The Forbidden Throb Chapter 26

Emma's POV:

The Uber ride back to campus passed in a blur.

I'd texted Olivia that I was leaving, claiming a headache.

Not entirely a lie—after everything that had happened, my temples throbbed with accumulated tension.

The dorm was quiet when I slipped inside. I was grateful for the solitude.

I peeled off the costume with methodical care. Each layer removed felt like shedding a skin—the princess dress, the mask, the carefully applied makeup.

I pulled my pajamas on, then padded to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face properly, scrubbing away the last traces of tonight's performance.

Back in my room, I climbed into bed, pulling my quilt up to my chin.

The familiar weight of it settled over me—my grandmother's handiwork, each stitch a reminder of home, of Portland.

I curled onto my side, drawing my knees up, making myself small in the narrow dorm bed.

My phone buzzed. A text from Olivia: *Found Matthew! All is right with the world. You okay? Headache bad?*

*I'm fine,* I typed back. *Have fun. Use protection.* 

Her response was a string of laughing emojis and a kiss.

I set the phone on my nightstand and closed my eyes.

Sleep came quickly, pulling me under into dreams of waltzing in empty ballrooms, of voices I couldn't quite hear, of questions I couldn't quite answer.

---

Friday afternoon found me on a Peter Pan bus headed north on I-95, watching the landscape shift from city to coast.

The decision to visit Grandma Grace had been spontaneous.

I'd checked my schedule—only two classes next week, both easily skippable—and suddenly I couldn't stand another moment in Boston.

Portland was only two hours away, but it felt like a different world. A world that let me be safe.

The bus dropped me at the terminal downtown, and I walked the familiar route to Grandma's house on Congress Street.

The late October air smelled of salt and woodsmoke, and the harbor stretched out gray and vast under an overcast sky.

Her Victorian was exactly as I remembered—pale yellow with white trim, the wraparound porch decorated with pots of chrysanthemums in deep oranges and russets. Smoke curled from the chimney.

I climbed the steps and knocked, even though I had a key.

Grandma was getting older now—her heart couldn't take the kind of surprises young people thought were fun.

"Coming!" Grandma's voice called from inside.

The door swung open, and there she was—silver hair in its customary bun, flour dusting her apron, reading glasses pushed up on her head.

"**Emma!**"

Her whole face transformed—surprise melting into pure joy.

She pulled me into a hug that smelled like vanilla and lavender, her thin arms surprisingly strong.

"My darling girl! What are you doing here? Why didn't you call? " She pulled back, cupping my face with floury hands, studying me with those sharp blue eyes that saw too much. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Grandma." The lie came easily, well-practiced. "I just missed you. Thought I'd surprise you."

She smiled and gave my shoulders an affectionate squeeze, then her gaze drifted past me toward the gravel driveway visible through the open door.

The autumn wind carried the salt-sharp scent of the harbor into her warm kitchen.

Her eyes lingered there for a moment, searching. I realized who she was looking for.

"Just me," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly.

"Oh." Her attention returned to my face, carrying a flicker of awkwardness that quickly softened into something gentler.

She brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture so familiar it made my throat tight. "And Nicholas? How is that young man of yours?"

The phrase sat uncomfortably in the space between us.

"He had... he had things to do. School commitments." The words felt hollow even as I spoke them.

Something knowing settled in the lines around her eyes. "Ah. I see."

She turned back toward her flour-dusted counter, picking up her rolling pin with practiced ease. "Doesn't much care for Portland, does he? Never has, I'd wager. All those Boston boys are the same—think anywhere outside the city limits is the wilderness."

There was no judgment in her voice, just a matter-of-fact observation.

"It's not that—"

"It's alright, sweetheart." She glanced back at me over her shoulder, her smile gentle. "You're here. That's what matters."

She pulled me inside, already chattering about tea and cookies.

The living room stopped me in my tracks.

White fabric everywhere. Lace and tulle spread across the sofa, the coffee table, even the armchair by the window. Grandma's sewing machine hummed in the corner, and beside it sat her vintage dress form, draped in what looked like... 

A wedding veil.

Delicate and beautiful, hand-sewn with tiny seed pearls at the edges.

"Oh." The word came out small. "You're... you're sewing."

Grandma followed my gaze, her expression softening.

"For your wedding, sweetheart. I know it's early still, but I wanted to get started on your veil. The lacework takes time, and I want it to be perfect."

She moved to the dress form, adjusting the draping with gentle hands. "Your mother mentioned you and Nicholas might be planning something for next summer, so I thought... well, it's always good to start early."

I felt a familiar flash of irritation toward Victoria—always spinning elaborate futures out of thin air, talking about things that hadn't even taken shape yet.

I looked at Grandma, at her gentle smile and the pride in her eyes as she touched the delicate lace, and the words caught in my throat.

How could I tell her? How could I explain that there would be no wedding, no summer ceremony, that everything Victoria had built up was crumbling even as we stood here?

"Oh, but first—" Grandma turned suddenly toward the kitchen, her face brightening. "I just took a batch of cookies out of the oven. Oatmeal raisin, your favorite. You have to try them while they're still warm."

She hurried off before I could respond, leaving me standing alone with the half-finished veil and the weight of words I didn't know how to say.

While her back was turned, something on the counter caught my eye.

Her phone, face-up beside the bowl of rising dough, had lit up with a notification.

I shouldn't have looked. Wasn't trying to. But I glanced at the illuminated screen, my attention caught by the word "doctor."

Had Grandma been feeling unwell? She hadn't mentioned anything.

Before I could think better of it, I picked up the phone to check.

*Portland Medical Center: Reminder - Follow-up appointment scheduled for tomorrow, 10 AM. Please arrive 15 minutes early for bloodwork.*