, yellow roses mean respect and care. "

Tucked among the stems was a card in Daniel's precise handwriting:

*I know you need time to process all, but take care of yourself. If you need me, call anytime.

—D*

I stood in the doorway, cradling roses and lukewarm soup, and felt something crack open in my chest. Not breaking. Softening.

He's always like this.

Always putting me first. Always patient, even when I didn't deserve it. Even when I was the one being unreasonable—asking for space after he'd been the one hurt, he'd been the one forgotten, he'd been the one carrying scars and secrets for years while I remained blissfully ignorant.

He was the one who deserved to be upset. To demand answers. To ask why I'd forgotten him so completely.

But instead, he'd simply said: Take all the time you need.

God, what did I do to deserve this man?

I carried everything inside and set them carefully on the coffee table.

Then I remembered I still have the last gift Daniel gave to me before we went to Paris to open.

My hands trembled slightly as I pulled it open.

A Paris public transport day pass, and beneath it, a note card in his careful script:

*Come here.

Paris Medical College, Rear Garden.

—D*

My heart stopped, then kicked into overdrive.

Rationally, I knew he'd written this beforehand. He couldn't have known when I'd open this drawer, or if I'd even find it today.

But none of that mattered.

The only thing that mattered was that I didn't want to wait another minute.

I was already moving, grabbing my coat from the closet, pulling on the scarf he'd bought me. My hands shook as I buttoned my coat, but not from nerves.

From urgency. From absolute certainty.

I tried calling him twice. Both times, the phone rang and rang before clicking to voicemail. Not the instant disconnect of a rejected call. Not the robotic voice of a phone turned off. Just... ringing.

I forced myself to stop spiraling.