The Forbidden Throb

Emma's POV:

"Remember to maintain your elegance at all times, Emma. Posture straight, movements deliberate."

My mother, Victoria, circled me like a fashion consultant preparing her client for the runway.

I stood before my bedroom mirror, obsessively smoothing down the pale blue silk dress I'd bought specifically for tonight.

Tonight marked my first formal event with the Prescott family—their annual charity foundation gala.

With graduation approaching for both Nicholas Prescott and me, our families had begun pressing about marriage plans.

My mother adjusted the pearl necklace at my throat—one of the few nice gifts she'd received since marrying Robert Williams, a rare extravagance in her otherwise practical second marriage.

"This could be our family's turning point, Emma. The Prescotts have honored the agreement between our families even though..."

She trailed off, unwilling to directly reference our family's financial collapse after my grandfather died.

Before I was even born, my grandfather—the formidable Richard Johnson—and David Prescott had formed a friendship that transcended business.

The story goes that when my mother was seven months pregnant with me, to ensure the profound friendship between our families would continue for generations, they'd made a solemn promise: I—still nestled in my mother's womb—would one day marry a Prescott son.

When Grandfather died suddenly and our family fortune collapsed under poor management and mounting debt, everyone expected the Prescotts to gracefully withdraw from the arrangement. They didn't.

Someone whispered how lucky I was, how I'd managed to 'secure my future' despite our family's setbacks. Even my friend Olivia joked about me winning the 'Boston Brahmin lottery.'

Everyone saw a fairytale—the middle-class girl whisked into high society, a modern Cinderella story.

But behind the carefully filtered Instagram posts and polite smiles at events, I felt increasingly like an actress playing a role in someone else's production.

"Nicholas will be here any minute," my mother said, glancing nervously at her watch. "Remember, the Prescotts value punctuality."

As if summoned by her words, the doorbell rang. I grabbed my clutch and took one last look in the mirror.

Before I could reach the door, my mother caught my arm, pulling me close. Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper against my ear.

"Remember who you are tonight, Emma. This isn't just dinner—it's an audition for your future. Smile, charm David Sr., and try to engage more with Nicholas's family tonight. Last time you barely said three sentences all evening. You're both graduating soon—it's time to think about next steps."

I forced a smile, the knot in my stomach tightening.

Next steps. Always the next steps.

The doorbell rang again, sending a jolt through me.

I hurried across our modest foyer, my heels clicking against the hardwood as I smoothed my dress with one hand and reached for the handle with the other.

Nicholas stood at the door in his perfectly tailored suit, his handsome features arranged in an expression of barely concealed impatience.

Car keys to his Porsche dangled carelessly from his fingers as he exchanged brief pleasantries with my mother, his gaze barely meeting mine before urging, "We should get going. We're about to be late."

Within moments, we were descending the front steps of our modest townhouse toward his gleaming black Porsche.

In Nicholas's Porsche, the leather seats cool against my bare legs, an awkward silence settling between us.

"You look nice," he finally said, eyes never leaving the road ahead.

"Thanks. You too." The silence stretched between us, broken only by the purr of the luxury engine.

When he spoke again, we were already crossing the bridge toward Beacon Hill.

"Listen, Emma, about tonight... Let's not be too..." He gestured vaguely between us, eyes never leaving the road. "You know, too couple-y."

I turned to face him, confusion rising. "Too couple-y? We've been dating for two years."

"Exactly. And every time we appear together at family events, Grandfather starts making comments about wedding dates and Prescott family traditions." Nicholas's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "I'm not ready for that pressure. I still have business school to finish, and there's the London internship next summer..."

"I understand not wanting to be pressured," I said carefully, though something cold was settling in my stomach. "But we don't have to hide that we're together."

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "It's not hiding. It's just... strategic. The more serious we seem, the more they'll push."

I nodded and turned to watch the city lights pass by, fighting the familiar hollow feeling.

It wasn't the first time Nicholas had created distance between us in public.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the Prescott Foundation Gala.

The historic Boston hotel glittered with chandeliers and old money, doormen in crisp uniforms ushering guests inside. Nicholas handed his keys to the valet, then placed his hand lightly at the small of my back—the first time he'd touched me all evening.

We approached his family.

David Prescott Sr., the family patriarch, regarded me with gentle vision.

"Emma, looking lovely as always," he said, kissing my cheek with practiced precision. "Your graduation is approaching soon, isn't it? What are your plans afterward?"

Before I could elaborate on my recent plan, Nicholas's phone buzzed in his pocket. Then again. And again.

His smile never faltered as he maintained the conversation, but his fingers twitched slightly each time.

After fifteen minutes of perfunctory small talk with various Prescott relatives, Nicholas checked his phone and leaned close to my ear.

"I need to step out for a moment—some business with a few classmates," he murmured, already scanning the room for his exit. "You're okay on your own, right?"

I nodded reflexively, my smile fixed in place.

What choice did I have? You can't hold back someone already halfway out the door. I watched his retreating back as he navigated through the crowd with practiced ease, leaving me alone in a room full of Boston's elite.

Taking a deep breath, I decided that if I was destined to be stranded here alone, I might as well savor what hospitality was offered.

But as I turned around, I collided with a solid wall of dark suit and subtle cologne.

My apology died on my lips as I stumbled backward, only to be steadied by a gentle hand at my elbow.

"Careful there," came a warm, gentle voice from above.