The Forbidden Throb (Emma and Daniel) novel Chapter 135

Chapter 135

Emma’s POV:

The café tucked into Le Meurice’s ground floor gleamed with the kind of understated elegance.

I approached the counter, watching the barista work the espresso machine with confidence.

A cappuccino, please. I politely placed my order.

“For here or to go?” The barista’s smile was professionally pleasant, but his eyes had already moved past me to the next customer

I glanced back at the seating area. Every table seemed occupied-elegant women in Chanel suits conducting business meetings, tourists with designer shopping bags photographing their pastries, a couple feeding each other macarons with practiced intimacy.

The air hummed with French conversation and the clink of silverware, and suddenly the ceiling felt too low, the space too crowded.

“To go, I said quickly.

The barista nodded, already reaching for a paper cup.

When I accepted the cup, the heat seeped through the paper sleeve.

I clutched the cup tighter and headed for the exit.

My heart was not quite settling until I’d slipped inside the suite and heard the lock click behind me.

The suite felt cavernous without Daniel’s presence.

I set my untouched cappuccino on the coffee table and pulled off my coat.

My suitcase sat open on the luggage rack, clothes spilling out in a chaos that made my fingers itch to organize

But it was the collection of souvenir mugs clustered on the dresser that caught my attention Christmas bool, wouden harrel, the striped cle Daniel had insisted looked very Parisian.”

I reached for the mugs, intending to pack them properly My small bag couldn’t the theon all yesterday two were still at Daniel’s leather messenger bag

The bag sat propped against the armchair, expensive Halian leather catching the light I hesitated before touching it some ingrained sense of privacy making me pause. But they were my mugs

I unzipped the main compartment carefully.

Inside, everything was organized with the same precision Daniel brought to every aspect of his life laptop in its sleeve, medical turnals

8:50 am

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marked with color coded tabs, a small toiletry kit.

The two mugs were wrapped in tissue paper, nestled protectively in the center.

I reached for them, but my hand caught on something else. A piece of paper, stiffer than the tissue, slid free and fluttered to the carpet

No, not paper. A drawing.

I bent to retrieve it, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.

The colors hit me first. Bright, primary shades-the kind that came from children’s markers.

Did Daniel have a child?

The ocean was rendered in aggressive blue strokes, sand in rough yellow scribbles. And in the center, two stick figures sitting side by side, one noticeably taller than the other.

The paper was worn at the edges, creased as if it had been folded and unfolded many times. In the corner, in careful block letters that hadn’t quite mastered staying on the line: EMMA AND DANIEL.

My name. My handwriting.

The room tilted slightly.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, the drawing clutched in both hands. My eyes traced over the crude shapes-the way the smaller figures arms reached toward something in the sand, the way the larger figure’s stick-hand touched the smaller one’s shoulder. Above them, a sun with Too many rays. Below, irregular ovals that might have been shells.

Shells.

The memory came in fragments, like looking through a kaleidoscope.

*Salt air. Wooden steps creaking under small feet. Grace’s voice calling, “Don’t go too far, sweetheart.”

The Atlantic stretching endless and gray blue, waves folding into themselves with a rhythm that matched my heartbeat”

“And a boy. Older than me, standing alone where the beach curved toward rocky auteroopings Dark hair falling over his eyes

He came back every day that summer. Always alone. Always reading And I equally alone white Grace worked on her designs on the beach her, had been curious enough to approach

“What are you reading?”

He’d looked up, startled. Even then, his eyes had been that particular shade of dark that seemed to see too much. It’s about the heart

‘Like valentines?”

Chapter 135

His mouth had twitched. Sort of.

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my own heart hammer against my ribs.

More images surfaced, rushing now like a riptide:

*Racing along the waterline, showing him shells.

The afternoon I’d waded too far, chasing a perfect conch shell that bobbed just out of reach. The way the current had suddenly pulled, stronger than it looked. Water filling my mouth, my nose. The terrible realization that I couldn’t touch bottom.

And then-arms around me. Being dragged toward shore. Coughing up seawater on the sand while he knelt beside me, his face pale, one arm hanging at an odd angle. Blood on the rocks behind us where he’d hit.

Sirens. The boy being taken away in an ambulance, and then-darkness. I’d passed out, my small body surrendering to shock and exhaustion and the seawater still burning in my lungs.

Then fever. Three days of burning up while Grace pressed cool cloths to my forehead and murmured that I would be fine. When I finally cooled. the summer was ending, and the boy with the medical books had never come back.

And somehow, impossibly, I’d forgotten. The fever had taken it, or maybe my mind had buried it under layers of guilt and fear.

I couldn’t breathe properly. The drawing crumpled slightly in my hands.

Daniel.

It had been Daniel.

Tears burned hot behind my eyes. Not sad tears. Something more complex-shame and wonder and a grief for lost time all twisted together

Everything shifted into focus with sickening clarity.

The BU scholarship. The fellowship recommendation. The way doors had opened for me, paths cleared, obstacles removed with dust singival precision

The mysterious benefactor who d established that journalism scholarstop the exact semester my mother and Robert had cut me off timany calls

Only three recipients I’d been one of them

Id never questioned it.

But now, remembering how Daniels finger had paused on his coffee cup this morning when I’d mentioned the Prescott Foundation

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Chapter 135

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