The Forbidden Throb Chapter 149

Emma's POV:

I stared at my phone screen, watching those three dots pulse where Daniel's next message should appear.

*Why wouldn't he want me in his class?*

Then his message came through:

**Daniel: My course standards are very strict. I wouldn't give special treatment even to my wife.**

I felt my face flush hot.

I bit my lip, thinking about what he'd said. *Strict standards. No special treatment.*

He really was like that, wasn't he? Even to those moments in Paris when he'd been teaching me... other things. The way he'd been so careful, so attentive, making sure I understood every sensation, every response.

The way he'd asked "Does this feel good?" and "Tell me what you need" with the same focused intensity he probably used when teaching.

My face burned hotter at the memory.

God, even in bed, he was a teacher. A very thorough, very dedicated teacher who took his wife's "education" extremely seriously.

I made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a whimper, pressing my phone against my burning face. Olivia glanced over from her desk, eyebrow raised, but I waved her off.

Another message appeared:

**Daniel: I've already spoken with everyone at Mass General who's met you. Asked them to protect your privacy—not to leak any information about Dr. Prescott's wife. I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable.**

I lowered my phone slowly, something warm and tight expanding in my chest.

That's why I'd been able to visit the hospital so many times these past weeks without a single photo appearing on social media, without whispers following me through the corridors. I'd thought I'd just been lucky, flying under the radar.

But it wasn't luck. It was Daniel, quietly arranging things, protecting me from scrutiny I hadn't even known to worry about.

My throat felt oddly thick.

**Me: I miss you. **

**Daniel: Just hold on a few more days. I'll pick you home.**

I typed back a simple "okay," fighting to keep the ridiculous smile off my face.

---

The next few days passed exactly as Daniel had predicted—quickly.

I was in my room, carefully folding clothes into my overnight bag when Olivia burst through the door.

"Emma! Check BU Confessions right now!"

Her voice had that edge it got when she was in full journalist mode—sharp, urgent, barely controlled. I looked up from my suitcase to find her brandishing her phone like evidence at a crime scene.

"What—"

"Someone posted photos of you. From Paris."

The sweater slipped from my hands.

"What?"

"Here." She thrust her phone at me, and I saw she'd already taken screenshots. "I saved the original post in case they delete it."

My fingers felt numb as I took her phone. The post was on BU Confessions—an anonymous Instagram account where students submitted gossip, confessions, and the occasional heartfelt declaration. Twenty thousand followers. I'd never paid much attention to it before.

Now my own face stared back at me from the screen.

Two photos. The first showed Daniel holding my hand, tucked into his coat pocket. The second caught me getting into a taxi, the angle making it look like I was leaning up to kiss him.

The caption made my stomach turn:

*Spotted: Everyone's favorite journalism "good girl" getting very cozy with her benefactor in Paris. That Burberry coat, that Patek Philippe—honey, we see you. Or should I say, we see him paying for you. Note to self: if you're going to play sugar baby, maybe don't do it on the Champs-Élysées...*

The post had been edited. I could see the timestamp—originally posted an hour ago, but the caption had been changed to just "Paris encounter" thirty minutes later. Someone had made them tone it down.

But the damage was done. The post had already been shared to half a dozen other campus gossip accounts.

"Emma." Olivia's hand on my shoulder pulled me back. "Breathe."

I realized I'd been holding my breath, staring at those photos. Photos of what had been one of the most perfect moments of my life, now twisted into something ugly and transactional.

"Who would—" My voice came out strange. "Who was following us?"

"I don't know. But fuck them." Olivia's jaw was set in that stubborn line I recognized. "Anyone who knows you would know this is bullshit. You, going after a sugar daddy? Please. I'd sooner believe I'm actually Queen Elizabeth reincarnated."

Despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch. "That's... oddly specific."

"I'm serious, Em." She looked at me with an angry expression. "You know what? We should just put Daniel out there. Let them see exactly who you're with. I bet half these idiots would shut up real fast. "

I watched her scroll, the comments a blur of judgment and defense. The tide seemed to be turning in my favor—people pointing out the suspicious cropping, the creepy stalker vibes of whoever took these photos, the reaching conclusions about "sugar daddies" based on... what? A nice coat and a watch?

My journalism training kicked in, cutting through the initial shock.

"Don't engage," I said firmly. "Streisand Effect. The more we try to explain, the more attention it gets."

Olivia looked up, surprised, then nodded slowly. "You're right. Cold shoulder strategy."

"What about Daniel? Are you going to tell him?"

I hesitated, thinking of how exhausted he'd looked on our call last night. He had back-to-back surgeries scheduled for tomorrow.

"Tomorrow," I decided. "When I see him in person. No point ruining his night over something this stupid."

Olivia studied me for a long moment, then pulled me into a quick, fierce hug. "You're different."

*The old Emma didn't have Daniel,* I thought but didn't say.

Instead, I squeezed her back. "Come on. I'm buying you late-night Korean fried chicken as a thank you for the heads-up."

"Now you're speaking my language."

---

Friday afternoon, two o'clock.

I'd finished everything at school—sent Professor Laurent my task, tidied up my dorm room. It was barely past two.

Daniel had hospital rounds until five-thirty. He'd promised to pick me up after his shift.

The contract with Sarah's agency was signed and done. The tri-party agreement would wait until graduation, but Sarah was already treating me like a real team member.

Just days after the Paris forum, she'd sent over materials for a new medical conference interpretation job—dozens of pages of PDF documents that looked far less intimidating than they would have months ago.

I sat in my desk chair, spinning aimlessly, opening and closing the files without really seeing them.

Restless. Eager to go home.

To go home to Daniel.

I checked my phone for what must have been the twentieth time, as if staring at the screen might make the hours pass faster. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, I grabbed my coat and suitcase and headed for Mass General's surgical wing.

The hospital felt familiar now—the antiseptic smell, the hushed efficiency. I took the elevator up, turned right out of the doors.

Several nurses were clustered around the central station, speaking in low, urgent voices. They fell silent when they saw me, exchanging glances I couldn't read.

Down the hall, I could see Daniel's office.

The door was closed, the frosted glass window blocked by what looked like a white coat hanging on the other side.

*What's going on?*

I reached his door and knocked twice. No response.

My hand was already reaching for the handle when footsteps rushed up behind me.

"Emma! Wait—don't go in yet."

I turned to find Quinn Chen quickly approaching me, his usually cheerful face tight with concern.