The Forbidden Throb Chapter 93

Emma's POV:

I stared at Daniel, his question hanging in the air between us.

*A man who has ulterior motives toward you.*

My mind scrambled to process his words. The rain hammered against the windows, filling the silence as I replayed our conversation. Every sentence about my friend. My mentor. My—

Oh.

*Oh no.*

"Daniel." I took a breath, forcing myself to meet his eyes directly. Those gray-blue eyes that were usually so calm now held something sharp and guarded. "I think... I think there's been a misunderstanding."

His jaw remained tight. "Has there?"

"My friend is not a man..." I felt a laugh bubble up despite the tension—absurd, inappropriate, but I couldn't help it. "She is a charismatic woman. "

Daniel went completely still. His eyes fixed on me with a dazed expression, as though my words hadn't quite registered.

He just stared, unblinking, like someone trying to process information in a language they didn't fully understand.

I reached for my phone instinctively, ready to pull up proof—a photo, something to show him. But as I scrolled through my camera roll, reality hit me. There were no pictures of Eve. Not a single one.

"Maybe I could call her," I said suddenly, already pulling up her contact. "A video call. Right now. Then you can see—"

"Emma." Daniel's voice stopped me, and when I looked up, his ears had turned distinctly pink. That flush had spread further up his neck, impossible to miss now. "That won't be necessary."

Daniel Prescott was *blushing*.

I'd always known him as composed, controlled—the kind of man who could face down hospital administrators and perform life-or-death surgeries without a tremor in his hands.

But now he stood before me with pink-tinged ears and an awkward clearing of his throat, visibly embarrassed by his own jealous assumption.

This was a side of him I'd never seen. And something about it made my chest feel unexpectedly warm.

He cleared his throat twice. "I apologize for the... assumption."

"It's okay." The words came out softer than I intended.

I found myself unable to look away from him, this version of Daniel that seemed suddenly, endearingly human.

"Besides," I continued, wanting to reassure him, "you don't need to worry about that at all. I'm not interested in anyone else. Only you—"

The words escaped before I could catch them.

Heat flooded my face as I realized what I'd just said. How revealing it sounded. Like I'd accidentally opened a door to thoughts I wasn't ready to examine.

"What I mean is," I rushed to explain, my voice climbing higher, "we have an agreement, right? I promised you. During this arrangement, I won't have any romantic involvement with other men. That's part of our contract—the terms we discussed when we married."

But even as the words left my mouth, I saw something shift in Daniel's expression.

The softness that had been there moments ago—that endearing embarrassment—faded. His eyes grew distant. Something that looked almost like... hurt?

His voice had shifted into that calm, professional tone he used in the hospital. Measured. Controlled. Utterly impersonal. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow you have work, and you've had a long day."

Something felt terribly wrong, but I couldn't pinpoint what.

So why did it feel like I'd somehow pushed him further away?

Daniel moved toward the door, and I watched as he picked up his black overnight bag. My heart gave an uncomfortable lurch.

"You're... leaving now?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "The storm's still—it's not safe to drive in this."

He paused and turned back with a slight smile. "I'm just getting a change of clothes, Emma. "

"Oh." Relief flooded through me—sharp and immediate and far too revealing. I scrambled to cover it with an awkward explanation. "Right. Of course. That's what I thought too."

Heat crept up my neck as I realized how transparently I'd revealed my panic at the thought of him leaving.

His eyes lingered on my face for a moment, and I wondered what he saw there. Whatever it was made his expression soften.

"Lock your door," he said quietly. "And get some sleep."

"You too. Goodnight, Daniel."

"Goodnight, Emma."

I stood in the center of the room long after the guest bedroom door clicked shut, listening to the storm rage outside and trying to understand the tangle of emotions in my chest.

I'd come to Portland to escape. Three days away from Boston, away from Daniel's presence that had somehow become woven into every corner of my daily life.

Three days to regain perspective, to remember who I was before this arrangement.

But I'd failed before I'd even arrived, hadn't I?

I thought back to that long night talking with Olivia before I left—how she'd looked at me with knowing eyes when I mentioned Daniel. *"You smile every time you say his name,"* she'd observed quietly. *"You know that, right?"*

Olivia had helped me see what I'd been hiding from myself: I'd already lost my heart.

And now that I'd acknowledged it, I couldn't hide it anymore.

*If this is temporary, then I'll make the most of it while it lasts.*

Whatever time we had—whether it was months or a year—I would stop fighting what I felt. I would let myself enjoy this, cherish these moments, even knowing it might end.

Outside, the storm had gentled to a steady rain. And in the room next door, Daniel slept.

For now, that was enough.

---

The next morning.

When I sat up quickly, I noticed the silence.

The guest room door stood open, the bed made with military precision—sheets tucked with hospital corners, pillows arranged just so. Like he'd never been there at all, except for the faint lingering scent of mint and citrus.

Then I saw the small table by the window.

A sandwich wrapped in paper. A glass of orange juice, condensation still beading on the sides. And a note, the handwriting precise and elegant:

*Had to leave early—something came up. Call me anytime if you need anything. — D.P.*

I picked up the sandwich. Still warm. He must have left just minutes ago.

Glancing toward the guest bedroom, I noticed his black overnight bag still there by the door. He hadn't left Portland then—just stepped out for something nearby.

I settled into the chair by the window and took a bite of the sandwich. Perfectly toasted bread, simple fillings—exactly what I liked in the morning.

I reached for my phone with my free hand, scrolling through notifications as I ate.

Then I saw it—a message from an unknown number.