The Forbidden Throb Chapter 59

Emma's POV:

The afternoon crawled by in a haze of transcription work and fact-checking.

By five-thirty, I was ready to slip out quietly, avoid any more attention. But as I gathered my things, Lily appeared at my desk, her eyes bright with barely contained excitement.

"Emma! Perfect timing." She grabbed my arm, her enthusiasm palpable.

"So, James Hayes—you know, the co-owner and editor-in-chief?—he's been singing your praises all afternoon. He specifically asked if you'd join us for dinner tonight."

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around my bag strap. "Lily, I don't—"

"Come on, it's just dinner!" She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "James *never* praises employees like this. He's notoriously hard to impress. This is a huge opportunity, Emma. You can't pass it up."

*Can't I?*

I thought of my modest résumé, still thin with experience.

Graduation was approaching faster than I wanted to acknowledge, and I'd need solid references, recommendation letters, maybe even a job offer. Professor Laurent's fellowship was wonderful, but having professional connections in Boston wouldn't hurt.

"Everyone's going to be there," Lily pressed. "If you don't come, honestly, I'd feel terrible. Like I dragged you into this spotlight and then abandoned you to deal with the fallout alone."

Her expression shifted, genuine concern replacing the excitement. "Please? Just a couple hours."

I wavered, caught between my instinct to decline and the practical voice in my head reminding me that networking mattered. That I couldn't afford to appear standoffish or ungrateful.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "Just for a little while."

Lily's face lit up. "Yes! You won't regret this, I promise."

---

Twenty minutes later, we were sliding into an Uber, heading toward Back Bay.

Lily chattered excitedly about the restaurant—some upscale Italian place I'd never heard of—while I stared out the window, watching the familiar streets blur past.

"So James went to Columbia Journalism School," Lily was saying, her voice animated. "Then he worked at the *Globe* for like, ten years before starting the site. He's *the* guy to know if you want to make it in Boston media. Seriously, Emma, he could open so many doors for you."

I nodded absently, but something about her tone unsettled me.

Professor Laurent's voice echoed in my mind from our last advising session: *"Never look up to anyone in this profession, Emma. Respect their work, yes, but maintain your professional dignity. The moment you start viewing someone as above you, you've already compromised your ability to do honest journalism."*

I shifted in my seat, trying to shake off the discomfort.

Maybe I was being too sensitive. Maybe this was just how people talked about successful figures in their field.

The restaurant was tucked into a quiet side street in Back Bay, its exterior understated but clearly expensive.

Inside, warm lighting and the murmur of sophisticated conversation created an atmosphere of refined elegance that immediately made me feel out of place.

Lily led me through the main dining room to a private room in the back. Through the half-open door, I could see several people already seated around a large table, wine glasses glinting in the candlelight.

"There they are!" Lily pushed the door open fully, and several heads turned our way.

My eyes immediately found James Hayes at the head of the table.

He was in his early forties, I guessed, with salt-and-pepper hair styled perfectly and an expensive-looking suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

When he saw us, his face broke into a warm smile.

"Lily! And you must be Emma." He stood smoothly, moving around the table to greet us. "I'm so glad you could make it. Your work today has been the talk of the office."

"Thank you, Mr. Hayes," I managed, accepting his handshake.

"Please, call me James." He gestured toward an empty seat to his right. "Here, sit next to me. I want to get to know you better."

I glanced around the table. Lily had already claimed a seat further down, immediately diving into animated conversation with one of the other editors. Jane was at the far end, laughing at something someone said, completely out of reach.

The empty chair to James's right suddenly felt like a trap I couldn't escape.

Everyone was already settling in, reaching for wine glasses, unfolding napkins. To refuse now would be awkward, would draw attention, would make me seem difficult or rude.

*Just sit down. It's fine. It's just a seat.*

But my hands felt cold as I slid into the chair, hyperaware of how the arrangement isolated me—placed me directly in his line of sight with no buffer, no ally within easy reach.

As the meal progressed, James proved to be a masterful conversationalist.

He shared amusing anecdotes about his time at the *Globe*, gossiped about local media personalities, and drew out the younger staff members with genuine-seeming interest.

The table was alive with laughter and the clink of glasses, and despite my initial wariness, I found myself relaxing slightly.

The food was excellent—real Italian cuisine, not the Americanized versions I was used to. I focused on my pasta, listening more than talking, occasionally offering comments when directly addressed but mostly content to observe.

It wasn't until everyone had settled into eating and drinking, conversations fragmenting into smaller groups, that I noticed James's attention turning more frequently toward me.

"You know, Emma," he said, leaning closer so I could hear him over the ambient noise, "I think you have real potential. The kind of talent worth cultivating."

"Thank you," I said carefully. "I'm still learning—"

"Nonsense. That interview showed instincts you can't teach." He took a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving my face. "In fact, I've been thinking... maybe you could work with me directly on some deeper investigative pieces. They'd require more time, of course. Late nights, probably. But I'd provide *personal guidance*."