Would You Follow?

Hazel

I’d always imagined my engagement would feel like a beginning. Something new, something that feels like a great start.

But tonight, wrapped in the scent of white roses and champagne, I realized it was the beginning of an end.

The ballroom of the Voss Estate was dripping in excess—glittering chandeliers, silver-plated cutlery, champagne fountains. Guests in glittering gowns and custom suits moved like silk ghosts through the candlelit haze, sipping vintage wine and gossiping over string quartet music.

But none of it felt real.

Especially not the sparkling ring on my finger.

It felt like a shackle.

The dress my father had chosen for me was ivory and gold, delicate chiffon with embroidered patterns that climbed like vines over my chest and arms. The neckline dipped just enough to appease Richard’s smug gaze. I hated it. I hated the way it hugged my figure—small, fragile, like I had no presence. No power. Just another porcelain doll in a house full of them.

My long brown hair was curled and swept over one shoulder. My makeup was flawless, not a single smudge out of place. Even my smile had been practiced.

But my eyes—deep brown and restless—betrayed me every time someone looked too closely.

Like he always did.

Tristan stood near the far wall, dressed in a black suit, his hands behind his back. Not part of the celebration. Not part of the crowd. But always there. Like a shadow stitched to my soul.

Richard hadn’t stopped touching me all evening. A hand on my waist. His fingers brushing my arm. Leaning in too close when he spoke, his breath warm and sour with champagne.

“You look exquisite tonight,” he said now, drawing me close for yet another photo. “My bride-to-be. My perfect little prize.”

I turned my face just enough to avoid his lips on my cheek.

Click. Flash.

The photographers didn’t miss it.

I hoped they printed it. I hoped someone saw how miserable I looked behind the diamonds and pearls.

Victor was in his element, laughing and shaking hands, boasting about our “beautiful union” and the “strategic merger” it represented. He didn’t say love once. Of course he didn’t.

I was worth more to him as a bride than a daughter.

“Smile, Hazel,” he said through clenched teeth when we posed with Richard in front of the ice sculpture shaped like a pair of doves. “Try not to look like a hostage.”

I did smile.

The kind of smile that cracked something inside me.

My champagne flute trembled in my hand.

Tristan was closer now. He didn’t move much, but I noticed it—each quiet step he took that drew him just a little nearer to me. A silent guardian in the sea of vultures. We didn’t speak, not even with our eyes. But I felt his presence like a tether to something solid.

And maybe that was the only reason I hadn’t shattered yet.

Richard excused himself to speak to a business associate. The moment his hand left my back, I exhaled.

I stepped away from the lights, toward one of the balconies. I needed air.

The moment I pushed the doors open, the cool night kissed my skin. I gripped the railing with both hands and stared into the darkness beyond the manicured gardens. My chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

This wasn’t my life.

This couldn’t be it.

I didn’t hear Tristan approach, but I knew it was him. His presence was quiet, never demanding. He stood a few feet away, not touching, not speaking. Just… there.

“I can’t do this,” I said softly, the words snatched away by the wind. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

Silence.

Then his voice, low and certain.

“I know.” he talked with such a tone as if he knew me like back of his hand.

That was all.

But somehow, it was enough.

I closed my eyes. “You think I’m a coward, don’t you?”

“No.”

I turned to face him, the moonlight catching in his eyes. “Then what do you see when you look at me?”

He didn’t answer.

But in his gaze, I saw it—the quiet fury, the ache, the storm he kept leashed behind locked jaws. He didn’t pity me.

He was waiting.

Waiting for me to choose.

Waiting for me to ask.

And I think I finally understood: if I ever dared to run… he would follow. Not because he was paid to. But because something in him couldn’t bear to see me caged.

The music inside swelled again—another waltz, another toast. The world kept spinning, and I was still standing in the eye of the storm.

I turned back toward the ballroom.

“Come on,” I said, more to myself than him. “Let’s get this over with.”

Tristan didn’t say a word.

But he followed me back inside.

He always did.