The Forbidden Throb Chapter 140

Emma's POV:

I emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, fully dressed in the cream cashmere coat Daniel had chosen, the matching scarf draped carefully around my neck.

My cheeks still burned from the memory of that *lace*, but I'd forced myself to focus on practical things.

Daniel was waiting by the door, looking impeccable as always in his charcoal wool coat.

"Ready?" His voice was gentle, but there was an undertone of amusement.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

The afternoon air was crisp and cold as we stepped outside, Paris blanketed in the aftermath of last night's snow.

Daniel took my hand, threading his fingers through mine with a naturalness.

We spent the next few hours wandering through the city.

When we arrived at the opera house, he checked his phone and shook his head apologetically. "Everything's sold out for the holiday season. We could try next time if you'd like?"

I nodded, though honestly, I didn't mind at all. Just walking beside him like this felt like more than enough.

We ducked into the Church to escape the cold, following a tour guide through the beautiful architecture. Daniel's hand stayed warm in mine the entire time, his thumb occasionally brushing against my knuckles.

By the time we reached the café near the university, evening had fallen, and my stomach was practically roaring in protest.

The place was packed to the brim with the dinner rush— students from the looks of it, their highlighter-marked textbooks and glowing laptop screens creating a patchwork of academic chaos across every table and chair.

"I didn't realize they served real food," I said, scanning the menu board above the counter. Sandwiches, risottos, salads—far more than the pastries and coffee I'd expected.

"The carbonara's good," Daniel said, his breath warm against my ear as he leaned close to point. "And the panini."

The café wasn't large to begin with, and with this crowd, nearly every seat was taken. Daniel spotted two high stools by the window and guided me toward them with a hand on my lower back.

We'd barely settled in when voices from the table behind us drifted over—young, enthusiastic, speaking rapid French.

I found myself listening despite not meaning to, my ear automatically translating the conversation. They were talking about someone—a doctor, apparently.

"It might seem crazy for anyone else, but when you say it's *him*, suddenly it makes perfect sense." A young man's voice, amused. "Haven't you heard? Hermann's group—they produce the most hopeless romantics in the medical field."

"I still don't get it," another voice chimed in. "Do American doctors really make that much? Ten thousand euros for a bench plaque, just like that. And ten years wasn't enough—he had to renew it for another ten. That's *twenty thousand euros*. That kind of money doesn't just fall from the sky."

"You were literally crying to me two days ago about not having a girlfriend," a third voice said, exasperated. "Now I see why. All you see is twenty thousand euros. Can't you read what's *written* on the plaque?"

"That's the power of love, my friend."

I went still, my hand frozen on the menu.

My seat was closer to their table than Daniel's. I wasn't sure if he could hear them over the ambient noise of the café.

A student of Hermann's. A bench plaque. The details were unmistakable.

"You..." I hesitated, unsure whether to pretend to focus on ordering or to change the subject entirely. "Did you—"

"I heard them."

Daniel looked up, something soft in his eyes—vulnerability mixed with a quiet determination. "I renewed it just before the ten years were up. Before they could remove the plaque."

He paused, his fingers tracing the edge of the menu without really seeing it. "I thought... once we were actually together, I'd feel more secure. But the opposite happened."

My breath caught.

"The closer I got to having you," he continued quietly, "the more terrified I became of losing you. So I renewed it." His gaze met mine, steady but unguarded. "Because even if everything fell apart, I wanted that one small piece of permanence."

I stared at him, stunned. Daniel Prescott—brilliant, composed, seemingly invincible Daniel—admitting to fear.

To the kind of desperate, illogical hope that I'd always associated with people like me, not people like him.

He was *scared*. Of losing me.

I opened my mouth, words crowding my throat—gratitude, reassurance, the overwhelming need to tell him he'd never lose me—

"Daniel Prescott. I don't believe my eyes."

We both turned. A woman in her mid-fifties stood beside our table, gray-streaked hair pulled back in a casual ponytail, wearing a barista's apron over her jeans. Her face was lit with genuine delight.

Daniel stood immediately, his manners impeccable. "Maggie."

Maggie pulled back, her gaze shifting to me. Her eyes widened slightly. "And is this—?"

"Maggie, this is my wife, Emma." Daniel's hand found my shoulder, gentle and possessive. "Emma, this is Maggie Sullivan. She owns this place ."

"Emma? Your *wife*." Maggie's voice rose with excitement. She grabbed my hand, squeezing it between both of hers. "Oh, honey. I knew it. "

I blinked, startled by the intensity of her reaction.

"Maggie," Daniel said quietly, but there was warmth in his tone.

"Don't you 'Maggie' me." She beamed at him, then at me. "Do you have any idea how long this man has been carrying a torch for you? How many times, he sat right at this table, staring at nothing, looking like his heart was breaking? Now he finally got what he wanted. "

I glanced at Daniel, caught between amazement and exasperation. *How did everyone know except me?* Hermann knew. Maggie knew. Apparently half the medical school knew. Even those French students behind us seemed to know about the bench.

Everyone knew Daniel Prescott was hopelessly in love.

Everyone except the person he was in love *with*.

Daniel's hand tightened slightly on my shoulder, as if he could read my thoughts. When I looked up at him, there was the faintest hint of color on his cheekbones—embarrassment, maybe, or resignation.

Maggie squeezed my shoulder. "Cherish him, honey. He's one of the good ones."

"I know," I said. And I meant it.