Page 59 of A Prescription to My Heart

“Talia,” Camille says, eyeing me from head to toe. “That dress is stunning on you. Soren always had good taste.”

I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or a comparison. We hadn’t seen them get ready, but I know she must have been watching everything like a hawk.

I nod, polite. “Thank you. You look beautiful too.”

They usher us into the seats next to them, and the moment we sit, the interrogation begins.

“So,” Camille begins, swirling her wine, “forgive our rudeness last night. We’ve always been very honest people.” She winks. An action that puts me instantly on guard. “But I’m still curious to hear the rest of the story. How did you two reconnect again? At the hospital?”

Soren’s hand slips over mine under the table. His thumb brushes the back of my fingers. I glance at him, and he gives me a quick, sidelong look. Then he leans closer, arm casually draping over my shoulder.

I manage a smile, lifting my voice. “Well, we worked on that paper together first, you’ll remember. Of course I knew right away I had a thing for him, but after reconnecting, I must have annoyed him for a solid month before he realized he liked me.”

Camille arches a brow. “Annoyed?”

“She means I was stubborn,” Soren says with a faint laugh. “Which is true. Still is.”

I throw him a look. “Stubborn’s one way to put it.”

Laughter bubbles around the table. For a second, we actually look like a couple who belong together. But it’s a fragile illusion—held together by practiced lies and clenched teeth.

Patrick picks at his food, then asks, “And Marigold? How is she adjusting to... all of this?”

“She’s great,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Amazing, really. We have a lot of fun together.”

Camille smirks. “That’s good to hear. I just wonder how stable everything feels for her. Moving a new woman in so soon after our beloved Lisa…”

She trails off, but the implication is sharp. I glance at Soren. His jaw is tight. He doesn’t say anything.

I can’t help myself. “I can’t imagine how painful it was losing your daughter,” I say, Camille going suddenly still beside Patrick. “And I would never try and replace her. But… just so you know, I do care for Soren and Marigold. Very much.”

Maybe more than I should.

Camille’s lips are nearly bloodless under her lipstick, and I know I’ve made a mistake. But it’s Patrick who speaks up.

“Lisa was the light of our lives,” he says. “We miss her every day.”

There’s an odd softening then, so subtle I almost miss it. But I can feel it in the way Soren is stiff beside me, and see Camille briefly look away to dab at the corner of her eye.

“Of course,” I say.

“I think that’s our cue,” Soren whispers, standing to his feet. I want to kick myself for overstepping, but then his hand is outstretched and I realize he’s inviting me to dance.

I take it, trying to control the abrupt rush of excitement that fills my body.

“If you’ll excuse us.” He tilts his head toward his in-laws firmly and walks me toward the dance floor.

The moment we step onto it, the orchestra shifts to a slow, melodic waltz. It's too perfect, too staged. But I can't help myself. My hand instinctively moves to Soren’s chest, and his arm finds its place around my waist. He’s solid beneath my fingers, warm, commanding. Our steps fall into a rhythm effortlessly.

The soft lights above cast a golden hue over us, and for a split second, the noise of the room blurs. It’s just us—moving, breathing, a part of something bigger. Around us, the guests turn their attention our way. Whispers and glances ripple through the crowd. I know what they’re thinking. They’re all probably wondering if this is real, if we’re really a couple. And I don’t know how to feel about it. All I can do is focus on the man in front of me—the one whose grip is just tight enough to send warmth coursing through my veins.

I glance up at Soren. His expression is unreadable, a sharp contrast to the man I saw a few hours ago, the one who made me laugh in the kitchen. The coldness is back, and it’s like an invisible barrier between us, even though we’re practically pressed together.

“I’m sorry for saying that,” I blurt.

“It’s alright,” he says, surprising me. “Patrick’s not wrong. Lisa is missed.”

Something dulls in my chest, and I’m confused by the way it upsets me.

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