7. Talia
Chapter 7
Talia
T he doors slide open, and the sharp scent of antiseptic floods my senses. The ER hums with movement—nurses moving in quick, practiced strides, monitors beeping in steady rhythm, voices cutting through the air in clipped urgency.
Then, through the chaos, I see her.
A middle-aged woman rushes inside, breathless, gripping the hand of a little girl. Her face is flushed, eyes darting wildly, her fingers tightening around the child’s small wrist as if afraid to let go.
The girl stumbles slightly, her steps unsteady, and that’s when I notice the bandage above her eyebrow.
Marigold.
My stomach clenches.
Soren appears out of nowhere, moving fast. His jaw is tight, his eyes sharp as they land on his daughter. He doesn’t hesitate despite the protests I hear from Dr. Savoie.
“Dad,” Marigold murmurs, her voice small.
“I’ve got you, Goldie,” he says, scooping her into his arms with the kind of gentleness I never would’ve expected from him.
Marigold clings to him, her fingers curling into his shirt, and for a moment, the frantic energy shifts—narrowing down to just them. Soren’s arms around her. Her trust in him.
I swallow.
I’ve seen Soren Calloway angry. I’ve seen him impatient, condescending, impossible. But I’ve never seen him like this— terrified.
Without another word, he turns on his heel and moves. Not rushing, but with purpose, his long strides eating up the distance as he heads toward an exam room, Dr. Savoie calm but hot on his heels.
I follow before I can stop myself.
The door swings shut behind me, muffling the outside noise. The space is quiet, sterile, the overhead lights casting a sharp glow over the white walls and medical equipment.
“Set her down, Calloway,” Dr. Savoie says.
Soren lowers Marigold onto the exam table carefully, like she’s made of glass.
She blinks up at him. “Are you mad?”
His face softens. “No, baby.”
“Not even a little?”
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn’t last. His fingers brush against her forehead, just below the bandage, his expression darkening again.
“I need to check you over, okay?”
“We’ll be taking it from here,” Dr. Savoie interrupts. And I think he might argue—a hot flash of frustration on his face. But, incredibly, Soren steps back.
“It’s okay, Goldie,” he says. “This is Dr. Savoie, and she’s going to take care of you. Won’t you?”
I tense. That last part didn’t sound like a suggestion.
“Of course,” Dr. Savoie says, already swinging into action. “Hi, Marigold. It’s nice to meet you. So, you hurt your head?”
Marigold nods.
I step forward. “Let me help.”
“Sure. Grab some gloves, Vance,” Dr. Savoie says, shining a light briefly in Marigold’s eyes to check her pupils.
Soren glances at me, as if just realizing I’m here. For a second, he looks like he might argue, but then he exhales, nodding once.
I do as told, stepping forward. “Let’s get you fixed up, Goldie.”
Marigold perks up slightly. “You know my nickname?”
“Of course. You’re the most important patient I’ve seen all day.”
She grins at that, but Soren barely reacts. His entire focus is on his daughter. His eyes track every move I make as Savoie’s nurse and I take her vitals, watching like a hawk as we check her balance and eye movement. His hands remain close—hovering, ready to steady her if she so much as wobbles.
“She’s doing okay,” Dr. Savoie finally says. “No signs of a concussion, but we should monitor her.”
Soren exhales, just slightly. His fingers press against his temple for half a second before he drops his hand. But he doesn’t relax. Not fully.
I watch him carefully.
I’ve seen Soren in the OR—focused, coldly efficient, demanding perfection from everyone around him. I’ve seen him storm through the hospital like he owns the place. But this?
This is different.
This is a man terrified of losing the most important person in his world. A man who, for all his arrogance and steel… is just a dad.
And that realization makes my chest ache in a way I don’t expect.
For all his closed-off approach, for all his gruffness, Soren is just a father who loves his daughter beyond reason. It unsettles me, the lump in my throat, the warmth curling around my chest. I shouldn’t feel this way.
Still, I look at him—exhausted, hovering, running on sheer will—and I can’t help myself.
“Soren,” I say softly.
His head snaps toward me, the sharp focus in his gaze unyielding.
“You need a break.”
His brows pull together. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” I argue. “You haven’t sat down once. You’ve barely even blinked.”
“I—”
“Go back to your office,” I interrupt, my voice firm. “I’ll finish up here.”
Soren’s jaw tightens, reluctance flickering across his features.
I soften my tone. “She’s okay now. I just need to run a few more checks, keep an eye on her for a bit longer. You trust me, don’t you?”
A muscle jumps in his cheek, and for a long second, I think he’s going to refuse.
Dr. Savoie glances between us, a twitch pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I think we ladies can take care of the rest of this, Calloway,” she says, making Marigold giggle a little when she winks.
Soren frowns at her, but then his gaze softens and drifts to Marigold, her small fingers curled around the blanket, her eyes fluttering at him. The tight lines around his face loosens.
“Fine,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face. “But if anything—”
“I’ll call you,” I finish for him. “Go.”
He exhales, nods once, and after pressing a kiss to Marigold’s forehead, he steps out of the ward.
The moment he’s gone, Dr. Savoie chuckles and gives me a look.
“You wanna tell me what that was all about?”
A flush warms my face. “Nothing.”
“Seemed like something to me,” the ER nurse teases.
Dr. Savoie laughs, but I ignore them and turn my attention back to Marigold, who’s watching me with that same cheeky glint in her eyes I saw the first day we met.
“So, what now, Nurse Talia?” she asks.
I grin. “Now, I make you say ridiculous words until you beg me to stop.”
She giggles. “Oh, you’re on.”
I settle onto the edge of her bed and start slow. “She sells seashells by the seashore.”
Marigold scrunches her nose. “Easy. She sells seashells by the she—” She fumbles, breaks into laughter. “Wait, wait! I can do it!”
I smirk. “Okay, let’s try again.”
She attempts it three more times before giving up, and I throw out harder ones—“Betty bought a bit of butter” and “Six slippery snails slid slowly seaward”—until she’s gasping between laughter, clutching her stomach.
“You’re evil,” she groans dramatically.
“I know,” I say smugly. “But you love me for it.”
Marigold hums, grinning, then suddenly yawns. Dr. Savoie wraps up, tells me she’ll be just fine, and heads out.
Alone now, I smooth a hand over Marigold’s hair, my voice dropping to something softer. “Lie still for a bit, okay? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Her lids droop. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
She nods sleepily, already halfway gone, and I gently adjust the blanket around her.
Before stepping out, I ask the ER nurse. “Can you sit with her for a while? I just need to check something.”
The nurse nods, and with one last glance at Marigold, I slip into the hallway.
Emergency is quieter now, a brief lull in the chaos. The overhead lights hum faintly, the scent of antiseptic clinging to the air. I walk briskly, my thoughts still tangled in Marigold’s laughter, in the way she had momentarily forgotten she was even in a hospital.
Hospitals have a way of amplifying tension. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and worry, and no matter how many times I walk these halls, I can always feel it clinging to my skin. But this? This is different.
I have to check on a few patients in Pediatrics, but work as quickly as I can. By the time I’m done, about an hour has passed. I hurry back down to Emergency, but find Dr. Savoie has moved Marigold up to Pediatrics for what the nurses says is “monitoring,” but what I know must have been Soren’s insistence to keep his daughter close.
I head to Marigold’s room, but a corner away, stop short.
Voices filter through the corridor. Low, serious. Unfamiliar.
I slow my steps.
“…we need to be prepared. He won’t make it easy.” A man’s voice, deep and clipped.
“I know,” a woman replies. “But we have rights. She’s our granddaughter, and Soren… he isn’t exactly the most stable person.”
My heart stutters.
Soren. Marigold.
I move closer, staying just out of sight.
“Thank goodness the nanny called. We should contact a lawyer,” the man continues. “This accident only proves how reckless he is. We should have full custody.”
My breath catches, my stomach knotting.
“I told you he’s unfit,” a woman hisses. “She could have been seriously hurt.”
I recognize that tone before I even see her. It’s the same one I’ve heard from grieving families, from people demanding answers they’ll never be satisfied with.
I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but the way she says “he’s unfit” makes my stomach twist.
“We need to act now,” she continues. “Before it’s too late.”
I shift slightly, peering around the corner.
An older woman stands stiffly, arms crossed over a tailored blazer, her dark hair swept into a precise twist. Her husband, a tall man with graying temples, stands beside her, his jaw tight.
Soren’s in-laws. “We need to take Marigold away from him before she comes to more harm,” his mother-in-law says.
“I already spoke to Leonard,” Soren’s mother-in-law goes on. “He thinks we have a case for full custody. An emergency hearing would be simple enough to arrange.”
A case? Full custody?
My pulse stumbles.
I glance toward Marigold’s room, my chest tightening. I remember the way Soren held her earlier, the sheer panic in his eyes, the way his hands hovered like he needed to keep touching her just to make sure she was still there.
“Camille,” the man murmurs, sounding hesitant. “Are you sure about this?”
Camille exhales sharply. “She needs stability, Patrick. She needs proper guardianship, not a workaholic father who can’t even be home for his own child while a string of nannies barely takes care of her. .”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Soren does work too much—I won’t argue that. But the way he looks at Marigold? The way he held her when she came in, like he’d die if something happened to her? No lawyer, no judge, no argument could convince me that Marigold doesn’t belong with him.
Patrick sighs. “Camille, this is a delicate situation.”
“No, it’s not,” she snaps. “It’s simple. Marigold would be better off with us, and I won’t stand by and watch her suffer just because her father refuses to prioritize her.”
My fingers curl into a fist.
I don’t know Soren well. I don’t even like him most of the time. But I know, without a doubt, that Marigold isn’t suffering—she’s loved.
And Soren needs help.
The realization lands hard, and before I even know what I’m doing, I’m pushing away from the wall, stepping back. I might not be able to stop his in-laws from coming for him. But I sure can stand in their way.
I don’t remember walking to Soren’s office. My mind is still stuck in that hallway, replaying the words over and over.
Full custody.
I swallow hard and push open the door without knocking. Soren’s sitting behind his desk, elbows braced on the surface, fingers laced together as he stares blankly at his computer screen. The room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the screen’s bluish tint and the desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. It smells of coffee, faintly burnt, and the lingering scent of his cologne—something clean and dark, like cedar and musk.
He doesn’t hear me at first. His shoulders rigid, his jaw tight. The exhaustion rolls off him in waves. I clear my throat.
Soren’s head snaps up.
"Marigold’s fine," I say, my voice softer than I expected.
The tension bleeds from his body instantly. He exhales, long and slow, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Thank goodness"
His relief is so palpable it makes my chest ache. When he looks back at me, there’s something raw in his expression.
"Thank you," he murmurs. "For helping. For staying with her."
I wave it off, but the way he’s looking at me makes me shift on my feet. The weight he carries—whatever it is—is pressing down on him so hard I can almost feel it myself.
"Soren…" I hesitate. "Are you okay?"
A humorless laugh escapes him. "That depends."
But before I can answer, the door swings open.
We both look up in surprise to see his in-laws stepping inside.
Camille is first—tall and poised. Her husband, Patrick, follows closely behind, his expression unreadable but his stance stiff.
Soren straightens immediately, all softness gone. His spine locks up, his face smoothing into an impassive, unreadable expression.
“What are you doing here?”
“The nanny called. Concerned, seeing as it took her several tries to reach you. So, like to take Marigold with us," Camille says.
The air in the room drops several degrees.
Soren’s eyes darken. "Why?"
"You know why," Patrick says, his voice level. "The recent… events have shown us that you might not be the most suitable person to care for her."
Soren’s hands curl into fists on the desk. His voice is like ice when he speaks. "I take care of her just fine."
Camille sighs, her tone laced with condescension. "Now, Soren, you don’t need to get your hackles up. We know you mean well, but a little girl needs a mother—"
"We get by just fine," he snaps.
The words leave his mouth at the same moment mine do.
"She has me."
The room goes deathly silent.
Three pairs of eyes swing toward me.
My pulse pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
What did I just say?
Camille’s gaze sharpens. "And who are you?"
It takes everything in me to keep my voice steady. "I’m… Soren’s wife, ma’am. Talia. We just got married a few weeks ago."
The moment stretches unbearably. I don’t know who’s more shocked—Soren, his in-laws, or me.
But to his credit, Soren recovers fast.
"That’s right," he says smoothly, leaning back in his chair as though this entire situation isn’t unraveling in real-time. "I was going to tell you, but wanted to do it properly."
"But… but—" Camille sputters. "How can this be?"
Just as Soren opens his mouth to answer, a sharp knock on the doorframe cuts through the tension.
A nurse appears behind Camille and Patrick.
"Dr. Calloway, Marigold is asking for you."
Soren rises immediately. "I’ll be right there." He looks to his in-laws, his face carefully controlled. "As much as I’d love to sit down and explain further, I have to go to my daughter. We can discuss this later."
Camille and Patrick exchange a look. Their expressions are tight.
"Of course," Patrick says. "But we’d like to see Marigold before we leave."
Soren doesn’t hesitate. "Fine."
I follow silently as he leads them back to the ward. My hands are clammy, my pulse still racing. I can’t believe what I just said. What I just did.
Soren doesn’t look at me. His posture is straight, his steps even, but I can feel the tension rolling off him.
Inside the ward, Marigold brightens immediately when she sees who has arrived. "Grandma! Grandpa!"
Camille’s entire demeanor softens. She rushes to the bed, her hands cradling Marigold’s face as she fusses over her. Patrick stands behind her, quieter but still doting, asking how Marigold feels, if she’s in pain, if she needs anything.
Marigold reassures them a dozen times that she’s fine, but they linger, pressing kisses to her forehead, promising to visit again soon.
Finally, they leave.
Without a word to Soren, and without so much as a glance at me.
The moment the door shuts behind them, silence fills the room. Soren turns to me, his gaze unreadable. But when he asks to speak to me in private, I follow quickly into the hall.
“Dad?” Marigold asks.
“I’ll be right back, Goldie.”
“Okay…” Her eyes are huge with curiosity as she watches us leave.
In the hall, Soren’s voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.
"Were you serious?"
I square my shoulders, meeting his gaze. "Yes."
I hesitate, then exhale. No turning back now. “I’ve thought about it, and it’s your best option.”
He recovers quickly, pushing the file aside. “When can we do it?”
“Today. Before I change my mind.”
Something shifts in his expression, but it’s gone before I can name it. He doesn’t hesitate. He stands, smooths a hand over his coat, and reaches for his phone.
“We’ll have to leave Marigold with Nurse Sasha,” he says, already standing. “I don’t want to risk confusing her, In case we….”
In case we end the fake marriage.
I nod limply. I should feel relief. Instead, something cold settles under my skin.
***
The artificial scent of department store perfume permeates the air as I sift through a rack of dresses, fingers ghosting over fabric. Soren is a few feet away, arms crossed, watching with thinly veiled impatience.
“Just pick something,” he says.
I sigh. “Excuse me for not having a wedding dress ready to go.”
His mouth twitches, like he wants to smirk but won’t allow himself to.
I pull out a cream-colored dress—simple, knee-length, elegant. It will do.
“What about you?” I ask. “You look like you just walked out of surgery.”
He glances down at his scrubs. “Fair point.”
Twenty minutes later, we leave the store—me in the dress, him in a crisp button-down and dark slacks.
He looks— different . Less like a surgeon. More like a man someone might actually marry.
The thought unsettles me.
***
The courthouse is sterile, gray, lifeless. The fluorescent lights hum. Oddly, I’m reminds of the hospital. A clerk at the front desk barely glances at us as we hand over the paperwork.
Everything moves too fast.
A judge officiates. A stranger serves as our witness. The vows are skipped. No rings. No ceremony. Just legal words exchanged over a polished wooden desk.
I keep my hands clasped in front of me, my posture straight. Soren, beside me, is composed as ever, signing the papers with a steady hand.
Then it’s my turn.
The pen feels cold in my grip. The ink stains the page. My name, binding me to his.
A shudder moves through me. I refuse to acknowledge it.
The judge clears his throat. “By the power vested in me by the state, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
I force myself to look up. Soren is already looking at me. His expression is unreadable. But there’s something there, flickering beneath the surface.
It’s not smugness. Not victory. Not even relief.
It’s something unfamiliar. Something that makes my pulse stutter for half a second.
And then it’s gone.
“Congratulations,” the judge says, uninterested.
Soren exhales. “Well. That’s done.”
Yes. It is.
So why does it feel like I’ve just done something I can’t take back?