The Forbidden Throb Chapter 64

Emma's POV:

Jane's office was on the corner of the seventh floor—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor, a single framed journalism award on the bookshelf behind her desk.

I knocked, though the door stood ajar.

"Emma." Jane looked up from her computer, her expression carefully composed. "Come in. Close the door, please."

I did, pulse quickening.

I didn't know what Jane wanted. Her expression gave nothing away, and that uncertainty made my palms sweat against my bag strap. The click of the latch sounded unnaturally loud.

Jane gestured to the chair across from her desk. "Sit."

I sat.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Jane's fingers drummed once against her desk, then stilled. Her jaw worked, as if she were choosing words carefully.

"I owe you an apology," she said finally.

Whatever I'd expected, it wasn't that. "I—what?"

"Last night." Her voice was steady, professional, but something raw flickered beneath it. "I saw what James was doing. The way he positioned you at the table. The way his hand..." She stopped, exhaled sharply. "I saw. And I did nothing."

My stomach turned over. "You knew."

"Not specifically about last night. But James's... habits aren't exactly a secret. Not among those of us who've been here long enough."

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze direct and unflinching. "He's a partner. He has two Pulitzers and a Peabody. He's brought in some of the biggest stories this paper has ever run. And so the higher-ups have chosen, for years, to look the other way."

The words settled over me like ice water.

"And those he harassed?" My voice came out hoarse. "The interns, the junior reporters?"

"Most don't speak up. How can they? One word from someone like James Hayes can end a career before it starts. He's made people disappear from this industry with a single phone call." She paused, something bitter crossing her face. "It's easier to stay silent. To survive."

*To survive.*

I understood that impulse viscerally—the instinct to make yourself small, to endure, to not make waves.

"How do you know all this?" I asked quietly.

Jane's fingers stilled against the desk. For a moment, she didn't answer, her gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder.

"Because I was one of them," she said finally.

The words hit me like a physical blow. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"I was twenty-three. Fresh out of Columbia. He was my editor on my first investigative piece." She met my eyes, and I saw something raw there—old pain, carefully contained. "I told myself it was mentorship. Guidance. That I was overreacting, being paranoid. I told myself a lot of things."

My throat felt tight. I admired Jane—her sharp editorial eye, her composure, the way she commanded respect in every meeting. And all this time...

"I'm not telling you this for sympathy," she continued, her tone measured but strained. "I only found the courage to say these things after I heard James was escorted out this morning. Fifteen years it took me. Fifteen years of silence." She let out a hollow laugh. "Compared to you, Emma, I'm a coward."

"It's not your fault—"

"Don't." She cut me off sharply.

Her laugh was hollow. "Don't offer me comfort I don't deserve. I know exactly what I've done—or rather, what I failed to do. I know the weight of my sin."

"HR called me this morning. They needed a statement about team dynamics, his behavior patterns." Jane's expression softened fractionally. "I told them everything."

My chest felt strange—tight and expanded all at once.

She stood, moving to the window, her silhouette backlit by morning sun.

"Emma, you didn't just save yourself. You saved every person who would have walked through that door after you."

She turned, and I saw something raw in her expression—grief, maybe, or regret. "I wish I'd been that brave fifteen years ago."

I stood as well, my legs unsteady. "It's not too late."

Jane smiled—small, sad, but genuine. "Maybe."

A beat of silence.

"I want to talk about your future here," she said, shifting back to business mode.

Jane moved back to her desk, pulling out a folder. "Whatever you decide, I support it. If you want to stay, I'll make sure you're protected. I'll advocate for you personally. If you want to leave..."

She opened the folder, revealing what looked like legal documents. "I've already spoken to HR about a severance package. "

I stared at the papers.

*Stay or go.*

The choice should have felt impossible. But in that moment, something crystallized inside me—sharp and clear and undeniable.

"I want to leave," I said.

Leaving doesn't mean I'm afraid. It means I'm brave enough to face what comes next, even when I don't know what that is. Even when the path ahead is uncertain.

Jane nodded, unsurprised. "I understand."

She pushed the folder across the desk. "I've made sure the terms are more than fair. Take your time reviewing them."

I gathered the folder, preparing to leave. But at the door, I hesitated.

"Jane?"

"Yes?"

"Someone told me recently that I'm a brave girl." The memory of Daniel's voice in that convenience store rose unbidden—steady, certain, unwavering. "At the time, I thought I was anything but brave."

I turned to face her fully.

"But he was right. And so are you—you *are* brave. Maybe it took fifteen years to get here, but you're here now. "

Jane's eyes glistened, but she blinked rapidly, maintaining her composure. "Good luck, Emma Johnson."

"You too."

I didn't feel the heaviness I'd expected.

Instead, as I lifted the box and headed for the elevator, I felt something else entirely.

*Lightness.*

The sun streamed through the lobby windows as I pushed through the revolving door. My phone buzzed—Grandma, her message simple and warm: *How's my girl today?*