The Forbidden Throb Chapter 150

Emma's POV:

"Quinn, is Daniel in there?" I was confused.

Quinn's eyes darted to the closed door, then back to me. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say.

"Emma, I—" He glanced at the young nurse standing a few feet away, who was studiously examining her clipboard. "Maybe you should wait out here for a minute."

"What happened?" The question came out sharper than I meant it to. "Is he hurt?"

Before Quinn could answer, I heard it—Daniel's voice, muffled through the door. Low, measured, that particular tone he used when he was being deliberately calm.

"Emma?"

The door swung open.

I froze.

I had never—*never*—seen him look like this.

Coffee. Dark brown, almost black, soaked through his white shirt from shoulder to waist. The fabric clung to his chest, nearly transparent where it was wettest.

I could see the outline of his undershirt beneath, could see coffee grounds stuck to the collar. His hair was damp on one side, a strand plastered against his temple. Even his glasses had droplets on the lenses.

"Didn't we say five o'clock?" He smiled, actually *smiled*, like he wasn't standing there drenched in what looked like an entire venti coffee. "You're early."

My brain couldn't process the disconnect between what I was seeing and how he was acting.

"Daniel." My voice cracked. "What—"

Then it hit me. The news stories I'd been seeing lately. *Doctor assaulted by patient's family member.* *Physician attacked in hospital corridor.* My heart started hammering against my ribs.

I stepped forward, my hands reaching for him before I could think about it. "Are you hurt? Did someone—"

His hand caught mine before I could touch his soaked shirt. His fingers were warm, steady.

"I'm fine." His voice was so soft, so careful. "The coffee was already cold."

Like someone throwing coffee at him was just a minor inconvenience.

I wanted to check for burns, wanted to make sure he was really okay, but he was already gently pulling my hands away.

"I have an emergency surgery," he said, still in that calm, measured tone. "Pediatric cardiac. Should take three to four hours."

"I can wait no matter how long."

"Fine." His smile softened, and he lifted one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering for just a moment despite the dampness still clinging to them.

He turned to Quinn. "Quinn, take Emma to the hospital cafeteria at five-thirty. Make sure she gets a proper dinner. Put it on my account."

"Of course, Dr. Prescott."

Nancy, the head surgical nurse, appeared with a blue sterile towel. Daniel took it with a quiet "thank you" and began wiping his face, his movements quick and efficient. He cleaned his glasses, pressed the towel against his chest, but the shirt was too soaked. Nothing was going to fix it quickly.

"Dr. Prescott," Nancy said gently, "should I have someone bring you a fresh shirt from the locker room?"

"No time." Daniel was already moving. "I'll change into scrubs in the OR. The patient can't wait."

Then he was gone, striding down the corridor with Nancy.

The small crowd that had gathered dispersed quickly, people returning to their stations with sympathetic glances in my direction. Soon it was just me and Quinn standing outside the now-empty office.

Quinn touched my elbow. "Come on. Let's go inside."

The office door swung open under his hand, and I stepped in.

"What exactly happened? "

Quinn closed the door behind us with a soft click.

"I'll tell you," he said, his voice low. "But you have to promise this stays between us."

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. My phone felt slippery in my sweating palms.

Quinn ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly older than his twenty-six years.

"There was a patient. Eight-year-old girl, Mia Rodriguez. Last night at dinner, she got a fishbone stuck in her throat."

I pressed my hand against my mouth.

"Her grandmother doesn't speak much English. She panicked, used some old home remedy from back home—made Mia swallow big chunks of bread, drink water, trying to force the bone down."

Quinn's voice was tight. "Mia seemed fine at first. Went to bed, woke up okay. But by the time she got to school this morning, she started complaining of severe chest pain. Trouble breathing. The school called 911."

"Oh God."

"CT showed the fishbone had perforated her esophageal wall and migrated into the mediastinum—the space between the heart and spine. It triggered a massive infection overnight. The abscess is already eroding into her aortic wall." He paused. "If it perforates the aorta, she'll bleed out in minutes."

My knees felt weak. I leaned against Daniel's desk.

"Dr. Prescott said she needs emergency open-chest surgery to remove the foreign body and clean out the infection. But the surgery itself..." Quinn's jaw worked. "Sixty percent mortality rate. Maybe higher, given how advanced the infection is and how close it is to major vessels."

He exhaled slowly. "No other hospital in Boston would touch this case. Too risky, too complicated. But Dr. Prescott—he agreed to do it. Said we needed to get Mia into the OR as soon as possible."

Quinn's expression darkened. "That's when Mr. Rodriguez started making a scene. He accused Dr. Prescott of conspiring with Mia's mother—they're separated—said this was all a setup to scam him out of money. He stormed over to Mia's bed, tried to pull her out of it, IV and all."

"What?" My voice came out strangled.

"Dr. Prescott stepped in to stop him. The rest of us were still processing what was happening when Mr. Rodriguez grabbed the coffee cup from the side table and—" Quinn gestured helplessly. "Just threw it right at him. Thank God it was only lukewarm."

My hands clenched into fists. I could feel my nails digging into my palms.

"The surgery Daniel's doing right now," I said, my voice shaking. "It's *her*, isn't it? It's Mia?"

Quinn nodded slowly. "Yes."

"He's the best chance that little girl has," Quinn said quietly. "And he knows it."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. My stomach was churning, a sharp pain radiating from my abdomen.

I thought of Daniel in the OR right now, standing over an eight-year-old girl, holding her life in his hands. The same hands that had been covered in coffee minutes ago. The same man who'd been verbally attacked, physically assaulted, and had chosen to save his attacker's daughter anyway.

And I couldn't stop the tears that were burning hot behind my eyes, threatening to spill over.