The Forbidden Throb Chapter 24

Emma's POV:

My eyes snapped to his face, shock evident even behind my mask.

He *had* recognized me.

"How did you know?" The words escaped before I could stop them.

My hand instinctively moved toward my face, as if to verify the mask was still in place. "The mask—"

Nicholas clearly enjoyed my flustered state. A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes as he watched me struggle to regain my composure.

"Don't worry, your disguise is still intact."

Something snapped inside me.

"When?" I demanded, abandoning any pretense. "When did you figure it out?"

Nicholas tilted his head, considering—or more likely, drawing out my discomfort for his own entertainment.

"First glance? Just a suspicion. Something familiar in the way you stood there, trying to blend into the wall." His lips curved.

"But I wasn't sure," he continued, clearly savoring this.

"Could have been anyone behind that mask." He let out a soft laugh. "But you went so quiet. Like if you didn't move, didn't talk, maybe I'd look right past you."

"What if you were wrong?" I challenged.

His smile turned smug. "But you just confirmed it was, didn't you? "

I felt a surge of frustration at myself. *Walked right into that one.*

"Very clever," I said dryly, recognizing the trap I'd fallen into.

The orchestra began a waltz, and Nicholas pulled me into the dance with practiced ease.

The moment his hand settled at my waist, a sharp prickling sensation shot down my spine—intense, focused, like daggers pressed against my back. Not the casual glances of other dancers, but something more intense, more focused.

As Nicholas guided me through a turn, I caught sight of the source over his shoulder.

Megan stood at the edge of the dance floor, her eyes locked on us with laser-like precision.

Even from this distance, I could read the barely contained fury in her rigid posture, the way her champagne glass tilted dangerously in her grip.

I just wanted this dance to end—wanted to slip away from Nicholas's hold, from Megan's murderous stare, from this entire absurd situation.

But Nicholas seemed to be enjoying himself, his steps leisurely, deliberately prolonging each measure.

"Aren't you worried Megan might get jealous?" I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "She looks ready to throw that champagne glass."

Nicholas's smile widened, infuriatingly smug. "Whether she's jealous or not, I couldn't say." He pulled me slightly closer through a turn, his voice dropping. "But *you* seem awfully concerned about it. Almost like *you're* the jealous one."

I stared at him, genuinely baffled. "What?"

"Come on, Emma." His tone was patronizing, like he was explaining something obvious to a slow student. "Showing up here, the costume, asking about Megan—it's all a bit transparent, don't you think?"

*The narcissism was truly staggering.*

"I'm not—" I started, but he cut me off smoothly.

"It's fine. I get it." His green eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "You came to make amends. To work things out between us. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"I had no idea you'd be here," I said truthfully. "I only came because Olivia insisted."

Nicholas laughed softly. "Playing hard to get? Everyone knows I never miss these events. "

I bit my lip, remembering too late his reputation as a fixture at campus social functions. But I refused to let him think I'd planned this encounter.

"I'm not playing anything," I said firmly. "And this costume was Olivia's idea, not mine."

I met his gaze directly. "Besides, if I really came here hoping to see you, why would I pretend not to recognize you?"

"Maybe you were shy..." Nicholas replied, but his voice had lost some of its earlier confidence.

He studied my face, taking in the seriousness in my eyes, the firm set of my jaw. Slowly, the amusement drained from his expression. His smile dimmed, then faded entirely.

"So you really didn't," he said quietly. "You didn't come here looking for me."

I shook my head.

Something shuttered behind his eyes. The warmth vanished completely, replaced by that familiar cold pride.

His hand at my waist tightened imperceptibly, and when he spoke again, his voice had shed all pretense of warmth.

"Good," Nicholas said, his tone dripping with disdain.

"For a moment there, I was worried you'd come crawling back. Pathetic and apologetic, begging for another chance." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "God, that would have been pathetic. "

The contempt in his voice was palpable. "And I'm certainly not stupid enough to fall for the same type of person twice. Once was more than enough of a lesson."

I felt the words like a physical blow. My breath caught in my throat.

*The same type of person.* As if I were something contemptible. Someone fundamentally unworthy, beneath his standards—someone he needed to guard against, warn himself about.

He must have seen the shock on my face, because his expression didn't soften. If anything, it grew harder.

"I'm glad we're clear on this," he continued, his tone glacial.

"Just don't be like those desperate girls who cling to guys like me, making pathetic attempts to stay relevant. Showing up everywhere, manufacturing coincidences, hoping for scraps of attention."

Something cold and clarifying crystallized in my chest.

This—*this*—was who Nicholas really was. Not the charming boyfriend who'd swept me off my feet freshman year, but this sneering, cruel stranger.

"You know what?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "You don't need to worry about me crawling back. Ever. Because I have a boyfriend."

The effect was immediate. Nicholas's step faltered, his rhythm breaking for just an instant.

"A boyfriend?" he repeated slowly, his voice flat with disbelief.