The Need To Fly

The house was finally quiet.

The glitter of the chandeliers still clung to the air, but the laughter, the fake congratulations, and the clicking of champagne flutes had faded into silence. All that remained now was the ache behind my eyes and the thudding emptiness in my chest.

I stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, the hem of my silk gown brushing the ground like a ghost. My earrings had been the first to go, followed by the diamond choker and the sparkling bracelet my father had handed me as if they were shackles disguised in silver. Now, my neck felt bare. My skin, finally able to breathe.

I wasn’t drunk, not entirely. Just softened at the edges. Champagne always made the world look prettier than it really was. I’d had three glasses—maybe four. Enough to blur the edges of tonight, but not enough to forget it.

And still, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I looked in the photos.

How poised I appeared beside Richard Langford.

How practiced my smile had become over the years.

How no one noticed my knuckles turning white from gripping the edge of the table too hard.

The engagement party had been a masterpiece. Gleaming chandeliers. Crystal vases overflowing with white roses. The crème de la crème of high society. And me—dressed like a doll, paraded in front of people who didn’t even know who I really was.

I found myself moving without thinking, my steps silent, almost ghostlike, down the dark hallway that led to the drawing room.

He was already there.

Tristan.

Leaning casually against the tall window, his body bathed in the soft golden glow of the hallway lights. His black dress shirt clung to his frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar unbuttoned just enough to show the strong lines of his throat. His watch caught the light as he adjusted his wrist, and I realized, for the thousandth time, just how effortlessly handsome he was.

He didn’t try. That was the thing.

Tristan didn’t need to try.

With his quiet gaze, broad shoulders, and always-watchful posture, he had the presence of someone you couldn’t ignore—even if he never said a word.

He looked at me now, eyes shadowed and unreadable. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t need to.

“I hate this house,” I said softly, more to the empty room than to him.

My voice cracked.

I walked past the velvet chaise and sank onto the floor, curling my legs beneath me, my champagne glass still in hand.

“I hate every hallway, every room, every mirror in this godforsaken place. It’s like living in a beautiful cage.”

Tristan didn’t move. He simply watched me. That was his gift—his silence, his stillness. He made you feel like you could unravel and not be judged for it.

“My father’s never taken me outside this city,” I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Not once. Not for a vacation. Not even for school trips. He said everything I’d ever need was here. That I was safe here.”

I laughed bitterly, blinking back tears I didn’t want to shed.

“But I was never safe. Just… kept.”

I turned the glass in my hands, staring into the shallow gold liquid.

“He never saw me. Not as a daughter. Not even as a person. Just a bargaining chip. A pawn he could use to trade for more power.”

My voice thickened as I looked up at Tristan, who hadn’t looked away once.

“Do you know what it’s like to be told your future was decided before you were even old enough to walk? That your life, your body, your happiness—none of it belongs to you?”

I laughed again, sharp and exhausted. “I didn’t get to choose the man I love. I didn’t even get to choose the color of the dress I wore tonight. My own engagement gown was selected by my father’s assistant, for God’s sake.”

I wiped at the corner of my eye, smudging what was left of my mascara.

“And now, I’m going to marry Richard Langford. A man twice my age, with twice the power and half the soul. He looked at me like I was merchandise tonight, Tristan. Like he couldn’t wait to own me.”

I stood up slowly, legs trembling, and walked toward the window.

Tristan turned slightly, enough to face me fully. His jaw was clenched, his eyes sharp now. I knew he hated seeing me like this. I knew he hated my father even more.

And yet, he never said it. He stayed silent. Loyal. Present.

“You’ve seen more of this world than I have,” I said softly, stepping closer to him. “You’ve been places. Done things. You know what freedom tastes like. I don’t.”

We stood there, face to face, barely a breath between us.

“I want to know what it feels like to just be, Tristan. Not Hazel Voss, not a pawn, not a bride-to-be. Just… me.”

I reached for his hand—large, warm, steady. He didn’t pull away.

“Let’s go to Vegas.”

His eyes searched mine, unreadable but electric, as if he were trying to gauge whether I meant it.

“I’m serious,” I whispered, clutching his hand. “Let’s just… go. Get in a car, drive through the night, and not look back. I don’t care where we sleep. I don’t care if it’s reckless. I just want to breathe for once. And I trust you.”

The weight of those words settled between us.

“I can’t spend another day living a life built by other people,” I said. “I’ll suffocate.”

The silence stretched long enough for my heartbeat to quicken.

And then—his thumb brushed gently over my wrist. A simple gesture. But grounding. Real.

Tristan’s voice was low, deep, and quiet. “Then we leave tonight.”

And just like that, the air shifted.

Not because we had a plan.

But because—for the first time—I wasn’t alone.