The Forbidden Throb Chapter 60

Emma's POV:

The emphasis on those last two words made something in my chest tighten.

I caught the implication immediately. My body responded before my mind could fully process, shoulders drawing back slightly, spine stiffening.

"That's... very generous," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "I'll have to think about it."

My mind raced through possible excuses to get me out of this dining room, away from James's calculating gaze.

"Of course, of course." James smiled. "No pressure. Though I do hope you'll consider it seriously. Opportunities like this don't come around often for students."

He reached for the wine bottle, refilling his own glass before turning to mine. "Let me top you off. We should celebrate your success properly."

"I'm fine, thank you—" I started, but he was already pouring, the dark liquid rising in my glass, cutting off my protest mid-sentence.

"Come now." He raised his glass toward the assembled guests. "To Emma Johnson, and her bright future in journalism."

The others around the table echoed the toast, and I had no choice but to raise my glass. I took the smallest sip possible, just enough to be polite.

*I needed to stay sharp*

"Now that's hardly sporting," James interrupted, his eyes fixed on me with amused challenge. "A toast to your future, and you barely wet your lips? Come, Miss Johnson. Show us you mean to embrace that bright future wholeheartedly."

The table fell quiet. Every face turned toward me, waiting. I felt the weight of their expectation pressing down like the crystal chandelier overhead.

I forced a smile and raised the glass again. "To the future, then."

The wine burned going down as I drained it in one long swallow, the empty glass catching the light as I set it carefully back on the table.

The conversation around the table gradually resumed, voices rising as guests turned back to their own discussions.

In the renewed hum of chatter, James leaned slightly toward me, his voice dropping low enough that only I could hear.

"That's better," he murmured, a note of satisfaction in his tone. "See? Not so difficult."

That's when I felt it—his hand, resting on my thigh beneath the table.

My entire body went rigid. The contact was light, almost casual, but unmistakable. My stomach lurched violently, bile rising in my throat.

*No. No, no, no.*

My eyes darted frantically around the table. No one glanced our way. No one seemed to notice anything amiss.

And James himself continued speaking to the guest on his other side as if nothing had happened, his expression perfectly pleasant, perfectly normal.

I couldn't breathe. The room suddenly felt too hot, too close, the laughter around me distorting into something nightmarish.

My skin crawled where he touched me, every instinct screaming at me to move, to leave, to *run*.

I stood so abruptly my chair scraped loudly against the floor.

All conversation stopped. Everyone turned to look at me.

James pulled back slightly, his hand immediately withdrawing as he looked up at me with an expression of mild surprise and concern. "Emma? Is everything all right?"

His voice carried just the right note of worried confusion, as if *I* were the one behaving strangely.

The other guests' faces reflected similar bewilderment.

I stood there, breathing too quickly, looking like I'd lost my mind over nothing at all.

"I—" My voice came out strangled, trembling. "Excuse me. I need to use the restroom."

I turned and fled before anyone could react.

I barely made it to the bathroom before the nausea overwhelmed me.

My hands gripped the cool marble of the sink as I leaned over, trying to force up the wine, anything to purge the feeling of violation from my body. But nothing came except dry heaves that left my throat raw and my eyes watering.

*God. Oh God.*

My whole body shook. I pressed my forehead against the mirror, the cold glass doing nothing to calm the trembling that had taken over my limbs. T

How had things turned into—

I'd read about workplace harassment, heard the stories, and nodded along sympathetically. I'd even attended those professional development seminars on workplace boundaries, sat through the scenarios, and practiced the responses.

But experiencing it—my mind had gone completely blank.

All those carefully learned strategies, the assertive responses I'd practiced, the boundary-setting techniques—they'd evaporated the instant I felt his hand on my thigh.

There had been nothing but pure, primal fear. Terror that locked my throat and froze my limbs.

My hands fumbled for my phone in my clutch, fingers shaking so badly I nearly dropped it.

I pulled up Daniel's contact, my thumb hovering over the call button for only a second before pressing it. I didn't think, didn't reason—just acted on pure instinct.

The line began to ring. Once. Twice.

The waiting tone echoed in my ear, and that's when it hit me—the person I'd reached for in crisis, without thinking, without hesitation, was Daniel.

My breath caught. When had he become my instinct? The voice my panic reached for in the dark?

*And what am I even going to say to him?*

*Hi, I'm at a work dinner with my editor who just sexually harassed me, can you come get me?*

Would he even care? This wasn't part of our agreement.

The ringing continued. Four times. Five.

Then his voicemail picked up—that professional, clipped greeting I'd heard a thousand times before: *"You've reached Dr. Prescott. I'm unable to take your call. Please leave a message or contact my office for urgent matters."*

The line beeped.

I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, not knowing whether to feel relieved or abandoned.