The Forbidden Throb Chapter 130

Emma's POV:

"Miss Johnson?" Professor Hermann's voice pulled me back. "Are you alright? Your eyes are quite red."

I blinked rapidly, realizing I'd been staring at the fountain so long that tears had formed.

"I'm fine," I managed, forcing brightness into my voice. "The snow's just... blinding. Makes my eyes water in the wind."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded, seeming to accept the explanation. "Ah yes, quite harsh today. Come—let me show you more of the campus. There's much to see."

I followed him along a path lined with bare oak trees, their skeletal branches stretching overhead like cathedral vaulting.

My boots crunched through patches of half-melted snow.

We approached a section where the landscaping transformed. A long stone wall was covered in climbing rose trellises—dormant now, their thorny branches wrapped in burlap for winter protection.

A groundskeeper had just finished clearing snow from several wooden benches that lined the wall, revealing their dark, weather-worn surfaces.

"These benches," Professor Hermann said, gesturing to them with obvious fondness, "are part of a fundraising program the university started years ago. Anyone can donate ten thousand euros to sponsor one for a decade. They engrave a small brass plaque on the back—whatever message you want, within reason."

I paused beside the nearest bench, noticing the dull copper glint of metal embedded in the wood.

"Ten years?" I repeated softly.

"Yes." He ran his hand along the bench's armrest. "After that, the plaques are removed and replaced with new ones. New donors, new messages. It's... rather poetic, don't you think? "

We began walking slowly past the row of benches, and I found myself reading the inscriptions despite the knot in my stomach.

*In loving memory of Marcel Dupont, 1942-2018. Forever in our hearts.*

*Dr. Sophie Beaumont, PhD in Molecular Biology, Class of 2015. Dream big.*

*For Emma Rose, born March 3rd, 2019. Welcome to the world, little one.*

*Jacques and Marguerite Fontaine, married 50 years today. October 12, 1969.*

Each plaque was a tiny window into someone's life—their grief, their joy, their milestones.

I understood, suddenly, why ancient peoples carved their names into stone. Why they built monuments and tombs.

There was something profoundly moving about physical inscription—metal letters pressed into being by human hands, carrying meaning that words alone couldn't quite convey.

"Here's an interesting one," Professor Hermann said, stopping.

The bench he indicated was positioned closest to the fountain, sheltered slightly by a bare wisteria arbor. Its plaque was more weathered than the others, the brass surface oxidized to a mottled green-brown.

Years of sun and rain—and presumably countless students leaning against it—had worn the engraved letters shallow and difficult to read.

I bent closer, squinting.

The letters slowly resolved themselves:

**Hope my Emma finds her happiness. —D.P.**

My breath stopped.

My fingers rose of their own accord, trembling as they traced the cool metal.

Snow began falling again, heavier now, catching in my hair and eyelashes. The courtyard sounds—distant traffic, a bird's call, Professor Hermann's breathing beside me—all faded into white noise.

My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but moisture welled up anyway, hot against my frozen cheeks.

The world narrowed to just me and this small brass rectangle, soon to be replaced and forgotten.

*D.P.*

Daniel Prescott.

"The benches along this wall were among the first donated when the program launched," Professor Hermann said. His voice seemed to come from very far away. "Daniel specifically requested this spot—the one closest to the wishing fountain. Cost him extra, actually."

I couldn't respond. Couldn't move. My finger remained frozen on the inscription.

Professor Hermann sat down on the bench beside me, his weight making the old wood creak softly. "We teased him mercilessly about it in the lab. Everyone assumed he was mad for this girl—absolutely gone for her—to pay extra just so the fountain spirits could see his wish every day."

The professor continued, gazing at the falling snow. "None of us could figure out who 'Emma' was. Every single person in that lab thought they understood what love looked like after seeing Daniel write those words."

My throat closed. I sat down heavily on the bench.

"That's when I realized... some people's love is so profound, even their most impossible confessions are phrased without a single word about themselves. Just... hoping the other person finds happiness. That's all."

The tears came then, sudden and unstoppable. My heart felt like it was dissolving into those tears—acid-bright with guilt and wonder and a pain so sweet it was almost unbearable.

My mind raced backward through months of memories, replaying them with this new, terrible knowledge.

Daniel at dinners, playing the perfect husband so convincingly that even Grace—who could smell a lie at fifty paces—had been fooled. Daniel helped me move into his apartment. Daniel taught me medical terminology at midnight. Daniel appeared at the hospital when my mother couldn't be bothered. Daniel in Paris, touching my hair and calling me important in any language.

*"Your acting is so good,"* I'd told him once, laughing at how thoroughly he'd deceived everyone.

There had been no acting.

The story's leading lady had always been me, and I'd been too blind to see it.

"I recognized your name the moment I saw your conference badge," Professor Hermann said gently. "Emma Johnson. But I didn't realize you'd actually married him until Daniel mentioned it. The world is too realistic for fairy tales, and even fewer have happy endings that come full circle like this."

*Happy ending.*

I almost laughed. Almost sobbed. Pressed my face harder into the scarf instead.

"He left Paris in September," Professor Hermann continued, his voice thoughtful now. "In a great hurry—didn't even stay for dinner, didn't change his clothes. I caught him at the airport, teased him about rushing home for a wedding."

My head jerked up. "What?"

"He said there was an engagement coming up. Not his—yours. You and his brother." Professor Hermann's gaze was steady, knowing. "He said he couldn't let go."

The world tilted.

September, when I'd still been with Nicholas. When I'd been planning our future like a fool, not knowing he was cheating.

"I didn't know," I whispered. The words scraped out of my throat like broken glass.