The Forbidden Throb Chapter 183

Emma's POV:

Nicholas's movements were stiff, mechanical.

I could see the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw worked as if grinding down words he couldn't say.

Then Eleanor's hand was on my arm again, warm and insistent, guiding me away from the awkward tableau at the door.

"Come, dear," she said, her voice carrying that peculiar blend of command and affection that seemed uniquely hers. "Everyone's waiting in the drawing room."

I glanced back once. Daniel was hanging my coat in the hall closet, his movements unhurried, controlled. He caught my eye and gave me the smallest nod.

The drawing room took my breath away.

The ceiling soared above us, coffered and painted in soft cream. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, its mantel carved from what looked like a single piece of marble.

The furniture was arranged in careful clusters—wing chairs upholstered in burgundy leather, a sofa that could seat six comfortably, side tables that gleamed with the patina of age and care.

Everything spoke of money, yes, but also of *time*. Of roots that went deep into Boston soil.

And in the center of it all, waiting, was Daniel's family.

Charles and Katherine Prescott occupied the sofa like they were posing for a portrait—backs straight, hands folded, expressions pleasant and utterly unreadable.

My throat went dry.

"Emma, dear." Eleanor's voice was gentle but firm. "Come sit beside me."

She guided me to a loveseat.

Daniel settled into the chair beside mine. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, that familiar scent of cedar and mint that had become synonymous with *safety* in my mind.

His hand found mine between our chairs, hidden from view by the angle of the furniture. His thumb traced slow circles on my palm.

"So," David Sr. set down his cup. "No engagement party. No wedding. Daniel, did you just *kidnap* this poor girl?"

My face went hot.

But there was a twinkle in the old man's eye that undercut the severity of his words. Eleanor made a soft sound that might have been a laugh.

"It was my fault, Grandfather," Daniel said calmly. "I was... impatient."

"Impatient." David Sr. snorted. "That's one word for it."

I wanted to sink through the floor.

"I think it's romantic," Sophia piped up from her window seat. "Like something out of a movie."

Charles cleared his throat. "What matters is that you're here now, Emma. Welcome to the family."

The words were correct. The sentiment seemed genuine. But there was a distance in his eyes, a formality that made me think of a CEO greeting a new hire rather than a father welcoming his son's wife.

Daniel's hand tightened on mine.

"Actually," Eleanor said briskly, "what matters is that we fix this appalling lack of proper celebration." She turned to me, her blue eyes warm. "Emma, dear, would you be terribly opposed to a spring wedding? Nothing too elaborate—just family and close friends. Perhaps at the estate in Concord?"

My mind went blank. "I... I don't..."

"We can discuss it later," Daniel interjected smoothly. "Let's not overwhelm Emma on her first visit."

As if sensing my distress, Daniel lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that was both reassuring and possessive.

Eleanor saw. I watched her eyes soften, watched her exchange a glance with her husband that spoke of decades of shared understanding.

"Well," she said, patting my knee. "I have something for you, dear. David, would you...?"

The butler stepped forward with a flat velvet box. Not Tiffany blue, but deeper, richer. The fabric was slightly worn at the edges, suggesting age.

Eleanor took the box, cradling it with obvious reverence, and turned to face me fully.

"Emma," she said, her voice taking on a ceremonial quality, "this belonged to my mother-in-law. She received it from *her* mother on her wedding day in 1925."

She opened the box.

I stopped breathing.

Diamonds. Not the flashy, modern kind that Nicholas used to point out in jewelry store windows. These were different—Art Deco, all clean geometric lines and platinum settings. A necklace and matching earrings that caught the firelight and threw it back in a thousand tiny rainbows.

"I can't," I heard myself say. "Mrs. Prescott, I can't possibly—"

"Eleanor," she corrected gently. "And you can. You must." She lifted the necklace from its velvet bed. "This is tradition, dear. The Prescott matriarch passes it to the next generation's bride. You're Daniel's wife. That makes these yours."

Daniel's arm came around my shoulders. "Emma," he said quietly, "you are exactly where you're supposed to be."

Eleanor was already moving, fastening the necklace around my throat with practiced ease. The diamonds were cold against my skin, heavy with the weight of history and expectation.

"There," Eleanor said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Perfect."

Sophia bounced over, eyes wide. "Oh my God, Emma, you look like a princess! "

My hand went to the necklace, feeling the cool facets of the diamonds.

---

Dinner was announced at six.

The dining room made the drawing room look modest.

A table that could seat twenty stretched before us, its surface gleaming like black glass. Tonight, place settings clustered at one end—intimate by the room's standards, though still formal enough to make my stomach clench.

Charles asked about my family. I gave the sanitized version.

Katherine asked about my career plans. I talked about the French fellowship, the possibility of freelancing for international publications.

They were polite. They were interested. They were *trying*.

But there was a distance there—a careful space they maintained between themselves and me. Not hostile, exactly. Just... reserved.

I thought of Eleanor's immediate warmth, David Sr.'s gruff kindness. The difference was stark.

Charles had reached for the serving platter, was lifting it toward Daniel's plate.

"Here, son," he said. "You should have more of this sweet potato casserole. It's Sophia's favorite."

Daniel's fork paused halfway to his mouth.

I watched as Charles spooned a generous portion onto Daniel's plate, followed by another serving of the Brussels sprouts with bacon.

"And these," Charles continued, seemingly oblivious. "Nicholas said they were excellent last time."

Something cold settled in my stomach.

I looked at Daniel's plate. Really looked at it.

The sweet potato casserole was loaded with brown sugar and butter. The Brussels sprouts were nearly swimming in bacon grease.

Daniel had told me once, months ago, that he couldn't eat rich foods. Something about his stomach being sensitive, a childhood thing he'd never outgrown.

I'd filed it away, the way he filed away everything about me.

But his own father didn't know.

I watched Daniel accept the food with perfect politeness. Watched him move it to the edge of his plate, untouched. Watched his parents not notice, not care, too busy discussing Sophia's upcoming field hockey tournament.

My hands clenched in my lap.

Then Katherine was reaching for the pecan pie.

"Daniel," she said warmly, "you must try this. It's your father's favorite."

I couldn't help anymore.

"Please don't, Mrs. Prescott."

The words came out sharper than I'd intended. Every head turned toward me.

Katherine's hand froze, the pie server hovering in midair. "I'm sorry?"

My heart was pounding, but I kept my voice steady. "Daniel can't have too much sugar. Or rich foods. It bothers his stomach."

Silence crashed over the table like a wave.

"It's fine," Daniel said quietly. But his hand had found mine under the table, squeezing tight.

"It's not fine," I heard myself say. "You're his parents. You should know this."

Oh God. Had I really just said that out loud?

Katherine set down the pie server with careful precision. "You're quite right, Emma. I... we should have remembered."

The admission hung in the air, heavy with years of casual neglect.

Someone needed to stand up for Daniel.

Even if that someone was me.

---

Later, when we were home.

I'd changed out of my dress, washed off my makeup.

We climbed into bed, and Daniel pulled me against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.

"Emma?" he murmured into the darkness.

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For standing up for me tonight. At dinner."

I shifted in his arms, pressing closer. "That's what I'm supposed to do," I said softly. "You've protected me so many times. Now it's my turn."

His breath caught. "Emma—"

"I mean it, Daniel." I tilted my head up, though I could barely see his face in the darkness. "From now on, I'll always stand up for you. Always protect you. You don't have to face everything alone anymore."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his arms tightened around me, pulling me impossibly closer, his face buried in my hair.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Okay."

We fell asleep like that—wrapped in each other's warmth, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, my hand resting over his heart.

In each other's arms, we'd found the safest harbor.

——The End——