The Forbidden Throb Chapter 170

Emma's POV:

The number seemed to pulse with urgency, each notification a tiny detonation in the quiet morning.

My finger hovered over the screen, trembling slightly as I began to scroll.

Olivia's name dominated the list—thirty-two messages in rapid succession, the timestamps showing they'd come in bursts throughout the night and early morning.

*Emma LOOK AT BU CONFESSIONS*

*Is that you in the photo??*

*Oh my god the comments are BRUTAL*

*Call me when you see this*

My stomach dropped. I kept scrolling, seeing Professor Laurent's name appear thirteen times in the department group chat, each message tagging me with increasing urgency.

The student council work chat showed 99+ notifications. Several classmates had sent private messages, their tone carefully neutral, probing.

"Emma?"

Daniel's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. I looked up to find him standing beside me, dish towel still in hand, his expression shifting from gentle concern to sharp alertness in the span of a heartbeat.

"What's wrong?"

I couldn't speak. My throat had closed up, my mouth dry. Instead, I turned the phone toward him, watching his eyes scan the screen.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "When did these start coming in?"

"I don't know. I—" My voice came out hoarse. "I had my phone on silent last night."

Daniel set down the towel with deliberate care, his movements controlled. "May I?"

I nodded, handing him the phone. He took it, his fingers warm where they brushed against mine, and began scrolling with methodical precision.

I watched his face, searching for any crack in his composure, but he remained infuriatingly calm, his eyes moving across the screen with the same focused attention he probably gave to surgical charts.

After what felt like an eternity, he looked up. "BU Confessions first?"

I nodded again, not trusting my voice.

He tapped the Instagram app, navigating to the account with practiced ease. When the post loaded, I leaned closer, my breath catching.

The photo was dark, grainy—clearly taken from a distance with a phone camera. But it was unmistakably us. Last night, near the west exit. The angle captured Daniel from behind, his arms around my waist, my face partially hidden against his coat. The dim streetlight created just enough illumination to make out our silhouettes, the intimacy of our posture.

And there, clearly visible even in the poor lighting, was the ring on his left hand.

The caption made my blood run cold:

**MARRIED Harvard Prof spotted with BU student in late-night rendezvous—Wife at home while he's on campus?**

Posted eight hours ago. 18,000 likes. 1,200+ comments.

"Oh god," I whispered, my hand flying to my mouth.

Daniel's arm came around my shoulders, steadying me. "Just a photo," he murmured, but his voice held an edge I'd never heard before. "Let's see what else."

He scrolled down, and I immediately wished he hadn't.

The comments were a cesspool.

*Wearing a wedding ring while hooking up with a student? That's disgusting on a whole new level*

*So the 'loving husband' act at the lecture was just cover for his affairs. Classic manipulation*

*Another young girl homewrecking for money and status. Absolutely shameless*

Each word felt like a physical blow. My vision blurred, and I realized I was holding my breath.

Daniel's hand moved to the back of my neck, his thumb stroking gently. "Keep breathing, baby."

I forced air into my lungs, but the comments kept coming, each one worse than the last.

*What's her angle? A 30-year-old Harvard professor, chief of cardiac surgery, Prescott family heir—if she plays it right, she could replace the wife*

Someone had dug through my Instagram. Screenshots of my recent photos appeared in the thread—me carrying my Chloé Drew bag, the Cartier Love bracelet on my wrist clearly visible.

*Suddenly everything's designer. Wonder where the money's coming from*

My hands were shaking now, a fine tremor I couldn't control. Daniel noticed, setting the phone down and turning me to face him.

"Emma. Look at me."

I couldn't. I kept staring at the phone, at the vitriol spilling across the screen. Someone had connected me to the Paris medical conference.

*Remember that conference? Bet they used it as cover for their affair. Taxpayer money funding their romantic getaway*

"There's more," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

With trembling fingers, I navigated to the Reddit thread Olivia had linked. The post was clinical, detailing an anonymous complaint filed with Harvard's Title IX office.

The comments below debated the ethics, the power dynamics, whether I was a victim or a willing participant. Some defended me. Most didn't.

Daniel was quiet for a moment, his jaw working. Then he reached for his own phone.

"What are you doing?" I asked, panic rising in my chest.

"Calling Jonathan. He's the best defamation lawyer in Boston." His voice was matter-of-fact, already shifting into problem-solving mode.

"Daniel—"

"We set the narrative," he paused, his thumb wiping away my tears with infinite genterness. "This situation? It's not as insurmountable as you think. Trust me."

"But—"

"But," he continued, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that stole my breath,"I need to know something."

He cupped my face in both hands, his forehead coming to rest against mine. "Are you afraid of making this public?"

I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath against my lips, the solid reality of him surrounding me.

I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze with as much steadiness as I could muster.

"No," I whispered. "I'm not afraid."

His expression shifted, something like relief and pride and love all mixed together crossing his features.

"But there's something else," I said quietly. "Something we need to consider."

I pulled back slightly, needing to see his face for this. "Even when we tell the truth—that we're married, that this is legal and legitimate—people will still have questions. They'll still judge."

His expression remained calm, waiting for me to continue.

"They'll say I was your student, even though I never took your class. They'll question the timeline, wonder when it started, whether there was a power imbalance."

He tilted my chin up, making me look at him. "But here's what we know: we didn't break any rules. We got married legally, with proper documentation, following every protocol."

He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me. "We're going to handle this properly—with legal counsel, with formal statements, with evidence if needed. We're going to control the narrative instead of letting rumors control us."

"And if—" I had to force the words out. "If this costs you your position at Harvard? If you have to step down from Mass General?"

His eyes held mine, steady and sure. "Then I'll find another hospital, another teaching position. There are other places that would be lucky to have me."

"Daniel—"

"Emma." He cupped my face in his hands. "I won't regret it. "

The tears came again, but these were different. Cleaner somehow.

"So I'll ask you one more time." His voice was soft but firm. "Are you ready for this? Because once we start, there's no going back. We're all in."

I placed my hands over his, feeling the cool metal of his wedding ring against my palm—the ring I'd chosen for him, the symbol of our commitment.

"Yes," I said, my voice clear and steady. "I'm ready."

His smile was like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. "That's my girl. Smart and brave."

He kissed my forehead, then my nose, then finally my lips, soft and lingering.

When we pulled apart, he picked up my phone, navigating back to BU Confessions with practiced ease. "This isn't the first time you've been targeted on this account."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember when you were in Portland? There was a post then too." His finger scrolled through the account's history.

I leaned closer, my breath catching as I recognized the post. It had been vague, no photos, but it had mentioned "a BU student using family connections to get ahead" and implied I was "trading on old money relationships."

"I thought that was just... random gossip," I whispered.

He switched to the current post, the one with our photo. "Now look at this one. Same talking points. Same accusations. Even some of the same word choices."

My heart was pounding. "You think... you think it's the same person?"

"I think someone is deliberately targeting you." His lips pressed into a thin line.

I stared at the screen, feeling cold spread through my chest. "But... who would do that? Who has that kind of—" I stopped, my mind racing. "Who would have that much hostility toward me?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and unanswerable.