15. Talia
Chapter 15
Talia
T he house is quiet again. No strained conversations. No hovering eyes watching us for proof of love. No Camille subtly analyzing every gesture. No Patrick looming like a quiet judge over dinner.
Just silence.
The in-laws are finally gone, and I should feel victorious. But all I feel is the tight coil in my chest winding tighter. Not quite relief. More like… uncertainty. The kind that gnaws under your skin and won’t let go.
I sit at the edge of the bed in the guest room; my fingers tangled in the hem of my oversized tee. The one I’ve worn more nights than I should in a house that was never supposed to feel this much like home. My suitcase is in the corner. Open, but still unpacked. Mocking me.
There’s no more reason to pretend. We admitted it. We both feel it.
Don’t we? Or am I mistaken, and it’s over? All of it.
No more fake kisses. No more handholding. No more quiet glances over the dinner table that linger too long, that feel too right .
And yet, I can still feel his mouth on mine from last night. That reckless, desperate kiss. I close my eyes, and it flashes back like a memory on fire. The heat. The way he pulled me in like he couldn’t stop himself. The way the whole room disappeared.
I dreamed of it last night. Only, it was safe because I could wake up from it.
This? I don’t know how to wake up from this.
I press my palms to my eyes, forcing a deep breath in. “It was all an act,” I whisper. “Just an act.”
Except it didn’t feel like one. Especially not when he looked at me after. Like he saw something in me he hadn’t noticed before. Like the lines between us weren’t just blurred—they were gone.
I stand, pacing. The wooden floor creaks under my feet, and I welcome the sound. Anything to drown out the thoughts spiraling through my head.
We made a deal. Protect Marigold. Pretend until it was safe. Keep everything surface level. But the surface cracked the moment he touched me like that. The moment I defended him to Camille and Patrick like he was mine .
The moment he admitted… he felt it too.
What am I thinking?
A soft knock on the door pulls me out of my spiral. It’s barely audible. I know it’s Soren.
I swallow hard. “Come in.”
The door creaks open, he’s there, in a faded gray t-shirt and joggers, hair still damp from his shower. He leans against the frame like he’s been standing there for hours.
“You okay?” he asks quietly. It’s odd, the cold, calculating Dr. Soren Calloway asking if I’m okay. But I like it. Too much.
I nod, though the answer is anything but. He looks at me for a long second, then sits on the edge of the bed. Not close, but not far either.
“It’s quiet now,” he murmurs.
“ Too quiet,” I tease.
His lips twitch. “You mean no one’s interrogating us or watching how many times we touch?”
I laugh, but it’s brittle. “Exactly.”
Silence again. Heavy, uncomfortable. His fingers brush against the duvet. A slow movement, like he wants to say something but can’t.
I speak first. “So… what happens now?”
“Now?”
“The act’s over. Your in-laws are gone. There’s no one left to convince.”
His jaw tightens. “Right.”
“So that’s it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I can move back,” I say. “To my place. We can… figure how to quietly get things annulled.”
“Talia—”
“No, I mean it. I stayed for Marigold, but she’s safe now. And the Gala did its job. They believe us. And… I could come over if you need me to. Until maybe it’s safe to tell them we divorced.
He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I want.”
My heart jumps. “Then what do you want?”
He stands. Walks toward me. Stops just a breath away. “I don’t know.”
“Because this feels real?” I ask.
He nods. Just once. “It does.”
I blink fast. My throat burns. “We crossed a line, Soren.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t know how to uncross it.”
He exhales slowly. “Maybe we don’t.”
I stare at him. “That kiss…”
“I know.”
“You can’t keep saying I know , Soren.”
“I don’t have the right words,” he says, voice raw. “I don’t even know what I’m allowed to feel anymore.”
“Then say that. Don’t pretend nothing’s changed.”
“Okay. Something changed. You changed things.”
I look down. “So did you.”
He reaches out but doesn’t touch me. Just lets his hand hover, fingers curling.
“Talia,” he says softly, “you didn’t have to defend me. But you did. And they saw it. They believed you . Not me.”
“Because I meant it,” I whisper.
He looks at me for a beat too long. Then steps back.
“I’ll give you space,” he says, “but… I don’t want you to leave. Not yet.”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know what I want either.
All I know is that the act is over, and somehow, what’s left feels more dangerous than the lie ever did.
***
The room is still. Moonlight filters in through the curtains, pale and cold, draping everything in ghost light. The sheets on Soren’s bed are rumpled, but Soren is gone.
I stare at the indentation where his body lay, his scent still clinging to the air—clean soap, a hint of cedar, something that’s just… him. Familiar. Comforting.
I can’t breathe.
I slip out of the bedroom doorway, careful not to make a sound. My bare feet touch the cold wooden floor and the chill shoots straight through me, like a jolt to my nervous system.
The hallway is silent. Marigold’s door is shut, and a soft lavender glow from her fairy nightlight seeps from underneath. Soren told me once, in the earliest days of this whole arrangement, that she’s afraid of the dark, but won’t admit it. Just like her father.
My chest clenches.
I head downstairs, one step at a time. Not sure where I’m going, only that I need distance from the silence of that room, and the echoes of last night still clinging to the air.
I find myself in the kitchen. Lights off. Just the moonlight painting silver lines across the counter. I brace my hands on the marble edge and drop my head between my arms.
What am I doing?
It was supposed to be fake. All of it. The marriage, the smiles, the practiced glances. I knew the rules. I wrote them. But somewhere between pretending and protecting, I got pulled in. Not just by Marigold—but by him.
By the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. The way he trusts me with the most fragile parts of himself—grief, doubt, fear. The way he said my name last night after the kiss, like it was the only word he trusted in his mouth.
I press a hand to my chest. I can’t let this happen. We’re not built for this. We were supposed to play our roles, keep it clean, keep it clear. And yet…I can feel it in the way my heart beats faster when he enters the room. The way my breath hitches when our hands brush. The way my whole body felt like it caught fire the moment his lips touched mine.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Get a grip, Talia.
I reach for a glass, pour water from the dispenser, and sip slowly, like it can drown the chaos rising inside me. From the corner of my eye, I see movement.
Soren stands by the staircase, half in shadow, his face unreadable. He says nothing. Just watches me. I pretend not to notice.
I take another sip, keep my voice steady. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” he replies.
We fall into silence again. It’s not heavy this time. Just quiet. Tense. Like a wire stretched between us, threatening to snap.
I finally speak. “We need to figure things out.”
“I know.”
I look at him. He’s in sweatpants, a worn black hoodie, hands in his pockets like he’s bracing for impact.
“I think…” I gulp. “I think I need some space. Just a little.”
His jaw flexes. But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.
“I get it,” he says.
“I just… I need to think. About all of this. What it means.”
His voice is quieter now. “And what does it mean, Talia?”
I look away. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
“You said it felt real,” he says, stepping forward.
I force myself to hold his gaze. “It did.”
“Then why are you running from it?”
“Because it wasn’t supposed to be,” I snap. Then softer, “Because I’m scared.”
His expression softens. “Of me?”
“Of me ,” I whisper. “Of what I feel when I’m with you. Of the way I’m not sure where the act ends anymore.”
He nods slowly.
I clear my throat. “I should go back to bed.”
He watches me walk past him. Doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t reach out.
But as I climb the stairs and close the door behind me, I know the truth. Even if I run, I’m already his.