12. Soren
Chapter 12
Soren
T he doorbell rings sharply, dragging me out of my thoughts. I’m sitting in the living room, waiting for the inevitable. The weather outside matches my mood—grey clouds hanging low, threatening rain. I have a bad feeling about today. I stand, the creak of the floorboards beneath me almost as loud as my heartbeat, and make my way to the front door.
I can hear their voices even before I open it, like an incessant hum, too polite, too rehearsed. Camille and Patrick. My in-laws. They’re here.
When I open the door, Camille smiles, a tight, overly practiced expression that falls short of authentic. “Soren, darling,” she says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation.
Her perfume, a heavy floral scent, fills the air, thick and cloying. Patrick follows, a quieter presence, but I can see the look in his eyes—the same judgmental, unspoken question that always lingers when they’re around.
“Good to see you both,” I mutter, my words clipped. I don’t have the energy for pleasantries. I want them gone.
“Well, we’ve made the trip,” Camille says, walking past me, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “I hope you don’t mind. We’re staying for the week.”
I can already feel my stomach tightening. “A week?” I ask, not bothering to hide my frustration. “You didn’t mention that.”
Camille waves her hand dismissively, her eyes sweeping over the living room, inspecting every corner, every detail of the house. She’s never liked me, never liked anything about my life. I don’t know why she bothers to pretend otherwise.
“Oh, don’t make a fuss, Soren. We’re family. We just thought we should come check on Marigold. With everything that’s been going on…” Her voice trails off, but I know where she’s headed. The unspoken accusation that I’m somehow unfit to take care of my daughter.
“Of course,” I say, my voice colder than I intended. “Marigold’s fine. She’s in good hands.”
“We’ll be staying in the guest room,” Patrick pipes up, his tone subdued but firm, as if he’s already decided. “It’ll be good for all of us to spend some time together. Get to know each other better.” He doesn’t look at me directly, and I feel his disapproval pressing down on me.
I glance past them, toward the hallway, where Talia’s voice drifts from the bedroom. She’s talking to Marigold, that soft tone she uses when she’s trying to calm the little girl down. For a moment, I can almost hear the warmth in her voice, the way she’s already settled into our lives.
But I don’t want her caught in this mess.
“I’ll go get Marigold,” I say abruptly, turning away from them. I don’t want to stay in this conversation, not with Camille already looking at me like I’m a failure.
I walk toward Marigold’s room. My heart is beating faster than usual, a sharp pulse in my chest. I’m already thinking ahead—how I’ll deal with them, how I’ll protect Marigold from the constant criticism. I can feel it coming, like a storm on the horizon, but I won’t let them take her. Not without a fight.
Marigold is sitting on the floor, playing with her toys. She looks up when she hears me, her eyes lighting up. “Daddy!” she says, her voice high and cheerful. She jumps up and runs to me, arms open wide. I catch her, lifting her easily into my arms.
“Hey, Goldie,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She giggles, squirming to get down so she can show me something new.
I’m trying to keep it together and hold onto the calm that’s only ever found in moments like this. But my hands are shaking just a little as I hold her, and my thoughts race. Camille and Patrick are already here, and I can’t stop them. They’ll stay for the week and try to worm their way into everything, into Marigold’s life.
I see Talia lift her head immediately, assessing the situation. She’s watching us. She looks hesitant, as if she’s caught between wanting to help and knowing better. But she doesn’t say anything. Not yet.
“They’re here,” I say. Marigold looks up at me, her expression puzzled.
“Who?” she asks innocently.
“Grandma and Grandpa,” I say, my voice tight. “They’re here to visit.”
Marigold’s face lights up, but I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. She’s used to the quiet and calm we’ve had since we lost Lisa. She loves her grandparents, but the sudden intrusion of these people who—regardless of relation—don’t really know her isn’t lost on her.
“Are they staying with us?” she asks, her voice small, a little uncertain.
I look at her for a long moment, then nod. “For a little while.”
She doesn’t ask more, just returns my nod and clings to me a little tighter. My heart tugs, and I wish I could keep her this way forever—safe, unaware of the tensions building around us.
“Come on,” I say gently. “Let’s go say hi.”
I carry her back into the living room. Camille and Patrick are waiting, standing like statues, their eyes cold as they take in the scene. Camille’s smile is tight when she sees Marigold in my arms.
“Well, look at you,” she says, her voice syrupy sweet. “You’ve grown so much, darling. Are you feeling better? You had quite the nasty bump on your head last we saw you.”
Marigold doesn’t respond. She looks at me, her tiny hand clutching the front of my shirt, as though she knows what’s coming.
“She’s perfectly well,” I say for her.
Camille ignores me. “We’re going to stay for a little while, okay?” Camille says. “You can show us all your toys, and we’ll take such good care of you while we’re here. Wouldn’t you like that, darling?”
I can feel the irritation building in my chest. I can’t help it. I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to play along, to let them feel like they’re still in control. But this is my daughter. I’ll be shocked if they think they can waltz in here and make decisions for her.
“She’s fine,” I press, my voice cold now. “She doesn’t need more caretakers. She’s not a project.”
Camille stands back up, her face faltering just for a moment. “Of course, Soren,” she says, though the edge in her tone is clear. “We just want to help.”
“I don’t need help,” I growl, barely holding onto my temper. “You’re not here to help. You’re here to take.”
Talia appears at that moment, her hand brushing against my arm as she moves past me. “Maybe we should all sit down,” she says, her voice steady, but there’s a nervousness to her movements, a wariness in her eyes. She knows what’s going on here.
I look at her, grateful for her presence, but at the same time, irritated that she has to be caught in the middle. She’s not even supposed to be part of this mess. But somehow, she’s here.
“We’re not taking anything,” Camille snaps, but her smile is already back in place, even if it’s not genuine. “We just want to make sure Marigold has everything she needs.”
I grit my teeth. “I’ve been doing just fine.”
“Of course you have,” Camille says, her voice patronizing. “But you’re a man, Soren. You don’t know what she really needs.”
I feel my hands tighten around Marigold, my jaw clenched. I want to tell her to leave, to get out, to stop pretending like she knows what’s best for my daughter. But I don’t. Not yet. I have to wait. I have to at least maintain the illusion for Marigold’s sake. She shouldn’t have to see this.
But then, Talia speaks. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here,” she says.
For a moment, no one moves. I wonder if anyone even breathes.
Talia puts on a smile and offers her hand. “Camille. Patrick. I’m Talia, and I’ve heard so much about you. It’s wonderful to finally make your acquaintance.”
I nearly smirk at the stunned expressions on Camille and Patrick’s faces.
When no one takes her hand, Talia politely returns it to her side. “I’m sure you’ve had a long journey.”
My in-laws exchange a glance and I suppress the scoff.
“Come on, Marigold,” I say, my voice softer now. “Let’s show Grandma and Grandpa the toys.”
Marigold nods, still holding onto me tightly. I’m aware of every step I take as I lead her toward the living room. The tension in the air is still thick, but I can feel the shift now that Talia’s here. Still, I just want this to be over.
I’m not sure how much longer I can tolerate them.
***
The house feels cramped now. It’s as if the air has thickened with the weight of their presence. Camille and Patrick are settled into the guest room, a space I’ve always kept minimal. Now, it’s filled with their things—suitcases, shoes, bags. The house feels like it's been invaded.
I try to keep my mind focused on Marigold as she plays with Camille. She’s perched on the floor, her small hands working out a wooden puzzle, her tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration. I can see Camille’s smile, but there’s something cold in her eyes that doesn’t match the warmth she’s trying to project. Patrick, on the other hand, leans against the wall with his arms crossed, silently watching us all, his disapproving gaze never wavering.
Talia’s in the kitchen, putting together dinner. I hear the clink of dishes, the soft tone of her voice when she hums to herself, though I’m sure it’s more to block out the silence than anything else. I’ve been trying to distract myself, ignore the gnawing irritation inside me. But it's hard with them here, breathing down my neck—watching every move I make.
After a few minutes, I stand up and walk toward the kitchen, leaning against the doorway, observing Talia work. Her back is to me, her movements fluid as she chops vegetables. Her light hum escapes her lips. The scent of garlic and onions fills the air, and suddenly I realize I’m... relaxing. This—Talia in the kitchen, the gentle notes of her mindless humming—is something I’ve missed. Even before she moved in. It’s both a startling, and oddly comforting realization.
I glance over my shoulder, catching Camille’s eye. She’s still talking to Marigold, but her gaze darts between me and Talia. Her eyes narrow.
“You’re quiet, Soren,” Patrick says, breaking the silence. His voice is low, condescending, and I know exactly what he means.
“Just thinking,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
“Thinking, hmm?” Patrick gives me a knowing look, one that makes my skin crawl. “I want to discuss Marigold’s accident. I understand that it couldn’t have been helped, but this is exactly what Camille and I have been—”
I don’t even flinch. “Patrick, we’re fine.”
He hums thoughtfully, his eyes darting then to Talia, then back to me. “I’m sure you are. But one of these days, Soren, you’ll have to realize your daughter needs stability.”
“I don’t think I’m ready to have this discussion with you while Marigold is here, Patrick,” I warn, my voice almost a growl. “You’ve made your opinion clear. I’m not compromising on mine.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press further. He takes a step back, looking over at the dinner table. “We’ll see how dinner goes,” he mutters under his breath.
I ignore him, but it stings. I don’t need his judgment. Not after everything I’ve done for Marigold. Everything I’ve sacrificed.
I don’t understand how they conveniently ignore that.
Eventually, dinner is ready. The smell of roasted chicken and garlic butter fills the house, mingling with the scent of the prepared vegetables. Talia sets the table, the soft clink of porcelain a reminder that she’s here, doing all the things I’ve never been good at.
Camille and Patrick take their seats at the table, their chairs scraping loudly against the floor. Marigold is already perched at her spot, waiting expectantly. I slide into my seat across from Talia, my hand brushing hers for a fraction of a second before I pull away.
“So, Talia,” Camille begins, her voice syrupy sweet, “tell us how you and Soren met. It’s been so interesting, hearing bits and pieces of it, but we’d love to hear it all.”
I feel my jaw tighten, and I force myself to relax. Here comes the interrogation. Patrick watches me carefully, his eyes sharp. Talia glances at me briefly, unsure, and I can see the hesitation in her..
Before she can say anything, I lean in, draping my arm around her shoulders in a casual motion, my fingers grazing the soft fabric of her blouse. I feel Talia stiffen slightly at first, but then she relaxes into it, just enough for the moment to feel real—convincing.
I duck my head. “Play along, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice low enough for only her to hear.
A heat spreads through my chest, unexpected, and the words feel heavier than I intend. This is an act, I remind myself. It’s all for them. But somehow, it feels… real. Talia’s warmth against my side, her scent, the way she shifts just slightly beneath my touch. It all feels like something more.
Talia clears her throat, her fingers curling around the edge of her glass. “Oh, it’s not really much of a story,” she says, trying to deflect, but her voice is tight, controlled. I know she’s trying to make it sound casual, but the nerves are there, right under the surface.
Patrick leans forward, his eyes calculating slits. “Come on now, there must be something memorable about it. How did you two… end up together?”
Marigold is swinging her legs under the table, and when she cocks her head at us with big, curious eyes, I feel a pang of guilt. I have to remember why we’re doing this.
The tension crackles in the air. Camille’s smile widens, but without mirth. They’re baiting Talia. Testing her. I can see the gears in Camille’s head turning as she searches for any weakness. Without warning, I feel the old instincts kick in. The need to control the narrative.
The need to protect.
“Actually,” I say, my voice little louder than I intended, “we met a few years ago. Talia was assisting me and a few other surgeons on a paper. There wasn’t any big moment, really. We reconnected again when I found out she was interested in becoming a scrub nurse. By then, it was instant. Just a few late nights, some coffee, and a lot of conversations.” I smile, leaning in a bit closer to Talia, deliberately casual. “You know how these things go.”
Talia’s lips twitch, and she glances at me, her eyes a little wide. I don’t think she expected me to answer that way.
“Right,” she murmurs, then glances back at my parents. “I guess it wasn’t as dramatic as some people make it sound. It wasn’t some… Grey’s Anatomy fling.”
Marigold quietly giggles, and I see how Talia reacts to her—the slightest ebbing of stress at the sound. She truly does care for my daughter, doesn’t she?
Camille leans back in her chair, her faux smile dimmed. “How... quaint,” she says, a little too coolly. “Soren’s not the most talkative person, but he seems to have a lot of thoughts when it comes to you.”
“Talia’s amazing,” Marigold says, which makes my in-laws curdle slightly.
“Thanks, Goldie,” Talia says with a wink.
“I’m sure she is,” Camille adds, voice frigid now.
I don’t like the way she says that. It feels like a jab, like she’s digging for something. My jaw tightens, but I don’t react. I remind myself I’ve endured worse scrutiny—my surgical residency far more intense.
Yet somehow, this is still worse.
Patrick lets out a small chuckle, but it’s forced. “Ah, yes. A match made in heaven, I’m sure.” His eyes flicker to me again, that calculating look still there.
Talia shifts in her chair, clearly uncomfortable. I physically feel the subtle tension in her posture, see the way her fingers fidget with the edge of her napkin. I need to make this stop, before they push too hard.
Then, Talia shifts slightly, leaning into my side, a barely noticeable movement that causes my heart to race in my chest. The warmth of her body, the faint smell of lavender that lingers in her hair, makes the act feel far too personal. I force myself to focus, to play the part.
“So,” I say, attempting to direct the conversation before it gets too uncomfortable, “what about you two? How have things been since... well, since last time we talked?”
Camille and Patrick exchange a look. Patrick clears his throat. “We’ve been busy, as usual. You know—charity events, business. And the hospital gala this weekend is a big one. We thought it would be nice to bring you both along. You two should make a real appearance. We could show you off to the right crowd.”
His words are thinly veiled, coated with false sweetness. They’ve never been subtle in their attempts to control the situation. Perhaps that’s why we’ve always vied for dominance. None of us want to lose control.
The Gala. How could I forget?
Talia’s fingers twitch again, the tension in her body making me realize just how much she’s struggling with all of this. I’ve worked a few hospitals now, and I know nurses are rarely invited if they aren’t married to doctors or admin. I’m sure she knew about the gala, but doubted she would ever need to go.
I keep my arm around her, trying to offer whatever comfort I can, but I know it’s not enough. The entire situation is suffocating, the pressure to keep up appearances heavy on both of us.
“We’ve never really felt the need to attend those kinds of things,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “To be honest, I can’t say I noticed the hospital was even hosting it. Is it something new?”
Camille’s smile tightens, her eyes dart to Patrick for just a moment before returning to me. “Oh, it’s not new, dear. Just something we thought you might be interested in. Charity work, you know? It’s important to be seen in the right places. Networking, connections. Especially in healthcare. You never know where the right donors might be.”
I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to corner me, to manipulate the situation in their favor. But they don’t understand something—if they push too hard, I’ll push back just as fiercely.
Talia adjusts her seat again, leaning into me just slightly, her breath catching as if she’s trying to decide whether or not to say something. The silence that stretches between us all is thick, pregnant with tension.
Patrick leans back in his chair, finally seeming satisfied with the direction the conversation has taken. Camille dabs her mouth, her smile more of a smirk. I know they think they’ve won this round. But I’m not done yet.
“We’ll think about it,” I say, my voice firm. “But don’t expect us to be the poster children for your cause. We have our own way of doing things.”
Talia looks up at me, her gaze soft but grateful. I see how everything lifts off her shoulders just a little. The way I said it—strong, assertive—it’s a clear message. I’m not their pawn. Not now, not ever.
And I won’t allow Talia to be either.
“Well, we look forward to it,” Camille says, her smile still fixed in place. “We’ll keep you in the loop, of course.”
The evening lingers on, the rest of the meal passed in polite small talk, but the air between us is electric with unspoken words, with the knowledge that this isn’t over yet.