The Forbidden Throb Chapter 152

Emma's POV:

Our eyes met in the reflection of the car window.

I couldn't keep pretending to stare at the passing lights anymore. I turned in my seat to face him directly.

"How could he do that?" The words came out low and tight, almost like I was talking to myself. "That father—you were willing to take a risk no one else would take. He should be grateful, but instead, he threw coffee at you. Does he have no sense at all?"

I thought about other professions—if you're mistreated, you can close up shop, walk away. But doctors couldn't do that.

Getting coffee thrown at you was infuriating enough. But then you didn't even wipe it off before rushing to the OR, giving everything you had to save that bastard's daughter.

The child was innocent, of course. But I felt so wronged on Daniel's behalf.

My hands curled into fists without me realizing it. Daniel's larger hand enveloped mine, his fingers gently squeezing in a soothing gesture.

I turned away, staring hard at the passing streetlights. My eyes burned. It felt like the whole world was impossibly unfair to him.

"Emma." His thumb traced circles on my palm. "Mia was critical when she came in. Her parents were blindsided."

His voice remained measured. "Her father isn't used to feeling powerless. When someone stands with his ex-wife, questioning his judgment, he can't process it rationally."

I listened to him making excuses for the man who'd attacked him, and something twisted in my chest.

"People do irrational things when they're terrified," Daniel continued softly.

The car slowed at a red light. I turned to face him, feeling tears prick my eyes.

"So having a temper makes it okay?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "Why do you have to be the one who accommodates them, over and over? Who accommodates *you*?"

His eyes met mine in the dim light from the dashboard.

"Patients' families lose control, they take it out on you, and they don't even have to apologize. Everyone just says 'oh, it's understandable, they're under stress.'" My voice cracked. "But doctors are people too. You have—" I caught myself. "You have family waiting for you to come home."

Something shifted in his expression. His eyes softened in a way.

The light turned green, but he didn't move immediately. When he finally pressed the accelerator, his voice was quieter. "I know."

We drove in silence for a moment.

"What if—" I swallowed. "What if you just avoided situations like this? I know you can't refuse to treat someone, but maybe if you see a family member who's losing control, you could just... take a different route? Let someone else handle them first?"

Even as I said it, I knew how it sounded. Unprofessional. But I couldn't help it.

"I know it sounds ridiculous," I rushed on. "But Daniel—" My voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Could you try? Just a little? For me?"

I looked down at our joined hands. "You're eight years older than me. Could you maybe... try to live longer?"

The words hung in the air between us.

Daniel pulled the car over to the side of the road. The engine idled as he turned to face me fully, reaching up to brush his fingers through my hair.

"Okay," he said simply. "I promise."

I blinked. "What?"

"I'll try to be more careful. When there's a volatile situation, I'll let other doctors handle the initial family contact when I can." His hand moved to cup my cheek. "I can't promise it'll always be possible. But I'll try. I'll remember that someone's waiting for me at home."

The tears I'd been holding back spilled over. He wiped them away with his thumb, so gentle it made me cry harder.

"Hey." He pulled me closer, awkward across the center console. "I'm okay. See? Not even a burn."

"The coffee was cold," I mumbled against his shoulder.

"Exactly. Barely an inconvenience." There was a smile in his voice now. "Though I appreciate you bringing me clean clothes. That was very thoughtful, Mrs. Prescott."

I didn't answer. A small sob caught in my throat, and I still couldn't seem to pull myself out of the emotion.

His hand moved to the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my hair. He didn't say anything, just held me while I tried to breathe through the tightness in my chest.

"I will rest tomorrow," he said, changing the subject with characteristic smoothness. "Luke just opened a new equestrian center outside the city. Private trial run. Want to go?"

The shift was so sudden, it took me a moment to process. "Horses?"

"Horses. Fresh air. No hospitals." His lips quirked. "I promise not to get coffee thrown at me."

Despite everything, I felt a smile tug at my mouth. The image of Daniel in riding gear was... distracting.

"Okay," I said. "Yes. Let's go."

"Good." He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "I'll pick you up."

---

The morning light filtered through the curtains, warm and golden.

I reached across the bed instinctively, but Daniel's side was already cool to the touch.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. A note on his pillow caught my attention, written in his precise handwriting:

*Baby,*

*Happy last day of the year. Gone for a quick errand—back by eleven to pick you up.*

*Check the nightstand.*

*— D*

I turned to find a small plate with a croissant and fresh berries, still perfectly arranged. Beside it sat a card propped against a distinctive deep blue box.

My heart skipped.

I recognized that shade of blue. Harry Winston.

With trembling fingers, I opened the card first:

*Mrs. Prescott,*

*Happy three months of our post-wedding romance.*

I had to read it twice. Three months. He'd been counting.

I flipped the card over:

*Wear it today.*

The box opened with a soft click. Nestled in white satin was a ring that made me catch my breath—a cushion-cut yellow diamond, flanked by two trapezoid white diamonds that caught the morning light and scattered it across the ceiling.

I slipped it onto my right hand, turning it this way and that. The stone caught the light, throwing golden sparks across the white sheets.

I forced myself to set the box aside and focus on breakfast. The croissant was still warm—he must have picked it up this morning before I woke. Beside the plate, I found a small electric kettle, already filled with water, and a selection of Earl Grey tea bags arranged in a neat row.

*This is why Sophia doesn't date*, I thought suddenly.

The realization hit me with unexpected clarity. If you grew up with a male figure like this in your house—someone who anticipated your needs before you voiced them, who showed love through a thousand tiny, thoughtful gestures—how could anyone else possibly measure up?