Page 57 of A Prescription to My Heart

“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.

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