The Forbidden Throb Chapter 81

Emma's POV:

Finally. After all the automated rejections and silence, an actual opportunity.

I typed out a professional reply confirming my availability for Today.

*After the interview*, I decided, *I'll go to Newbury Street. Find something nice for Eve. Maybe something for Daniel too.*

I hadn't mentioned it to anyone except Olivia—and even that had been casual, just a quick text last night. *Got an interview today. Fingers crossed.*

She'd responded with a string of excited emojis and a demand for details afterward.

It felt safer that way. Less pressure.

---

The office building housing The Observer sat in the heart of Boston's Financial District, all gleaming glass and polished marble.

Too gleaming. Too polished for a modest local paper.

I smoothed down my blazer and pushed through the revolving doors.

The lobby screamed money. Crystal chandeliers. Leather furniture. A receptionist with an impeccable French manicure.

"Emma Johnson," I told her. "I have a two o'clock interview."

She barely glanced up from her computer. "Fifteenth floor. Someone will meet you."

The elevator was equally ostentatious—mirrored walls, soft jazz piping through hidden speakers.

I caught my reflection and took a moment to smooth down my blazer, adjusting the collar and making sure my hair was still in place.

*You've got this*, I told myself. *It's just an interview.*

The fifteenth floor was all open-concept workspace and glass-walled conference rooms. A man in his forties—receding hairline, expensive suit—stood waiting as the elevator doors opened.

"Ms. Johnson?" His smile was too wide, too practiced. "I'm Thomas Smith, Human Resources Manager. So glad you could make it."

"Thank you for the opportunity," I said, injecting warmth into my voice.

He led me to a conference room with a view of the harbor.

For the next thirty minutes, the interview proceeded normally. Questions about my education, my internship experience, and my career goals. I answered carefully, highlighting my work with Eve, my language skills, my attention to detail.

Thomas nodded along, scribbling notes. "Your French is fluent?"

"Yes. I minored in French during my undergraduate studies."

"Excellent. We occasionally cover international stories. That could be very valuable."

I was beginning to relax when the conference room door opened.

A man stepped inside—probably around my age, mid-twenties at most.

His suit was custom-tailored, his watch gleaming gold, and he had that particular air of someone playing at being a businessman—the kind of rich kid sent to "learn the family business".

My stomach dropped.

"Ah, Michael." Thomas's tone shifted, becoming obsequious. "I didn't realize you'd be joining us."

"Thought I'd sit in." Michael waved off his assistants with a casual flick of his wrist.

Thomas gestured to an empty chair. "Of course. Ms. Johnson, this is Michael Anderson, one of our board members."

Michael settled into his seat with casual confidence. "So, Emma. May I call you Emma?"

I nodded, though something in his tone made me want to refuse.

"Tell me about your relationship status."

The question came out of nowhere, a verbal slap. I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Are you seeing anyone? "

Thomas shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

"I don't see how that's relevant to the position," I said carefully.

Michael's smile didn't waver. "In journalism, personal relationships can create conflicts of interest."

"Yes."

"I see." He leaned back, affecting a casual pose that felt anything but. "And your previous relationship. Why did it end?"

My hands tightened on the arms of my chair. "I'm sorry, what does this have to do with—"

"Context, Emma. We need to understand our candidates holistically." His tone was so reasonable, so smooth, it made everything worse. "Have you considered reconciliation with your ex? Sometimes young people make hasty decisions they later regret."

Heat crept up my neck. "No. I haven't considered that, and I won't be considering it."

"Fair enough." He waved a hand dismissively. "Let me ask you this—in your ideal partnership, what matters more? Financial security or emotional connection?"

Thomas had stopped taking notes entirely, his pen frozen over his notepad.

This wasn't an interview. This was something else entirely.

"With all due respect, Mr. Anderson, these questions are inappropriate."

Michael's smile turned cold. "Inappropriate?"

He leaned back in his chair, the picture of casual authority. "Let me clarify something for you, Emma. You're the one looking for a job. I'm the one who decides whether you get it." He paused, letting that sink in. "So perhaps you should reconsider what's appropriate here."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Thomas's face had gone carefully blank—the expression of someone who'd learned not to interfere when power played its games.

And Michael sat there, radiating the kind of entitlement that came from never once being told no.

Something crystallized inside me. Cold and sharp and final.

I stood, gathering my bag with deliberate calm. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Anderson. But I don't think this position is a good fit for me."

"Ms. Johnson—" Thomas started, but I was already moving toward the door.

"Wait," Michael said. "You're seriously walking away from this opportunity? Do you have any idea how competitive this industry is?"

I paused with my hand on the door handle, looking back at him. "I'm well aware. But I'd rather be unemployed than work somewhere that confuses professional interviews with personal interrogations."

I was out the door before either of them could respond.

---

A coffee shop on the corner.

I pushed through the door into the blessed normalcy of espresso machines and indie music, the smell of burnt coffee oddly comforting.

The corner booth was empty. I slid into it and set my bag down with more force than necessary.

My phone buzzed.

**Olivia:** *So??? How'd it go?? Did they like you? I bet they liked you*