14. Soren
Chapter 14
Soren
T he morning light creeps through the blinds like it has no business being this gentle. My head isn’t pounding—I didn’t drink enough for that—but there’s a strange weight in my chest. Something heavy and unfamiliar.
I’m haunted.
Haunted by the memory of her mouth on mine. Of how I pulled her in without thinking. Of how she didn’t pull away.
Talia .
I scrub a hand over my face, sitting up in bed. The sheets are warm, tangled, and it’s quiet enough to hear my own breath. The clock reads 7:14 a.m., and for once, Marigold isn’t jumping on my chest demanding pancakes.
I get up slowly, bones still stiff from the pretenses of the night before. My tux jacket is flung over the back of a chair. Talia’s dress—oh my, that dress—is gone from the back of the bedroom door. She slept in Marigold’s room last night, giving me a break from feigning night shifts and having to sleep in the on-call room—or the couch here—to avoid my in-laws’ questions.
I don’t remember hearing her wind down for the night. We said goodnight like we were coworkers. Like I hadn’t kissed her in front of a hundred people with something feral in my chest.
I walk out into the hallway, and the smell of cinnamon hits me. She’s here. Of course Talia’s still here.
The in-laws didn’t leave last night. Not yet, anyway.
I pad down the stairs barefoot. Talia’s in the kitchen with her back to me, hair twisted up, robe cinched tight at the waist. She’s flipping something on the stove, probably French toast. Marigold sits at the kitchen island, humming and swinging her legs. Emma’s mom must have dropped her off early.
“Talia,” I say, voice rough.
She turns slightly. “Morning.” Her voice is light. Too light. Like nothing happened.
“Morning, Dad!” Marigold sings.
“Morning,” I say to them both, moving past Talia to grab a mug.
I pour myself a coffee, black and strong. Anything to clear the fog.
Marigold looks up at me, grinning. “Guess what?”
“What?” I ask with a smile, brush my hand over her still-messy sleepover bedhead.
“Nana and Grandpa said they’re leaving this afternoon. But not until after lunch.” She says it like a warning and a celebration rolled into one.
Well, that’s a mild relief. Although last night, they didn’t feel like enemies. After Talia spoke up, after… the kiss. They looked at me differently. Like maybe they believed us.
I sit beside Marigold, sipping my coffee. “You sleep okay?”
She nods. “Emma’s house was fun. But she snores.”
“So do you,” I say with a smirk.
She gasps in mock horror and swats my arm.
Talia chuckles softly, plating the toast. She sets a dish in front of Marigold, then one in front of me. “Eat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, and she shoots me a look I can’t read.
The silence stretches, until footsteps creak overhead. Moments later, Patrick walks in, smelling like aftershave and old leather. Camille follows, perfectly pressed in her beige cardigan and pearl earrings.
“Soren. Talia,” Patrick says. “Morning.”
Camille just nods and smiles at Marigold. “Good morning, baby. You look beautiful.”
Marigold beams. “Thank you.”
We sit in an awkward semi-circle, chewing French toast like it’s a peace offering. Talia eventually excuses herself to help Marigold get dressed upstairs.
And then it’s just me and them.
Camille sets her teacup down. “We meant to say this last night, but the evening got away from us.”
“The Gala was… enlightening,” Patrick says, leaning forward slightly.
I glance between them. “How so?”
“You two,” he says carefully. “You seemed… connected. Real.”
I swallow hard. “We are.”
“You love her?” Camille’s question is sharp. Sharp enough that it throws me.
I blink, caught in a moment I didn’t prepare for. “I care about Talia. A lot.”
Not a lie. Not the whole truth either.
Camille’s eyes soften, and for once, there’s no venom in her voice. “We understand you lost a wife, Soren. But we lost our daughter. You know what that kind of grief does to a person?”
“Yes,” I say, slowly nodding.
“She was our only child,” Patrick adds, voice gravelly with uncharacteristic emotion. “And when she died, we didn’t just lose her. We lost pieces of ourselves. Marigold… she became our tether.”
Camille’s hand shakes a little as she cups her tea again. “You weren’t always present, Soren. And after… you were drowning, and we were scared. We didn’t know how to reach you.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know how to reach myself either.”
Silence.
Then, Patrick lets out a long breath. “You’ve changed. She—Talia—she’s good for you. And for Marigold.”
“That’s what we saw last night,” Camille agrees. “Talia gave us quite a talking to.”
“She did?” I don’t know how to take that.
And then, amazingly, Camille laughs—with a smile that reaches her eyes. “Oh yes. Patrick’s right. She’s good for you.”
I look down at my coffee. My fingers are tight around the handle.
“We want to be a part of Marigold’s life,” Camille says, “but not at the expense of your family.”
I meet her eyes. “I want that too. I just—”
“You’re doing okay, son,” Patrick stops me. “Really. You are.”
For a moment, I can’t speak. My throat’s too tight. Then the sound of Marigold’s laugh echoes down the stairs, and all I can do is nod.
***
Camille and Patrick leave after lunch with hugs and soft goodbyes. No veiled threats. No legal jabs. Just genuine goodbyes.
And when the door shuts behind them, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for a week. I lean against it, letting my head fall back. The silence hums in my ears, oddly comforting.
Talia’s in the living room, kneeling by the couch, picking up one of Marigold’s crayons. She glances up when I walk in. “Well?”
“They’re gone,” I say, and I’m still not sure I believe it.
She straightens, brushing her palms against her thighs. “They didn’t threaten you this time?”
“No. They…” I trail off, still trying to process.
Talia gives me a wary look. “They what?”
“They said you talked to them. Last night at the Gala”
Her expression flickers. “Right.”
“They said you stood up for me.”
She exhales. “It wasn’t some dramatic speech, Soren. I just told them what they needed to hear.”
“What did you tell them?”
She hesitates, then shrugs lightly. “That you were grieving. That you weren’t perfect but you loved your daughter. That trying to take her from you was selfish. That pretending it was about what was best for Marigold was a lie they told themselves to feel better.”
I stare at her. “You said all that?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is quiet now. “They needed to hear it.”
“Why?”
Talia looks at me then, really looks. “Because it was true. And because I was tired of watching them treat you like you were disposable.”
My throat goes tight. “They didn’t just hear you,” I say slowly. “They believed you. They saw how you looked at me. How we acted around each other. They think we’re real.”
She arches a brow, but there’s some color in her cheeks now, a faint flush. “Well, we’re great actors.”
“In some ways, yeah,” I say, voice low. “But that kiss…”
Talia looks away. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
I nod, even though my head is screaming to do the opposite.
“They said they approve of you,” I go on after a pause. “They smiled when they said it. Not fake smiles. Not patronizing. Just… relief.”
Her mouth twists. “I think they just needed someone to help them let go of their version of the story.”
I nod slowly. “I don’t know why you did it, but thank you.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She walks past me, toward the window, sunlight catching in her hair. Then, quietly, Talia says, “You’re a good father, Soren. I didn’t say it to be nice. I said it because I’ve seen it. And you didn’t deserve to keep fighting alone.”
I blink hard. There’s something raw clawing its way up my chest.
“I didn’t expect this,” I say. “Any of it. You. Marigold needing you the way she does. Me…”
“Feeling something again?” she finishes gently.
I let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”
Talia turns; arms folded loosely across her chest. “I didn’t plan on feeling anything either.”
“But you do?” My heart is hammering in my chest—I can’t believe it.
“I do.”
The silence between us stretches again. This time, it’s charged with all the unspoken. What do we do now? Where do we go from here?