10. Soren
Chapter 10
Soren
I don’t get much sleep.
Not because of the storm or Marigold, but because of Talia.
I woke up in the middle of the night, out of habit, and found myself walking to Marigold’s room. She hates thunderstorms, but I was surprised when she didn’t come running into my room at the first thunderclap. I thought maybe he’d outgrown her old fear.
But when I opened the door and saw them—Talia curled around my daughter, her arms holding Marigold close, both of them fast asleep—it did something to me.
Something I don’t have a name for.
I should have left. Should have turned right back around and gone to bed. But instead, I stepped closer, drawn in by forces I couldn’t explain. Talia’s hair was tangled against the pillow, blonde waves spilling over Marigold’s tiny hand. One stray tress rested against her cheek, and before I could think about what I was doing, my fingers moved, brushing it away.
She’d startled awake at once.
"I thought you left," she whispered, voice thick with sleep.
I had a million things I could’ve said. A hundred excuses. Instead, I said the dumbest thing imaginable.
"I came back."
And then I left.
Not my finest moment.
Now, it’s morning, and I’m pacing my office like a man who’s lost his mind. Because I don’t know how to be around her now. I thought this whole fake marriage thing was awkward before, but this? This is next-level, skin-crawling, ground-swallow-me-now awkward.
What am I supposed to do? Pretend it didn’t happen? Make a joke about it?
I groan and run a hand down my face.
Talia left before we woke up. Slipped out of the house quietly, like she wasn’t even there. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. And what’s worse? I can’t stop thinking about her. Not in the way I should be thinking about my fake wife.
I think about the way Talia laughs—how it’s full-bodied, unrestrained, like she feels joy in her bones. I think about how she looked last night, playing with Marigold, her eyes bright and face soft, as if she was made for moments like that. And I hate it. I hate that I’m noticing these things about her.
Because I’m not attracted to Talia.
Right?
I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts. This is just residual tension. That’s all. We’re in a situation neither of us expected, and we’ve been spending more time together. It’s normal to get confused.
I just need to act normal. Professional. Like last night didn’t happen.
Easier said than done.
Because as I step out of my office, heading toward my morning rounds, the thought of running into her makes my stomach twist. I can already feel the impending awkwardness, the stilted conversation, the avoidance of eye contact.
Great. Just great. I’m a grown man, a father, a doctor. And yet, somehow, I’m acting like a teenage boy with a crush. I need to get a grip. But no matter how much I try to push it away, one thought lingers: What then happens if she keeps getting under my skin?
I tell myself it’s necessary. That what happened last night—seeing her curled up in Marigold’s bed, watching her breathe in sync with my daughter—was nothing. That the way her skin felt beneath my fingers, the way she startled at my touch, means nothing.
But the moment I step into Pediatrics, I know I’m lying to myself.
I don’t even know Talia’s there at first. I’m going through patient charts, checking pre-op patients, until I hear laughter—light, warm, familiar.
I glance up, and there she is.
Talia’s kneeling by a little girl’s bed, fixing a paper crown onto the child’s head. The girl, barely five, giggles as Talia adjusts the crooked edges.
"There," Talia says, satisfied. "Now you’re officially the queen of the ward."
"Princess," the girl corrects.
"Apologies, Your Highness."
I should look away. But now I’m noticing the way her uniform fits snug around her waist. The way her hands move—gentle, patient. The way her presence brightens the entire room.
This is a mistake.
Not because I don’t want to see her—no, that would be simple. The problem is that I do want to see her, and I don’t know what to do with that.
So, I stick to my routine. Patients. Charts. Checking vitals. Nodding at the other nurses. Business as usual.
Except it’s not.
When I enter the room, Talia freezes for several seconds then straightens from where she’s been leaning over a patient’s bed, her fingers stilling on the blanket she was adjusting. She looks up, and for the briefest moment, something I can’t quite place flickers across her face.
Then it’s gone.
“Dr. Calloway,” she says, her voice careful.
My throat feels too dry. “Nurse Vance.”
Her lips press together like she’s trying not to react to that.
I clear my throat and step forward, scanning the patient’s chart, pretending like I can’t feel the awkwardness settling into the air like thick humidity before a storm.
Talia shifts on her feet, the movement slight but noticeable. I glance up, just in time to catch her eyes darting to the door. She wants to leave. I can’t even blame her.
We’re both standing here, pretending last night didn’t happen, pretending like I didn’t see her curled up in my daughter’s bed, like I didn’t reach out and—
Nope. Not thinking about that.
“How’s Mr. Dawson’s recovery?” I ask instead.
Talia blinks, like she wasn’t expecting me to speak. Then she shifts into professional mode. “He’s responding well. Fever broke last night, and his vitals are stable.”
“Good.” I nod, feigning glancing at the monitors through I already know everything’s well. “Any concerns?”
“No, nothing major.”
I glance to her again, and Talia’s looking at me, but the second our eyes meet, she looks away.
“Okay.” I turn for the door. “Keep monitoring him.”
“Will do,” she says.
“Alright then,” I say abruptly, nearly out the door. “I’ll see you—”
“Yes,” she cuts in quickly. “See you.”
But she needed to reach for something and we nearly bump into each other. It’s so ridiculous that I almost laugh. Surprising myself. But I stop it, because I know that would only make things worse.
Instead, I make a beeline for the door, practically escaping the room, and I don’t exhale until I’m halfway down the hall.
This is going to be a long day.
I barely make it through my last consultation when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Glancing at the screen, I hesitate.
Lisa’s parents.
Why are they calling? They must want something. I shut my office door for privacy before answering.
“Hello?”
“Soren.” Camille’s voice is smooth but clipped. “How are you?”
I don’t bother pretending. “Fine. What’s going on?”
A pause. Then, “We’re coming to visit next week.” I grip the phone tighter. “Why?”
“To see Marigold,” she says lightly. Too lightly. “And with everything that’s happened… we’d like to spend some time with her.”
My stomach knots. “You saw her two weeks ago.”
“Yes, but we’d like more time. She’s our granddaughter, Soren.”
I close my eyes briefly, forcing myself to stay calm. “How long are you planning to stay?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
That sets off every alarm in my head. They’re being vague on purpose. Testing the waters. Maybe even considering another custody attempt.
My throat tightens. “Fine. Let me know when you finalize your plans.”
“We will.” There’s a small, deliberate pause before she adds, “How’s your new bride?”
The air in my office suddenly feels thin.
I keep my voice even. “She’s good.”
“I hope we get to see her,” Evelyn says smoothly. “We’d love to spend time with the woman raising our granddaughter.”
My jaw clenches. “I’m raising Marigold.”
“Of course. It takes a marriage.” Her tone is so mild it makes me uneasy. “We’ll see you soon, Soren.”
The call disconnects. I stand there, phone still in hand, pulse hammering. They don’t believe the marriage. And now they’re coming to check.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly.
Talia and I have not moved in together. There’ no reason. There was no reason to. We keep things simple. Distant. Professional.
But now, everything’s changed. If Camille and Patrick sense a lie, and they will try for custody again.
I can’t let that happen.
I’d told them the story Talia and I agreed on as a cover for the “marriage” over the phone.
It was a couple of days after our courthouse wedding, after Marigold had gone to school, and things were settled. I had to do it—before they investigated and found something they weren’t supposed to.
I recall sitting in my car in the hospital parking lot, gripping my phone so hard my fingers ached.
“I got married because I fell in love again,” I’d said simply, skipping the preamble.
Silence. Then Camille’s sharp inhale. “Lisa’s barely been gone for—“
“She’s been gone for three years, Camille. Don’t you think Marigold needs a mother?”
More silence.
Then, Patrick spoke. “Why now?”
I expected that. I was prepared. “Because it was time. Marigold loves her. It just made sense.”
A half-truth at best. I could picture them seated in their oversized leather chairs, exchanging glances, already doubting me.
Camille finally spoke, her voice slow, careful. “We’d love to meet her again. Properly introduce ourselves. ”
Of course, you would, I’d thought.
Then, I’d given a noncommittal response and ended the call as fast as I could.
Now, weeks later, that moment comes back to haunt me. They’re coming. They’ll be poking around, watching, asking questions. And if they sense even a sliver of doubt? If they realize Talia and I don’t live together…?
They’ll try to take Marigold away from me again.
I can’t let that happen.
I grab my phone and call Talia.
She answers on the second ring. “Hey.” She sounds tired. Or maybe she can already tell something’s off.
“We have a problem,” I say.
A beat of silence. Then, wary, “What kind of problem?”
“My in-laws. They’re coming next week.”
She exhales. “And?”
“They want to meet you.”
She goes quiet.
I push forward. “They’re suspicious. If they figure out we don’t actually live together, they’ll use it against me. They’ll try to take Marigold.”
I don’t expect her to care. Not really.
But when she finally speaks, her voice is softer. “You really think they’ll try that again?”
“I know they would.”
A long silence stretches between us.
Then I force out the words I hate having to say. “I need you to move in.”
Her sharp intake of breath is all the answer I need. “Talia—”
“No,” she says, very voice firm. “Soren, that was never part of the agreement.”
Agreement .
The word makes something bitter rise in my throat.
“Talia, listen—”
“No, you listen,” she snaps. “I signed a piece of paper. That’s it. I didn’t agree to play house with you.”
Her anger shouldn’t bother me. But it does. Because deep down, I knew she’d say no. I knew . But hearing it out loud still stings.
I force myself to stay calm. “It wouldn’t be permanent. Just until they leave.”
“Soren.” She sighs, and this time, she sounds tired. “I can’t.”
I rub my forehead, trying to ease the tension building there. “If they find out, they’ll take me to court. You know how ugly that could get.”
A pause. She must know. Working in Pediatrics, we’ve both heard and seen the horror stories of custody battles over children. Sick children. Neglected children. Children who deserve better.
Marigold may not be sick or neglected, but she deserves so much better than losing first her mother, and then her father. Surely, Talia understands that.
Then, quietly, I hear her say, “I do.”
We sit in silence, the weight of everything pressing down between us. I need her to say yes.
But I also know I can’t make her.
Finally, she exhales. “Let me think about it.” It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no, either.
For now, I’ll take it.