The Forbidden Throb Chapter 132

Emma's POV:

"Where did you..." My voice came out hoarse. I cleared my throat, tried again. "Where did this come from?"

Hermann settled back in his chair, cradling his coffee cup with both hands.

Outside, the snow was falling harder now, thick flakes that turned the Parisian afternoon into something out of a snow globe.

"My grandfather," he said, "was a furniture restoration specialist. He worked for the old families. My father inherited the trade, and he opened a workshop here." He paused, studying my face. "Daniel came to see him four years ago."

"He brought this box with him," Hermann continued. "It was in terrible condition. My father almost turned him away. "

Hermann paused, his fingers still resting on his phone screen. "But Daniel insisted. Said it didn't matter how long it took or what it cost. He'd wait."

"And after my father finished the restoration, Daniel asked him to keep it. Said he'd come back for it when the time was right."

"He never told us who it was for," Hermann said quietly. "Just mentioned there was a child in the family who'd grown up without toys. Said he wanted to give her those missing pieces."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

Suddenly, it all made sense—the gifts I'd been opening each day. The delicate Bluetooth earbuds were shaped like tiny seashells. The gemstone earrings with their childlike sparkle. The amethyst bracelet with my initials engraved in a whimsical script.

Each one exquisite but carrying a hint of childlike fun, the kind of precious little things a girl should have received growing up but never did.

"We thought he was being a devoted uncle," Hermann continued. "Some older relative tried to make up for a difficult childhood."

He took a sip of his coffee, his expression growing thoughtful. "When I saw him at the medical conference a few days ago, I asked about the box again. Out of curiosity, you understand. After all these years."

My heart stopped.

"He told me he'd finally given it to her," Hermann said softly. His eyes met mine with sudden understanding. "Said he'd given it in a capacity he never dared to hope for."

The café sounds—the hiss of the espresso machine, the chatter of students, the clink of cups—all faded to nothing.

"That's when I realized," Hermann said gently, "that was for you."

Hermann excused himself not long after, murmuring something about needing to check on a student's thesis defense.

I just sat there, staring at nothing, tears streaming down my face in an endless, silent flow.

The elderly Italian woman who owned the café appeared beside my table.

She didn't say anything, just placed a clean cloth handkerchief in front of me and patted my shoulder once before retreating behind her counter.

I pressed the soft fabric against my eyes, trying to absorb the tears, but they kept coming.

My hands shook as I pulled out my phone.

I hit the call button before I could talk myself out of it.

It rang. And rang. Outside the café window, the snow was falling harder now, thick white flakes swirling in the early evening darkness.

Finally, he picked up.

"Emma." His voice came through rough, slightly breathless. Behind him, I could hear wind—harsh, loud, like he was standing outside somewhere.

"I'm at the café. The one near Paris Medical College." My voice cracked completely. "Daniel, can you... can you please come get me?"

Silence. Just the wind howling through the phone, and beneath it, the faint sound of his breathing.

"Okay," he said finally, so quietly I almost didn't hear it. "I'll head back to the hotel first, grab some things, then—"

"No." The word burst out before I could stop it.

"Emma—"

"Don't go back." My voice was shaking, everything I'd been holding back threatening to spill over. "Please don't. Why are you always trying to leave? Why can't you just come *now*?"

The silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.

Then: "Ten minutes," he said, his voice rough, almost hoarse. "Just give me ten minutes, okay?"

"Okay," I whispered.

The call ended.

I set the phone down, my hands trembling. Ten minutes. Just ten minutes until I'd see him.

My heart was racing, thoughts spinning—all those fragments of the past, all those small moments I'd misunderstood or overlooked, swirling together into something overwhelming and impossible to process.

I needed to pull myself together. Fix my face. I looked around for a bathroom, then realized I should probably find a mirror in my bag first, assess the damage.

I reached for my purse, then froze.

This wasn't my small crossbody bag. This was my work messenger bag—the big canvas one I used for carrying my laptop and notebooks.

I must have grabbed it this morning in my distracted state, too preoccupied with Daniel's absence to notice.

I'd spent the entire day carrying around the wrong bag.

I unzipped the main compartment, looking for tissues or at least my compact mirror.

Instead, I found papers. Lots of my learning papers.

Medical journals. At least a dozen of them, all research papers.

And on every single one, in the author line: *Daniel Prescott, MD, PhD.*

A memory surfaced suddenly, sharp and clear.

At the airport, when we'd first arrived in Paris. Marc had been talking to me while we waited for our luggage, asking about my background, my interests. And then, casual as anything, he'd said: *"You've read his publications, I assume? "*

And I'd said yes. Of course, I'd said yes.

Marc had smiled—a strange, knowing smile that I hadn't understood at the time.

I'd brushed it off, changed the subject. Thought he was just making small talk.

But now—

My hands trembled as I peeled back the binder clip and pulled the first article free.

I... I read the abstracts. The methodology sections. The parts about the surgical techniques—

But not the acknowledgments.

And below that, in elegant italic script: *To my beloved E.*

The world stopped.

My hands started shaking so badly, I nearly dropped my hot coffee.

*Journal of the American Medical Association: To my beloved E.*

*The Lancet: To my beloved E.*

*New England Journal of Medicine: Once again, to E.*

On and on, an endless litany of dedication, of devotion, of love spelled out in the most public venue imaginable.

As if he'd been saying, over and over, in the only way he knew how: *I choose you. I've always chosen you. I will always choose you.*

The café door opened. Cold air rushed in, along with swirling snowflakes.

"Emma." Daniel's voice pulled me back to the present.