The Forbidden Throb Chapter 82

Emma's POV:

I stared at the messages, my throat tight. The anger I'd barely managed to suppress surged back up.

**Emma:** *Disaster. Complete disaster.*

**Emma:** *The guy asked about my ex, whether I wanted to reconcile, if I value money or feelings more in a relationship*

**Emma:** *Then told me HE decides if I get hired so HIS questions are what matter*

My fingers flew across the screen, typing out everything—Michael Anderson's outrageous moves.

The response was immediate—my phone rang.

"What the actual hell?" Olivia's voice was sharp. "Emma, that's—are you sure it wasn't your ex?"

"My only ex is Nicholas. "

My hands tightened around my cup. "I'm sure I don't know any Michael—"

Silence. Then: "Wait. Think. Do you know anyone with the last name Anderson?"

"Anderson?" I frowned. "No, I don't think—"

The thought stopped mid-sentence.

Katherine Prescott. Daniel and Nicholas's mother.

What was her maiden name?

*Anderson.*

The realization hit like ice water.

"Oh my God," I breathed. "I think I know who did this.

"Emma—" Olivia's voice turned muffled, like she'd covered the phone. "Shit, I'm so sorry, my editor's literally standing over me. I have to go. Call you next time?"

"Okay."

The line went dead.

I sat there in the too-bright coffee shop, my untouched latte growing cold between my hands.

Nicholas.

Again Nicholas.

First, that bizarre scene outside my former company—pulling up in his Porsche, practically ordering me into his car, only to drop me off blocks away without explanation.

And now this. Michael Anderson, asking invasive questions about my love life in what should have been a *professional interview*—questions about my ex-boyfriend, about reconciliation, about whether I valued money or feelings—in a conference room, surrounded by HR personnel.

Questions designed to humiliate, to remind me exactly where I stood.

It was absurd. Petty. Vindictive.

And completely, perfectly Nicholas.

I wanted to dismiss it. Tell myself I was being paranoid, reading malice into coincidence. But the more I turned it over in my mind, the more sense it made.

And I had crossed him. Spectacularly.

This was his revenge. Sabotaging my career prospects, humiliating me in professional settings where I was already vulnerable.

Using his family's resources and network of connections, he could make my life difficult without ever showing his face. A single phone call to the right relative, a casual mention over drinks.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

The realization made me want to scream.

---

I moved to a bench outside the coffee shop, needing air.

The afternoon sun was warm on my face, but I couldn't shake the chill that had settled into my bones.

My phone rang again. Professor Laurent this time.

"Emma! I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all, Professor." I tried to inject some lightness into my voice. "What's up?"

"I wanted to thank you for those medical background materials you sent over. It was extremely impressed."

Something in my chest loosened slightly. "Really?"

At least that hadn't been wasted. All those late nights cross-referencing medical journals, fact-checking procedures, and making sure every technical detail was accurate.

"Really. Your grasp of the terminology was exceptional." Laurent paused. "I'm curious, actually. Where did you learn all that jargon? It's quite specialized."

I thought of Daniel, patient and thorough, explaining cardiac mechanics at midnight while I took notes.

The way his eyes had crinkled when I'd finally understood a particularly complex concept.

"My husband helped me," I admitted. "He's a cardiac surgeon."

"Ah." Laurent's tone turned knowing. "That explains it. You're very resourceful, Emma. You should bring him around sometime. I can't wait to meet him."

We talked logistics for a few more minutes.

By the time we hung up, I felt fractionally better.

At least *something* was going right.

---

When I got home, the apartment was empty—Daniel's coat wasn't on the hook, his keys weren't in the ceramic dish by the door.

I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter and wandered out to the balcony.

The November air had that crystalline quality it got before sunset, the sky fading from pale blue to something softer.

I settled into the chair and pulled my knees up to my chest.

The city stretched out below, all brick and glass catching the last of the light.

I watched the sun sink lower, turning the sky orange, then pink, then that deep violet that meant true dusk.

My eyes grew heavy.

---

I woke to darkness and the weight of soft fabric across my shoulders.

For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then the balcony chair's iron arm dug into my hip, and it all came back.

A blanket. Someone had covered me with a blanket.

Daniel.

I stood slowly, joints protesting, and wrapped the blanket tighter around myself. Through the glass door, I could see light from the living room spilling into the kitchen.

Daniel's voice, low and measured, coming from somewhere downstairs.

I padded inside, leaving the blanket draped over the chair, and followed the sound down to the living room.

Daniel stood with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear, one hand braced against his desk.

"—understand that," he was saying. "But I need to know who authorized it."

A pause.

My foot caught the edge of the doorframe. Not hard, but enough to make a soft scraping sound.

Daniel turned immediately, his expression shifting the moment he saw me. Whatever he'd been about to say into the phone died.

"I'll call you back," he said, and ended the call without waiting for a response.

He set the phone down on his desk, his movements careful, deliberate. When he looked at me again, his face had softened completely.

"You're awake." He crossed the room in a few strides. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I just—" I gestured vaguely. "Fell asleep outside."

"I noticed." His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. "You must be hungry. I made something with those chestnuts your grandmother sent over—chestnut cakes. They just came out of the oven."

My stomach chose that moment to growl.

"Chestnuts?" I blinked. "When did Grandma send chestnuts?"