4. Soren
Chapter 4
Soren
I ’m used to people listening when I speak.
Nurses, residents, even some of the more seasoned doctors. When I give an order, they follow it. No hesitation. No questioning. No attitude.
Talia Vance, however, does none of those things. And it’s infuriating .
“Clamp,” I snap, holding out my hand.
She doesn’t move.
The OR is cold, the overhead lights glaring down as I focus on the open abdomen in front of me. The patient’s vitals beep steadily in the background. Everything should be moving like clockwork—quick, efficient, precise. But Talia’s just standing there, scalpel in hand, staring at me like I’ve personally offended her.
I lift my head, locking eyes with her over my mask. “ Vance .”
She tilts her chin up. “It’s already clamped.”
I freeze.
Slowly, I flick my gaze to the surgical site—and sure enough, the vessel is secured. No unnecessary bleeding. No reason for the clamp I just demanded.
I grind my teeth. “Next time, say something.”
Silence.
The resident surgeon assisting me clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. He must have already done this. Without my directive? I’ll have a word with him later. Right now, I need to focus on not letting Talia Vance distract me.
Just because she’s interested in switching her specialty to scrub nurse doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on her. This is my OR. My rules. She will fall in line.
My blood simmers.
Talia holds my gaze, completely unfazed, before finally passing me the next instrument. We finish the procedure without another word.
I barely make it two steps out of the scrub room before she’s on me.
“You don’t get to bark orders when they’re unnecessary,” Talia says, keeping pace beside me.
I don’t look at her. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
I exhale through my nose. “I run my OR a certain way.”
“Well, maybe you should reevaluate it.”
That stops me short.
I turn to face her fully. She does the same, arms crossed, expression unflinching. She’s smaller than me, but somehow, she doesn’t seem it.
“What exactly do you think my problem is, Nurse Vance ?” My voice is low, controlled.
She lifts a brow. “You want the truth?”
“No, I want you to lie to me.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile. “Your problem, Dr. Calloway , is that you expect people to follow you blindly. No questions. No independent thought. But that’s not how I operate.”
I step closer. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be in my OR.”
Her eyes flash. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
We stare at each other, the air crackling with something sharp and unspoken.
Then she exhales, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
I watch her walk away, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her.
And for some reason, I feel the urge to smirk. Soren Calloway doesn’t smirk.
Back in my office,
I don’t realize I’m gripping my coffee mug too tightly until the heat seeps through the ceramic, burning my palm. My jaw clenches as I take a slow sip, staring out the window. The sky is slowly turning orange with late evening light.
My thoughts keep circling back to her .
From the moment Talia and I crossed paths, she’s done nothing but challenge me.
I remember the way she met my gaze in the OR without flinching, the way she calmly pointed out that I was asking for a something that wasn’t needed. I should’ve been irritated— was irritated—but beneath that, there was something else. Something… different.
I expect some insubordination from those below me who aren’t used to my brilliance. Nurses are often last to fall in line. While I acknowledge their hard work, we simply are not equals.
Talia Vance is not my equal.
And yet, when she challenges me, I see more than a nurse with a chip on her shoulder. More than someone making trouble for trouble’s sake. I see a woman standing her ground for her patients.
I don’t know what to make of her. Or where to put her, but she doesn’t seem like any other woman I’ve ever come across. Or nurse I’ve worked with.
And I don’t like that.
***
I don’t like surprises.
I especially don’t like coming home after a brutal sixteen-hour shift to find a guest in my kitchen, laughing with my daughter like she belongs in my house.
The moment I step through the front door, I know something is off. The smell of garlic and tomatoes fills the air, mingling with the buttery warmth of something baking in the oven. My house never smells like this. Marigold and I don’t cook—she likes takeout, and I like efficiency.
Then I hear it.
Laughter.
Not just Marigold’s— hers.
I step into the kitchen, and there she is. Talia Vance. Again?!
She’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan, completely at ease in my house. Her wavy blonde hair is piled on top of her head, a few loose strands clinging to the sides of her face. She’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking sweater that clings to her curves in all the wrong ways.
Marigold is beside her, perched on a stool, chin propped on her palm as she watches Talia with wide eyes.
They’re both smiling.
Where is that nanny?
But when I go for my phone, I realize there is a text from Nina explaining yet another “family emergency.” I need to fire that girl.
When I look up again, there is a wooden spoon in Talia’s hand, flour dusting the counter, the warm glow of the kitchen lights softening the edges of the moment—if I didn’t know any better, I’d think this was normal .
I clear my throat. “What is going on?”
Marigold turns, all bright eyes and enthusiasm. “Talia’s making dinner.”
Like that explains anything.
Talia glances at me, arching a brow. “Nice to see you too.”
I ignore her. “Marigold, why is she making dinner?”
Marigold shrugs. “Nina had to leave, and I invited her.”
I exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And you didn’t think to ask me first?”
“Why would I?” she says easily. “You wouldn’t have said yes.”
I scowl. “Exactly.”
Talia snorts. “Glad we got that settled.” She turns back to the stove, flipping something in the pan with practiced ease.
Like I’m not standing here. Like she belongs here.
I step forward, lowering my voice. “What are you doing?”
She doesn’t look at me. “Cooking.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She finally meets my gaze, and there’s something defiant in her eyes. “Your daughter needed someone to watch her, and she invited me over. I didn’t see a reason to say no.”
I do. I see a hundred reasons.
I don’t want her here, laughing with Marigold, filling my house with warmth that hasn’t existed since Lisa died.
A pain twists in my heart, but I shove it aside. Ignore it. Focus. Talia is moving through my kitchen like she’s been in it a hundred times before—like she knows exactly where everything is.
I glance at Marigold, who’s watching Talia as if she hung the moon.
That irritates me more than it should.
I cross my arms. “I hope you’re not expecting me to eat whatever this is.”
Talia rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you at all. But since you’re here, you might as well try it.”
I scoff. “I don’t do homecooked meals.”
“What, afraid you might like it?” she asks with a smirk.
My jaw ticks.
Marigold grins. “She’s a really good cook, Dad.”
Traitor .
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. “Fine. Whatever. But next time, you ask before inviting people over.”
Marigold beams. “So that means I can invite her again?”
I glare at Talia. “No.”
“We’ll see,” Talia says with a smile.
She’s insufferable.
And worse?
I can’t stop watching her.
She moves around my kitchen with a confidence that gets under my skin. Every time she laughs with Marigold, my stomach tightens. Every time she brushes flour off her jeans, my gaze follows the movement.
I don’t want to notice these things.
But I do.
And when she finally turns to face me, her laughter still lingering in the air, I catch myself staring at the way her lips move, the curve of her smile, the sway of her hair.
I clench my jaw. I don’t need complications.
And Talia Vance is a complication I can’t afford.
***
The food smells better than I want to admit.
Talia sets a steaming dish of pasta in the center of the table, the sauce thick and rich, glistening under the warm overhead light. A golden-brown garlic bread rests beside it, the scent of butter and herbs curling in the air, teasing something in my stomach I refuse to acknowledge.
Marigold is already reaching for a slice, her small fingers tearing a piece before I’ve even sat down.
“Slow down , Goldie , ” I warn.
She grins, unbothered, shoving a bite into her mouth. “It’s so good.”
Talia smirks as she settles into the chair across from me, her posture relaxed. I don’t like it. I don’t like the way my daughter is practically bouncing in her seat, or how easily Talia has slipped into our space, filling it with something dangerous: warmth.
I clear my throat. “Let’s get this over with.”
Talia doesn’t even blink. “Wow. High praise.”
I ignore her, stabbing my fork into the pasta. The first bite is an assault of flavors—garlic, tomato, something smoky that lingers on my tongue. It’s good . Annoyingly so.
Marigold is already shoveling her second bite in. “Talia, you have to come over every night.”
Talia chuckles. “I don’t think your dad would survive that.”
“Finally, something we agree on,” I mutter.
Talia chuckles and takes a sip of water, watching me in amusement. “Careful, Calloway. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
I exhale, setting my fork down. “Don’t push your luck.”
Marigold pipes up before Talia can respond. “Dad doesn’t like change. That’s why we always eat the same three takeout meals.”
I give her a flat look. “I like efficiency.”
“You like boring,” Marigold counters. “This is way better than pizza, or whatever dry sandwich you usually bring home.”
Talia raises a brow. “Dry sandwich?”
Marigold nods, dramatic. “Like, so dry. He never puts enough mayo.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Okay, we’re done talking about my sandwiches.”
But Talia grins, clearly enjoying my torment.
Marigold sighs, dropping her fork onto her plate. “You have to come back, Talia. Nina’s so flaky and Dad’s so boring.”
“I don’t know, kid. Your dad might kick me out next time.”
Marigold swivels to face me, eyes wide and pleading. “You won’t kick her out, right?”
“Marigold—” I start with a scowl, but my daughter may be the only person alive immune to my authority.
For the moment.
“Promise,” Marigold insists. “Promise she can come back.”
Talia lets out a low laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t have to pressure your dad.”
“Yes, I do,” Marigold says, determined. She turns back to me. “Dad. Promise.”
I exhale sharply. Talia is watching me, waiting, her lips twitching like she knows I’m cornered.
I rub a hand over my jaw. “Fine. I'll think about it.”
“Yes!” Marigold squeals in victory.
Talia shakes her head, grinning. “You’re relentless, kid.”
“I just really like you.”
Something flickers across Talia’s face—surprise, maybe, or something softer. She reaches over and gently squeezes Marigold’s hand. “I like you too.” “I’ve never had anyone this fun around before.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I glance at her plate, then at the way her shoulders are relaxed, her expression open in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. My chest tightens.
Lisa was the last person to bring this kind of light into her life.
And now it’s Talia.
Of all people…
I shove back from the table. “Dinner’s over.”
Talia blinks at my sudden shift, but she doesn’t push. She helps Marigold clear the dishes, chatting like this isn’t the mistake it is.
She lingers at the door when it’s time to go.
Marigold wraps her arms around her waist, squeezing tight. “You will come back, right?”
Talia brushes a curl from Marigold’s forehead. “Yeah, kid. If your Dad agrees.”
“Good.” Marigold releases her and steps back, grinning.
I open the door, my hand gripping the frame a little too tightly.
Talia steps outside, pausing to glance up at me. “Try not to look so pained next time, Doc. I’m not that bad.”
I hold her gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. She just smiles, eyes flicking over my face like she’s trying to figure something out.
Then she turns and walks away.
I watch her until she disappears to her house, the echo of her laughter still in the air.
I close the door, exhaling slowly.
Marigold hums as she heads toward the stairs. “You like her,” she sing-songs.
“Go to bed,” I order with a scowl.
She giggles. “You so like her.”
I drag a hand down my face again as she disappears into her room, leaving me alone in the quiet house.
Not good.
***
Laughter. Light, free, and warm in a way I haven't heard in years.
Marigold’s giggles ring through the kitchen as she leans against a woman. At first, I think it’s Lisa. My heart jumps. But then I realize it’s Talia, eyes bright with mischief. Talia laughs too, head tilted back, hair catching the soft glow of the overhead lights. The sound wraps around me, a foreign kind of warmth settling into my chest.
They look like they belong together.
I’m there, too—watching, listening, letting myself sink into the moment like it’s real. Like this is our life. Like Talia has always been here, slipping effortlessly into the empty spaces we don’t talk about.
I reach for my glass of water, but my fingers brush hers instead. Warm. Soft. A flicker of something dangerous passes through me.
Talia turns, eyes meeting mine, something unreadable lingering in their depths.
And then…
I wake up.
The warmth vanishes, replaced by the cold press of reality. The room is dark. Silent.
I exhale sharply, rubbing a hand over my face. The dream lingers, clinging to the edges of my mind like a scent that won’t fade.
Marigold. And Talia. Together. Happy.
With me .
I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my chest tightening. The frustration is immediate, burning through my veins like an itch I can’t scratch.
This isn’t supposed to happen. I don’t dream of people. I don’t want to.
Talia is a complication I don’t need. A disruption I can’t afford. Ever since Lisa, I have crafted the perfect, controlled life for myself and my daughter. I can’t let anything disrupt that.
I drag a hand through my hair.
I stare up at the ceiling with the dream still clinging to me like the scent of something burnt—unshakable, lingering in the air long after the source is gone.
Talia’s laughter. Marigold’s wide, bright eyes. The feeling of something settling into place, something that shouldn’t . I need to get her out of my head.
I scowl, finally forcing myself up. The floor is cold beneath my feet, grounding me, but it does nothing to push away the unease curling in my gut.
It was just a dream. A collection of stray thoughts, stitched together by exhaustion. Nothing more.
I roll the tension from my shoulders and head to the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzes to life as I turn the faucet, letting the icy water pool in my hands before splashing it over my face. It shocks me awake, but it doesn’t shake Talia out of my head.
By the time I step into the shower, my movements are automatic—body on autopilot, mind still trapped in a loop. I scrub harder than necessary, as if I can wash the thoughts away along with the soap.
Talia Vance is a woman who moved in next door. A nurse at the hospital. Someone Marigold— for some reason —has taken a liking to.
Nothing more. She is nothing to me.
I step out, dry off quickly, and dress in crisp, dark scrubs, buttoning them with quick, sharp movements. The dream is a shadow now, hovering at the edges of my thoughts, though refusing to dissipate.
It angers me.
I make my way down the hall, stopping in front of Marigold’s door. I knock once before pushing it open.
“Morning, Goldie,” I say, softening my tone to keep my anger away from my daughter.
She’s already half-awake, curled up under her blankets, blonde curls a tangled mess. She groans in protest, burrowing deeper.
“Five more minutes,” Marigold mumbles.
I resist the smile and check the time. “Nope. You’re going to be late.”
Another groan. Then, begrudgingly, she sits up, rubbing her eyes. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Cereal. Or toast.”
She wrinkles her nose. “That’s boring.”
“Life’s boring.”
She gives me an unimpressed look. “Talia made pasta last night.”
The name slams into me like a brick to the chest. My jaw tightens. “Good for Talia.”
“You like her.” Marigold throws the blankets off and slides off the bed.
“What?” I scoff, staring at her.
Her lips twitch like she knows she’s testing me. “You like Talia.”
I grab her hairbrush from the dresser and hand it to her. “You need to worry less about my life and more about untangling that mess on your head.”
She takes the brush but won’t let this nonsense go. “You’re grumpy.”
“I’m always grumpy.”
“No. You were different last night.”
I don’t respond. Because I don’t have a response.
Instead, I turn toward the door. “Ten minutes. Downstairs.”
By the time Marigold comes down, dressed in her school uniform—white polo, navy skirt, knee-high socks—she’s still eyeing me like she’s trying to figure something out. I ignore it, handing her a bowl of cereal before grabbing my coffee. She’s only eight, still in elementary school, though she acts like she’s in high school half the time.
We eat in silence, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the quiet. Marigold kicks her feet under the table, still thinking. She’s never been one to let anything go easily. An admirable, albeit infuriating trait.
Finally, she tilts her head. “Can we invite Talia over again?”
Don’t react . I take a slow sip of coffee.
“No,” I say flatly.
She groans. “Why not?”
“She’s busy.”
“You don’t know that.”
I set my mug down harder than necessary. “Eat your breakfast, Marigold.”
She huffs, but obeys.
I check my watch again. “Time to go.”
Marigold grabs her backpack, and I walk her to the car.
The drive is quiet, but as I pull up in front of her school, she turns to me.
“She’s nice, Dad,” Marigold says.
I grip the steering wheel. “I never said she wasn’t.”
“But you don’t want her around.”
I exhale slowly. “It’s complicated.”
She studies me as if she’s far older than eight. Then sighs dramatically. “You do like her.”
I groan. “Marigold. Out.”
She grins, opens the door, and hops out. But before closing it, she leans in. “I’m inviting her over again.”
And then she’s gone.
I watch my daughter disappear into the crowd of kids and exhaling irritably.
That dream is still in my head.
And now, Marigold is making it worse.