The Forbidden Throb Chapter 97

Daniel's POV:

The November wind off Portland harbor carried the scent of brine as I leaned against the car, watching the exhibition center's main entrance.

Six-fifteen. Emma's shift should be ending any moment now.

My phone buzzed against my chest. I glanced at the caller ID before answering.

"It's done," the voice on the other end said without preamble. "Robert took the bait."

Robert. The man who'd made Emma's childhood a calculated transaction, who saw her as nothing more than a stepping stone for his own ambitions.

I kept my voice level. "Good. Make sure—"

Movement caught my eye. Emma emerged from the glass doors, her hair catching the last rays of evening light as she walked toward me across the parking lot. Her smile was tired but genuine.

"I have to go," I said quietly into the phone, ending the call before the other person could respond.

I slipped the device back into my jacket pocket and straightened up.

"Hi," Emma said as she approached, her voice carrying a thread of surprise.

Her gaze swept from my coat to my sweater and back to my face. "You—we—"

"Match," I finished, allowing myself the smallest smile. "I noticed."

What I didn't say was that it wasn't a coincidence at all.

Every piece I'd had delivered to her closet had a corresponding item in mine—coordinated palettes, complementary fabrics, designs that would harmonize without being obviously paired.

Today, we'd both reached for nearly identical pieces: the turtlenecks, the neutral outerwear, even the shade of white that made her skin glow.

The pink in her cheeks deepened.

"How was the exhibition?" I asked as I opened her door.

"It went well. Everything wrapped up smoothly." She slid into the seat, and I caught the note of satisfaction in her voice beneath the fatigue.

"Then we should celebrate." I closed her door and walked around to the driver's side. "I made a reservation at a restaurant nearby. Consider it a commemoration of your success."

---

The drive to The Lobster Shack took less than ten minutes, the harbor road quiet in the early evening.

Emma was silent beside me, but I could feel her stealing glances at my profile, processing something she couldn't quite articulate.

The hostess greeted us warmly, and we were led to a private corner table with a view of the harbor.

Fairy lights were just beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk, reflecting off the dark water.

The server paused, glancing between us with an open, friendly smile. "You two are just adorable—the matching outfits and everything. How long have you been married?"

Emma went very still. I felt her tension.

"Four weeks," I said easily, meeting the server's eyes. "Still in the honeymoon phase."

The woman beamed. "Well, congratulations! I'll give you two some time to look at the menus."

As she walked away, I pulled out Emma's chair. She sank into it slowly, and when I moved to my own seat, I caught her staring at my sweater with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing. I just..." She shook her head slightly. "This restaurant is excellent. Everything on the menu is exactly what I like. You have good taste."

"Taking care of my wife is what I should be doing," I said easily, reaching across to refill her water glass.

Emma pressed her lips together briefly, and I watched something shift in her expression—a decision being made.

"Daniel," she said quietly, not quite meeting my eyes. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"This—" She gestured vaguely at the table, at the restaurant, at the space between us. "All of this. The thoughtfulness, the attention to detail. Is it..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Is it because I'm your wife? Or would you do this for anyone you made an arrangement with?"

The question hit me like a surgical blade— cutting straight to what I'd been trying to hide. I could feel her watching me, waiting, hoping for an answer.

*Tell her the truth,* part of me urged.

But the fear was stronger. Fear of overwhelming her, of pushing too hard, of losing what little ground we'd gained.

"You're my wife. Taking care of you isn't just something I should do—it's something I want to do well." I said, keeping my voice gentle but measured.

I watched the light in her eyes dim slightly, saw her press her lips together and nod.

The server arrived with the courses. Emma's shoulders relaxed. She picked up her spoon with renewed focus, tasting the chowder.

I pulled out my phone, glancing at the screen.

Fifty-three unread messages, most of them from Eve. I scrolled past the barrage of memes and opened her chat.

The messages were relentless—question after question about Emma, about our relationship, about how we'd ended up married.

*So she knows everything now,* I thought.

I'd only realized this morning, when I saw the exhibition flyer, that the "friend" Emma had been mentioning was Eve.

I typed: **Did you tell her?**

Eve's response came quickly: **Relax, Dr. Prescott. Your secret's safe with me.**

**But friendly advice? You might want to come clean sooner rather than later. **

I was about to lock my phone when another message appeared.

**Look, I don't know what really happened between the three of you. But... you weren't planning to steal her away from Nicholas all along, were you?**

I looked up from my phone.

Across the table, Emma's cheeks were slightly puffed as she chewed, giving her an endearing resemblance to the plush mascot hanging on the wall beside her.

I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips.

After a moment, I looked back down at my phone and typed:

**No.**

**If they could have been happy together, I wouldn't have interfered.**

I meant it. Of course, I loved having her in my life.

At the hospital, I was always working. At home, I was always performing—the perfect heir, the responsible eldest son. There was never any room to breathe.

But with her in my space, even the air felt different. Sweeter. Softer. Filled the apartment with a warmth I'd never known I was missing.

But love didn't mean I had to possess her.

Nicholas was younger than me, closer to her age, unburdened by the weight of family expectations. His life was freer, lighter. If things had worked out between them, her life might have been happier, easier.

I wouldn't have asked that question on that day if I'd thought they had a real future.

But time had proven me wrong. Wrong about standing back and hoping someone else could make her happy.

I had an opportunity again now. I wouldn't make the same mistake. I wouldn't pin my hopes on someone else's ability.

This time, I would be the one to walk with her to the end.