13. Talia
Chapter 13
Talia
“I still think we should fake food poisoning.”
Soren gives me a look over the rim of his mug, unimpressed. “They’re not going to buy that.”
“They might. I can look convincingly pale.”
“Not pale enough to skip a gala and still function the next day.”
I slump into the couch, arms folded tightly. A charity gala . Of course I’ve seen them, but I’ve never liked the idea of putting on a performance to get money out of people who couldn’t care less about patients and the struggles healthcare workers endure every day. I’ve never attended any—though it’s rare for the nursing staff to even be invited. Maybe a charge nurse here or there, but the hospital really only wants the “money makers” showing up.
I hate the entire idea.
“We’ve already done the 'we're too busy' excuse. And the 'Marigold has homework' one. We’re running out,” I say.
The clock ticks loud in the silence that follows. The air in the living room smells faintly of coffee and lemon floor polish. The cleaner’s come by. Of course he has a cleaner. I shift my weight, eyeing Soren across the room. He looks as stressed as I feel.
His in-laws have been camped in the guest room all week, acting like monarchs even in another man’s castle. They’re pleasant enough—on the surface—but the undercurrent of judgment from them is exhausting. His father-in-law, Patrick, watches me like he’s waiting for me to slip up and reveal that this entire marriage is a farce.
It is, but still.
“Maybe if we just said we weren’t feeling up to it—” I start.
“That’s code for ‘we don’t want to go,’” Soren says dryly. “And they’ll know.”
“Then maybe they should know! It’s not like they actually invited us because they wanted to see us. This whole thing feels... orchestrated.”
Soren opens his mouth to respond—but his phone buzzes on the table between us. We both freeze.
He glances at the screen, then frowns. “It’s Emma’s mom.”
“Who’s Emma?”
“Marigold’s friend.”
“Oh.” I sit up straighter, suddenly alert.
He answers. “Hey, Delia... Yeah, she’s home... Oh?” Pause.
My heart sinks.
Soren’s jaw flexes. “A sleepover? Tonight?” He looks at me, voice flat. “That’s... convenient.”
I mouth, No , vigorously.
Soren rubs his temple. “Sure, yeah. Marigold would love that. What time?” Another pause. “Alright. I’ll bring her over after dinner.”
He ends the call and drops the phone like it burns. “So much for Marigold being our excuse.”
I groan and let my head fall back against the couch. “Unbelievable.”
“Emma’s been begging her mom for a sleepover. Marigold is going to lose her mind when she hears.”
Right on cue, the front door bangs open.
“I’m home!” Marigold’s voice sings from the hallway. Her shoes slap against the floor as she rushes in, face lit with excitement. “Guess what? Emma wants me to sleep over tonight!”
Patrick and Camille suddenly appear from the guest room, trailing in behind her, their expressions smug.
Camille moves in to hug Marigold, smoothing down her damp curls. “Well, isn’t that perfect timing?” she coos.
Patrick smiles without a hint of warmth. To us, he says, “Now the two of you can come to the gala without worry.”
Soren and I exchange a look over Marigold’s head.
Now we’re trapped, I think .
“Let’s go get your overnight bag packed,” Camille says to Marigold. “You can tell us all about school while we help.”
Marigold and her grandparents disappear down the hall.
I turn to Soren and mutter, “They planned this.”
“Yeah,” he says, his mouth a hard line.
Later, once the house is quieter after Soren dropped off Marigold at Emma’s place, I find him in the bedroom room, standing by the window. Arms crossed. Jaw tight.
I close the door behind me and lean against it. “This keeps happening.”
“I know.”
“You keep springing things on me.”
He turns slowly. “I didn’t plan the sleepover.”
“No, but your in-laws are playing a very long game, and we’re not doing a good job of keeping up.”
He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”
I take a few steps forward. The lamp by the bed casts a warm glow, softening the edges of his face. He looks tired. Not just physically, but soul-deep tired.
“We should talk about what happens if we run into someone we know,” I say, keeping my voice quiet.
He nods. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Soren,” I press, “you don’t get it. We both work at the hospital. What if we run into one of your residents? Or even our colleagues?”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, “We’ll say we’re private people. We didn’t want to make a spectacle of it.”
“Because this isn’t already a spectacle?” I scoff.
He actually laughs, just once, bitter and amused. “You’re right.”
I drop onto the edge of the bed, fingers threading into the blanket. “We’re going to have to smile. Dance. Make conversation. Pretend.”
He doesn’t respond. Just walks over and sits beside me, our shoulders nearly touching.
The silence stretches.
“It’s just getting harder to lie,” I say softly. “And now, having to lie to the people I work with…”
Soren looks at me then. Something flickers behind his eyes—regret, maybe. Or guilt. Or something darker.
“I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Talia. Believe me, I never pictured it getting this far.”
I want to argue. I want to say something light, cut the tension. But there’s nothing to say.
We’re going to that gala. We’re going to walk into that room, hand-in-hand, smiling for the people who think we’re in love.
And I don’t know which scares me more—pulling off the lie, or that I’m starting to believe it.
***
The car slows to a stop, and I feel the knot in my stomach twist a little tighter.
Bright lights spill out from the glass-paneled entrance of the Lotus Grand Hotel, splashing gold and white onto the pavement like a red carpet substitute. Through the tall windows, I can already see the glittering silhouettes of the city’s elite—hospital board members, surgical department heads, people I’ve exchanged patient notes with and dodged in the cafeteria.
People I’ve never wanted to lie to.
Soren gets out first. The valet takes the keys with a polite nod, and then the door opens for me.
I exhale and step out.
My dress clings like a second skin, deep emerald silk that falls off one shoulder, cinched at the waist with a quiet elegance that betrays just how expensive it was. Soren’s choice, of course. He’d sent it to the house this afternoon in a garment bag with my name handwritten on the tag. I didn’t ask how he knew my size.
When I came into the living room wearing it, I’d heard his breath catch when he saw me, and my nerves faltered.
“You clean up well,” he’d murmured. Dressed in a black tux, crisp shirt, and a bow tie slightly loosened as if he intended to own the evening, he’d looked like something out of a GQ spread.
“So do you,” I’d said.
Now, he offers me his arm. Forcing a smile, I take it.
Flashbulbs pop somewhere. A photographer hovers near the entrance, catching candid shots of the attendees. One of them lifts his camera toward us.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath, “we’re already part of the entertainment.”
“Smile, Mrs. Calloway,” Soren murmurs under his breath, leaning in so close I feel the warmth of his voice brush my neck. “They’re watching.”
And so we smile. And we walk. And we pretend we belong here like this—together.
Inside, the hotel ballroom is a riot of polished silver and gold. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls. A string quartet plays something I vaguely recognize from a perfume commercial. Waiters in black vests pass around trays of champagne flutes and delicate hors d'oeuvres.
It’s overwhelming. Opulent. And full of people I know.
Dr. Liem from Cardiology. Dr. Shaw, the Chief of Surgery. Dr. Savoie. Even Miriam, the charge nurse from Pediatrics, already whispering behind a glass of wine with another colleague.
Soren’s arm around me tightens a fraction.
“They’ve heard,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
“Of course they’ve heard,” he says quietly. “My in-laws made sure of it.”
And speak of meddling in-laws…
Patrick and Camille stand near the far end of the ballroom, holding court like they own the event. Camille in navy blue, dripping in pearls, her hair immaculately coiled. Patrick, dignified as always, scans the room with that unreadable look that makes you feel like you’re already failing.
When they see us, Camille lights up.
“There you are,” she croons, sweeping toward us with open arms like we’re her long-lost children. “Talia, darling, you look lovely. Doesn’t she look lovely, Patrick?”
Patrick nods once. “Soren, you managed to put on a tux. I’m stunned.”
Soren forces a polite laugh, releasing my arm to shake his hand. Camille pulls me into a brief hug that smells like Chanel No. 5.
“You two look every inch the perfect couple,” she says, her voice sugar-sweet and razor-sharp.
Behind her, I catch Soren’s glance and know exactly what he’s thinking : Let the games begin.
I swallow tightly. This was a mistake , I mouth.
Soren leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear and making me shiver. “Too late now.”
“You owe me for this,” I mutter, still smiling like it’s all so romantic, doing my best to ignore how the accidental brush of his lips has made me tremble.
He chuckles. “Add it to the tab.”
“Talia,” Camille says, eyeing me from head to toe. “That dress is stunning on you. Soren always had good taste.”
I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or a comparison. We hadn’t seen them get ready, but I know she must have been watching everything like a hawk.
I nod, polite. “Thank you. You look beautiful too.”
They usher us into the seats next to them, and the moment we sit, the interrogation begins.
“So,” Camille begins, swirling her wine, “forgive our rudeness last night. We’ve always been very honest people.” She winks. An action that puts me instantly on guard. “But I’m still curious to hear the rest of the story. How did you two reconnect again? At the hospital?”
Soren’s hand slips over mine under the table. His thumb brushes the back of my fingers. I glance at him, and he gives me a quick, sidelong look. Then he leans closer, arm casually draping over my shoulder.
I manage a smile, lifting my voice. “Well, we worked on that paper together first, you’ll remember. Of course I knew right away I had a thing for him, but after reconnecting, I must have annoyed him for a solid month before he realized he liked me.”
Camille arches a brow. “Annoyed?”
“She means I was stubborn,” Soren says with a faint laugh. “Which is true. Still is.”
I throw him a look. “Stubborn’s one way to put it.”
Laughter bubbles around the table. For a second, we actually look like a couple who belong together. But it’s a fragile illusion—held together by practiced lies and clenched teeth.
Patrick picks at his food, then asks, “And Marigold? How is she adjusting to... all of this?”
“She’s great,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Amazing, really. We have a lot of fun together.”
Camille smirks. “That’s good to hear. I just wonder how stable everything feels for her. Moving a new woman in so soon after our beloved Lisa…”
She trails off, but the implication is sharp. I glance at Soren. His jaw is tight. He doesn’t say anything.
I can’t help myself. “I can’t imagine how painful it was losing your daughter,” I say, Camille going suddenly still beside Patrick. “And I would never try and replace her. But… just so you know, I do care for Soren and Marigold. Very much.”
Maybe more than I should.
Camille’s lips are nearly bloodless under her lipstick, and I know I’ve made a mistake. But it’s Patrick who speaks up.
“Lisa was the light of our lives,” he says. “We miss her every day.”
There’s an odd softening then, so subtle I almost miss it. But I can feel it in the way Soren is stiff beside me, and see Camille briefly look away to dab at the corner of her eye.
“Of course,” I say.
“I think that’s our cue,” Soren whispers, standing to his feet. I want to kick myself for overstepping, but then his hand is outstretched and I realize he’s inviting me to dance.
I take it, trying to control the abrupt rush of excitement that fills my body.
“If you’ll excuse us.” He tilts his head toward his in-laws firmly and walks me toward the dance floor.
The moment we step onto it, the orchestra shifts to a slow, melodic waltz. It's too perfect, too staged. But I can't help myself. My hand instinctively moves to Soren’s chest, and his arm finds its place around my waist. He’s solid beneath my fingers, warm, commanding. Our steps fall into a rhythm effortlessly.
The soft lights above cast a golden hue over us, and for a split second, the noise of the room blurs. It’s just us—moving, breathing, a part of something bigger. Around us, the guests turn their attention our way. Whispers and glances ripple through the crowd. I know what they’re thinking. They’re all probably wondering if this is real, if we’re really a couple. And I don’t know how to feel about it. All I can do is focus on the man in front of me—the one whose grip is just tight enough to send warmth coursing through my veins.
I glance up at Soren. His expression is unreadable, a sharp contrast to the man I saw a few hours ago, the one who made me laugh in the kitchen. The coldness is back, and it’s like an invisible barrier between us, even though we’re practically pressed together.
“I’m sorry for saying that,” I blurt.
“It’s alright,” he says, surprising me. “Patrick’s not wrong. Lisa is missed.”
Something dulls in my chest, and I’m confused by the way it upsets me.
And then, softly, he says, “You look beautiful.” There’s a rich blend of sincerity and something I can’t quite place in his voice.
The words send a shiver down my spine. I offer a tight smile, hoping he doesn’t see the way my heart is suddenly racing.
"Thanks," I reply, my voice quieter than I intend.
“Since we’re apologizing, I’m sorry about Camille and Patrick. They are overstepping big time, but I know they’re trying to push me to react so they can have a case against me.”
“It’s alright, Soren.” I murmur. “I see through the act and I’m sorry you keep having to face this level of hostility. It’s unreasonable.”
He doesn’t respond, just a sharp inhale as he draws me closer to him.
The music swirls around us, soft but powerful. The soft glow of the chandeliers reflects off the polished floor, lighting the room in a golden haze. I don't know how to feel about us here—how I am in his arms, swaying to the same beat. The fact that I’m pressed up against Soren, my head resting on his shoulder as his hand slides around my waist, makes my heart beat faster.
His grip tightens slightly, and I feel the warmth of his body—steady, confident. He smells of fresh cologne, a hint of citrus and wood, grounding me, calming me in the sea of people. The soft rustle of the fabric of his suit brushing against my dress. I can’t help but notice how effortlessly he moves, as if he’s done this a hundred times before. His posture is perfect, his movements smooth—like he's used to this. He’s not tense. He’s in control.
I wish I could say the same about myself. My heart beats a little faster than it should, my hand resting on his shoulder, my fingertips brushing the soft fabric of his suit. I feel small, almost fragile in his arms, as if I might break apart if I move too quickly.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice low, barely rising above the music.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, not trusting that my voice wouldn’t betray the strange fluttering in my chest.
The night is spinning around us, but it’s like we're in our own little world, a bubble that nothing can touch. Every little movement seems exaggerated, meaningful. I hear the laughter of the other guests, the clink of glasses, the murmurs of conversation—but it's all distant, like we're the only ones who matter.
"I should’ve asked you to dance sooner," Soren says, his breath warm against my ear. The closeness makes my pulse stutter, but I don’t pull away. I stay, anchored by the silent connection I know is growing between us.
I give him a small smile, my fingers flexing slightly against his shoulder. "I doubt I would’ve said yes," I tease, my voice barely above a whisper.
He chuckles. “I suppose that’s fair.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything else falls away. I see the shape of something—something real—in them. It makes my chest tighten, but it also feels... right. The way he looks at me, like there’s no one else in the room.
The music swells, drawing us closer as we move in sync, two bodies finding rhythm together. The atmosphere is intoxicating. It’s not just the way the lights catch his eyes, or the way his hand holds mine just a little too tight, as if he doesn’t want to let go. It’s the silence between the music and words, the way we seem to communicate with every brush, every stolen glance.
Everything feels... intimate.
And then the music stops, popping our bubble.
We draw apart and looking into the dark pool of his eyes, my knees suddenly feel like jelly. I shake slightly and lean against him for support.
Soren immediately slips into the alert mode. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I force a smile. “Must have been all that spinning. Why don’t you get us drinks? I should feel better after a glass of cognac.”
He studies me for a few moments before nodding slightly. “Stay right here. I’ll be back.”
I watch as he walks away, feeling the space between us grow. His absence is sharp, and I’m left standing there, surrounded by people, the music suddenly too loud, the lights too bright.
I force a smile as Camille approaches, her eyes flicking over me. "Enjoying yourself, dear?" she asks, but the tone is light, almost patronizing.
I nod, offering a polite smile. "Yes, thank you."
"Good," she says, looking past me to where Soren has gone. "Soren’s a bit... intense, don’t you think? He’s always been that way, ever since Lisa."
I stiffen at the mention of his late wife, but I don’t let it show. "Everyone has their ways.”
Camille smiles, but it’s tight, almost calculating. "Yes, but I do wonder how long his... behavior will last. How might it impact Marigold. He’s so distant. Not like he used to be."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything at all. Instead, I nod again and glance at Soren, who is at the bar, chatting with someone.
I don’t know what I expected from this night, but it's clear that whatever I thought was coming—it isn't here yet. Soren’s walls are still up, even with me. But for a moment, in his arms, I had felt like they were coming down. And maybe, just maybe, that’s all I need.
For now, anyway.
Camille sips from her glass like it’s laced with judgment. Her eyes follow Soren at the bar. "You know, I worry about Marigold," she says, her voice casual, like she’s discussing the weather. "Children need consistency. Structure. Not this revolving door of nannies, being passed around between people."
My spine straightens. I turn to her, blinking. "Passed around?"
She waves a manicured hand. " Talia, you seem lovely, truly, but you’re not a mother. And Soren… well, he does what he can, I suppose."
I freeze, but my heartbeat thunders.
She sips again, eyes trained on Soren’s back. "But the truth is, he’s always been more wrapped up in work than parenting. It’s easier for him to control hospital staff than it is to raise a little girl."
My jaw clenches. I glance at the crowd, but no one’s listening. Still, I lower my voice and lean in.
"That little girl," I say, each word sharp, "worships the ground he walks on. You know why? Because he’s present. Because he listens to her. Because he cares about her."
Camille’s brows rise just slightly, caught off guard.
I keep going. "He may not do things the way you think he should. But he’s trying. Every single day. And frankly, he's doing a better job than most people with a mother and a father."
A pause. Her face stiffens.
"And just for the record," I add, my tone soft, but steady, "he didn’t ask me to be Marigold’s mother. I don’t intend to replace her mother. But that little girl chose me. So maybe—just maybe—you, should give your son-in-law a little credit for raising someone capable of loving like that."
Camille stares at me, blinking. Her lips part, but no words come out.
The music swells again. The crowd laughs somewhere behind us. I spot Soren weaving back through the guests with two drinks in hand, his brow furrowed like he senses tension from across the room.
He reaches us and hands me a glass.
"Everything alright?" he asks, glancing between us.
Camille straightens, her expression smoothing into polite neutrality. "Of course. Just chatting."
"Uh huh." Soren’s eyes cut to me, questioning.
I give him a small smile and take the glass. "Thanks for the drink."
His hand brushes mine as I take it, lingering just a beat too long. Then his gaze shifts to Camille again—watchful, like he knows she’s been probing.
She smiles at him with the same strained warmth. "Enjoy the rest of the Gala," she says, and turns away.
Soren waits until she’s gone before leaning in, voice low. "What did she say?"
I shake my head. "Nothing I couldn’t handle."
He studies me. His brows twitch. Then slowly, slowly, a smile tugs at his mouth. "Really?"
I shrug, trying to be convincing.
But his expression softens. And there it is again—that heat, that weight between us. This whole thing might have started as a lie, a charade to keep his in-laws at bay. But the way he’s looking at me now? It feels anything but fake.
We stand there in the middle of the glittering ballroom, clinking glasses, pretending we belong here. But deep down, something’s shifting. And neither of us is ready to admit it out loud. Not yet.
But soon.
***
I feel him watching me.
Even from across the ballroom, with glittering chandeliers overhead and champagne flutes clinking everywhere, I feel the weight of Soren’s stare.
He’d been drawn into an intense and long conversation with Dr. Meyers from Oncology, and while he was distracted, I’ve been cornered into a conversation of my own in which I’m an unwilling participant.
I badly want to look at him, feeling my neck prickle under his stare.
But I can’t look at him right now. Not while Dr. Morgan Hayes—orthopedic titan and habitual flirt—is standing this close to me, laughing at something I barely even heard.
“So, are you sure you’re actually married to Calloway?” Morgan grins, tilting his head. “Because that man doesn’t strike me as the marrying type. Shocked he even managed it the first time, honestly. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t mingle. Doesn’t even drink, unless you count black coffee as a beverage.”
I smile politely, trying to steer the conversation back to neutral. “He’s full of surprises.”
“Are you one of them?” Morgan asks, stepping closer, the teasing in his voice starting to edge on something else. His cologne is expensive and cloying. It makes my nose twitch.
I laugh a little, nervous. “You know, I should—”
My words cut off as a warm, firm hand wraps around my waist from behind.
“Soren,” I gasp.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just slides in beside me like he’s done it a thousand times, fitting against my side with practiced ease. His fingers tighten at my hip, possessive, steady. His eyes don’t leave Morgan’s face.
“Hayes,” he says coolly—velvet and ice. “Good to see you.”
Morgan’s smug expression falters. “Calloway.”
“Enjoying the Gala?”
Morgan glances between us, the air turning heavy with tension. “It just got interesting.”
Soren doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. His hand shifts higher on my back. My skin sings under his touch, electricity surging up my spine like a live wire.
I look up at him, trying to silently ask what is going on. And that’s when he does it. Without warning, without pretense, Soren cups the side of my face, leans down, and kisses me. Right there. In front of Morgan. In front of what feels like the entire hospital .
I freeze. My lips part in shock—just enough for him to take more.
His mouth is warm, firm, unrelenting. It’s not a peck. Not a show. It’s slow, deliberate, and deep.
It’s possessive.
And I’m powerless against it.
My fingers clutch the front of his jacket, not to pull him closer, but because my knees feel like they’re about to give out. He tilts my chin slightly, deepening the kiss, and I forget what air tastes like. I forget where we are. I forget everything.
Because when Soren kisses me, it’s not play-pretend. It’s fire. Unrestrained and dangerous.
When he finally pulls back, the room slides back into focus in pieces. My heart thunders. My flushed and breathless. A little dazed.
And Soren? He’s staring at me like I’m the one who just crossed a line.
I blink up at him, lips still parted.
He says nothing.
I don’t trust my voice. I don’t trust what’s happening inside me. I don’t trust that it didn’t feel real.
Morgan is long gone. I didn’t even see him leave.
The room is spinning with noise again, but I can’t hear any of it. I’m still staring at Soren, trying to understand what just happened—what we just did. And the worst part?
I think I liked it.