Page 52 of A Prescription to My Heart

He shrugs slightly, his gaze flickering to Marigold. “Used to?” His voice drops even lower. “I still do.”

And that’s the moment when I realize I’m in trouble. I’m not just living with Soren because I’m trying to protect Marigold. I’m not just here because it seemed like the right thing to do. I’m here because—somewhere, deep down—I want to stay. I want to see if I can uncover more of the man behind the walls, the man who smiled that devastating smile as he read to his daughter.

But I can’t keep walking this line between what I want, and what’s best for me.

“I’ll let you finish,” I say, forcing a smile, even though it doesn’t reach my eyes. I step back, slowly, feeling like I’ve intruded on something sacred.

Soren watches, but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t say anything else.

I move down the hallway, back into the kitchen, and lean against the counter. My hands tremble as I set the glass down, my chest tight, too full of things I can’t quite name. I feel like I’m drowning, and the only thing that’s keeping me afloat is the same man who’s slowly tearing me apart.

Chapter 12

Soren

Thedoorbellringssharply,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.”

---