The Forbidden Throb Chapter 89

Daniel's POV:

The notification flashed across my phone screen just as I finished reviewing the surgical notes—*Weather Alert: Heavy Rainstorm in Portland*.

I picked up the phone and sent a message:

*Heavy rainstorm alert for Portland. Be careful if you need to go out.*

I stood and walked to the window, looking out over Boston's skyline.

The weather here was clear, almost mockingly pleasant.

My phone stayed silent.

Luke appeared in the doorway, surgical cap still on. "OR 3 is ready. Patient's prepped and anesthesia is standing by." He paused, studying my face. "You okay?"

"Fine." I turned from the window. "Just checking weather conditions."

"In Portland?" His eyebrow rose. "That's where Emma is, right? "

"Yes." I picked up my phone again. Still nothing from Emma. "Heavy rainstorm. Haven't heard from her yet."

Luke's expression softened slightly. "I'm sure she's fine. Probably just busy with the exhibition setup."

I'm about to pocket my phone when it finally buzzes in my hand.

Emma: "So sorry! I've been running non-stop all day and completely forgot to check my phone. Just got back to the hotel now. Don't worry—everything's fine!"

The tension in my shoulders eases. I type back quickly: "Good to hear. Have you eaten?"

Three dots appear immediately.

Emma: "Yes! My friend and I grabbed dinner at this cute café. "

A moment later, a photo loaded on my screen.

It was clearly taken from inside a hotel room: a glimpse of a neatly made bed, the corner of a window with raindrops visible on the glass, and on the nightstand, a white ceramic mug with steam rising from what looks like hot milk.

I stare at the photo. Emma doesn't drink hot milk before bed. She's a chamomile tea person.

But someone made her that milk. Someone who knows she's had a long day. Someone who's close enough to bring it to her room.

"Your friend is staying at the same hotel?" I type, keeping my tone casual.

Emma: "Yes. It would be safer—you know, in case of emergencies."

Perfectly reasonable. Logical, even. But why does something tighten in my chest?

"Everything okay?" Luke asked.

I look up, realizing I've been standing here staring at my phone for longer than appropriate. "Fine. She's at the hotel."

"Good. So you can relax now." Luke glances at his watch. "Come on, let's get ready. OR 3 is waiting."

I nod, pocketing my phone. "Right. Give me five minutes."

I head to the locker room, the familiar ritual of preparation helping to clear my head. Strip off the street clothes, pull on the scrubs, tie the drawstring. Each motion was mechanical, practiced.

We push through the double doors into the surgical suite.

The space is more crowded than usual—not just the standard OR team, but several residents arranged along the observation gallery above, notebooks ready.

Two cameras are positioned at strategic angles, their red recording lights already glowing.

Dr. Owen's voice carries across the room, crisp and commanding despite his fifty-two years. "Today's ascending aortic replacement will serve as the new standard protocol demonstration. Dr. Prescott and I will be performing the procedure together."

"Begin."

He meets my eyes over his mask, and I see the familiar gleam of challenge there.

Owen trained me, shaped me into the surgeon I am today. But he's never coddled me, never gone easy just because I'm David Prescott Sr.'s grandson or because I graduated top of my class.

The next two hours pass in a blur of focused intensity.

Owen works the initial dissection while I manage the cardiopulmonary bypass, our movements synchronized from years of operating together.

When we're ready to wean from bypass, the heart begins to beat on its own, filling the new graft with each contraction. The suture lines hold. No leaks, no bleeding.

"Excellent work," Owen says, loud enough for the observers to hear. "Now we wait for rewarming. Thirty minutes minimum before we can close."

The anesthesiologist adjusts the warming blanket and IV fluids. The perfusionist begins the slow process of raising the patient's core temperature back to normal.

Owen and I step away from the table, allowing the residents to observe the waiting period.

"Coffee?" Owen asks, already moving toward the small break room adjacent to the OR.

"Please."

Owen pours two cups of the thick, bitter brew that's kept surgeons awake for decades. He hands me one and settles into the chair with a soft grunt.

"You've checked your watch four times," Owen observes, his tone conversational.

I glance down at my wrist, then realize I'm not even wearing a watch. The gesture was pure habit. "Force of habit."

"Hmm." He takes another sip of coffee, his eyes sharp despite the casual tone. "I overheard some of your conversation with Luke earlier. Your wife—she's in Portland right now? In that storm?"

I shouldn't be surprised. The surgeon's lounge isn't exactly soundproof.

"Yes. For a work project."

"And you're worried." It's not a question. He sets down his cup, regarding me steadily. "That's natural, Daniel. But you need to trust her ability to handle difficulties on her own. To take care of herself."

"I do trust her."

"Then what are you worried about?" Owen's gaze doesn't waver.

I hesitate, then admit, "She's on this trip with someone she admires greatly. They're staying at the same hotel, working closely together."

Understanding dawns in Owen's eyes immediately. "Ah. So this isn't about trusting Emma's ability to handle a storm. This is about trusting her not to be... swayed by someone else."

"I trust Emma," I say firmly. "I don't trust other people's intentions."

"Daniel—"

"She's young, Owen. Still figuring out what she wants, who she wants to be. People at that stage are impressionable. Vulnerable to influence."

After all, I did exactly that myself. The thought rises unbidden, uncomfortable in its honesty. 

I courted Emma as her bond with Nicholas began to unravel. I observed her wavering heart, her silent struggles, and I made myself present at every turn—offering support, understanding, and an alternative.

I took advantage of her vulnerability and pulled her away from him.

Owen lets out a long breath, something between a sigh and a chuckle. "Fine. Let's finish closing this patient up so you can do whatever it is you're planning to do. "

We return to the OR, where the patient's temperature has stabilized at 37.1 degrees Celsius.

I pick up the titanium needle driver. The instrument is an extension of my fingers now, after thousands of hours of practice.

Thread through tissue, pull, tie, cut.

Around me, I can feel the attention of the observers. Residents were learning, and cameras were recording every movement. This footage will be used in teaching for years, dissected frame by frame.

When I tie off the final knot and step back, the closure is flawless.

"Perfect over," Owen announces to the room.

The red recording lights blink off. The camera lowered.

I move through the post-surgical routine, checking vitals one final time before the patient is wheeled to recovery. When I look up, Owen is watching me from across the OR, his eyes knowing.

He doesn't say anything. Just gives me a slight nod toward the door—a gesture that's unmistakable in its meaning.

Go.

I hold his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between us. Then I nod back.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm dressed in street clothes—dark jeans, gray cashmere sweater, leather jacket. My hair is still damp from the quick shower.

The engine purrs to life. I back out smoothly, heading to Portland.