The Forbidden Throb Chapter 94

Emma's POV:

My finger hesitated for just a moment before I opened the message.

The sandwich suddenly felt heavy in my stomach as I read:

*Emma, it's Robert.*

*Nicholas helped us land a major foundation project—huge opportunity for the business. Your mother's thrilled. *

*You should thank him properly—maybe take him to dinner, show some appreciation. I know you two had some disagreement, but family comes first.*

*A little effort on your part could go a long way. Don't let a lovers' spat ruin this for everyone. Call me.*

The warmth from Daniel's thoughtful breakfast evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, familiar tightness in my chest.

*Some disagreement.*

*Lovers' spat.*

They would never take me seriously. No matter how explicitly I'd said we were done, finished, that there was no relationship to salvage. They simply refused to hear it.

Because acknowledging the truth would be inconvenient. Because it would interfere with their plans, their opportunities, their vision of how things should be.

It was always like this. They only believed what served them. Only heard what fit their narrative.

*Family comes first.*

The phrase made me want to laugh—or scream. When had family ever come first for them? When had my feelings, my dignity, my pain ever taken precedence over Robert's business ambitions or Victoria's social climbing?

My fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles went white.

Nicholas wasn't helping Robert out of generosity. This must be a trap.

I could still hear his voice from that day in the restaurant, dripping with contempt: *"Your family's like a leech, Emma. Always looking for the next person to bleed dry."* He'd accused me of being a gold digger, of using him for his money and connections.

And now Robert expected me to believe Nicholas had suddenly developed a generous streak? That he'd help my stepfather's business out of the goodness of his heart?

He only retaliated.

I thought about our last real encounter—him leaving me stranded on that street corner, driving off without a backward glance.

And then there was that sham job interview, orchestrated specifically to humiliate me.

I took a slow, deliberate breath and opened my phone settings.

*Block Contact.*

The prompt appeared: *Are you sure you want to block this number?*

My thumb didn't hesitate.

*Confirm.*

The message disappeared from my screen. Then I blocked Robert's email addresses for good measure. Each action felt like cutting a thread that had been wrapped too tightly around my throat.

I stared out the hotel window at Portland's overcast sky, at the fishing boats bobbing in the harbor.

*This has nothing to do with me anymore.*

I'd learned something these days. I'd learned it from Daniel's quiet support, from Grandma's unconditional acceptance, from Olivia's fierce loyalty. I'd learned it from my own hard-won independence.

*I don't owe them anything.*

---

When I arrived at the exhibition center, there transformed.

The first two days had been all business—serious collectors in expensive suits, musical instrument owners with calculating eyes, representatives from auction houses making notes on tablets. The atmosphere had been hushed, almost reverent, as people examined instruments worth more than most people's houses.

Now, with the commercial dealings concluded, the space had opened to the general public.

Families with children pressed their noses against display cases. Elderly couples moved slowly from exhibit to exhibit, reading placards aloud to each other. College students took selfies in front of particularly ornate pieces.

The energy had shifted from transaction to appreciation.

"Emma!" Chloe waved me over to the booth, where a line had formed. "We need help with the macarons!"

I hurried over, grabbing a tray of the delicate French cookies we'd been giving away to anyone who followed the exhibition's social media accounts. The promotion had been Eve's idea—a way to build our online presence for future events.

"One per person," I reminded a teenage girl who was trying to snag three. "But if you get your friends to follow us too, you can each have one."

She grinned and pulled out her phone, already herding her group toward the QR code display.

The work was mindless, repetitive—smile, scan, distribute, repeat—but there was something soothing about it after the intense earlier morning of interviews, photography, and frantically typing up notes for my article.

No careful framing of questions, no anxiety about capturing the perfect shot, no pressure to meet word counts. Just simple human interaction, seeing people's faces light up over a small treat.

"Emma!" Eve appeared beside me, her expression warm with approval. "Thank goodness you're here. You really helped me a lot."

"I think you're giving me too much credit," I said, handing a macaron to an elderly woman who thanked me in careful French.

"Not at all. You've more than earned your keep these days." Eve glanced at the steadily moving line, then back at me. "Between the translation work, the interviews, photography, and now this."

"You're paying me very generously," I said, meeting her eyes. "I want to make sure you feel it's worth it."

Eve studied me for a moment, then smiled. "You know, that's exactly the kind of work ethic that's rare these days. Most people your age would just do the minimum."

"Well, I appreciate the opportunity." I hesitated, then added, "Actually, I'd like to take you to lunch later. My treat. As a thank you."

"Emma—"

"Please," I interrupted gently. "You've done so much for me. Let me do this small thing."

Eve's smile widened. "Alright. There's a wonderful bistro just a short walk from here."

---

By noon, the morning rush at the exhibition had mellowed into a steady stream of visitors.

Eve caught my eye across the booth and gestured toward the exit. I grabbed my coat and followed her out into the crisp Portland air.

The bistro Eve chose was tucked between two historic brick buildings, its windows fogged with warmth. Inside, exposed beams crossed the ceiling, and the scent of fresh bread made my stomach rumble.

The hostess led us to a quiet table near the window, where we could watch boats rocking gently in the harbor.

Once we'd ordered, she leaned back in her chair, studying me with that perceptive gaze I'd come to recognize. A small smile played at her lips.

"So," she said, swirling the wine in her glass. "I've been curious about something."

"Oh?"

She said, her tone light but curious. "A young woman like you, so focused on work—have you ever thought about dating? Or is that not a priority right now?"

I hesitated, my fingers tracing the condensation on my water glass. "Actually, I'm married."

The wine glass in Eve's hand slipped, catching on the edge of the table with a sharp *clink*.

"*What?!*"

She stared at me, mouth slightly open, as if I'd just announced I was secretly an heiress or a spy.