Page 61 of A Prescription to My Heart

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 hecaresabout 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 motheranda 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.

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