Hold My Hands Now

Hold My Hands Now
HAZEL WOLFE

There were too many eyes. Watching. Measuring. Waiting. I felt as if I was in some kind of animal behind the glass at the zoo.

I could feel them on me like invisible needles pricking my skin — behind champagne glasses, over the rims of manicured hands, through false lashes and tighter smiles. Every time I turned my head, someone else was already looking away too late.

They weren’t curious. They were calculating.

And I hated it.

I was the heiress of the Voss family and yet I got married to a mere bodyguard who had emotional constipation.

The glittering chandeliers above sparkled like they were mocking me, throwing gold and diamond light over people who had long forgotten what real light even felt like. This was their world — a world of hushed deals and loud applause, of marriages made for power and gestures designed only for cameras. I was born into it, but I never really belonged here.

Not when my father saw me as a pawn.

Not when the women whispered behind their cocktails that I was trapped with Tristan and that our relationship is going to end soon after the lust fades away. I wanted to scoff at their words, lust? I don't think Tristan is a person who would go and be involved with someone just because of lust. I wasn't exactly hiding and eavesdropping around.

And definitely not when I stood here in heels that pinched, in a dress chosen to please public eyes, trying to appear as if I was made of the same glass they all were — cold, smooth, unbreakable. I knew everyone's eyes on me but I tried to remain nonchalant.

I felt like I was suffocating, but he never left my side.

Tristan’s hand stayed at the small of my back, a constant presence. Warm. Steady. He didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. His silence wasn’t empty — it was watchful, protective. I’d never seen him like this before — not in front of these people. But something in him had shifted.

Maybe it was my father. Maybe it was the way I tensed under each compliment, each fake “You look lovely, Hazel,” spoken through painted lips. Maybe it was because he noticed that I hadn’t touched a single canapé or lifted a glass since we walked in. He threw me out of the house yet he has the audacity to call me just because he needs to play the role of a doting father in front of the media .

“Don’t let go,” I whispered under my breath, barely audible.

His thumb moved gently against my back, a silent promise. “I won’t,” he said lowly. I felt so reassured just by his two words.

And somehow, that small exchange steadied me more than anything else could have.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured again, dipping his head near my ear, as if we were just lovers sharing secrets in a ballroom, and not two people bound by expectations we never asked for.

“I hate this place,” I whispered back. “I hate these people.” I said truthfully. I hated how fake they seem and if one knows some scandalous gossip about someone in the group, the moment that person steps out, the entire group would know about it.

His lips almost brushed my temple. “Then let’s give them nothing.”

I turned my head, surprised.

“No reaction. No fear. No crack in your voice,” he said, his voice calm, deep, quiet enough only for me. “You don’t owe them anything, Hazel. Not even your discomfort.” I should just rock my blank expression.

That should have angered me — the way he talked like he knew everything. But it didn’t. Because I realized... he wasn’t asking me to pretend. His words, his voice would somehow reduce the never-ending cycle of chaos that happens in my mind.

He was giving me permission to take back my power.

I took a shaky breath and tried to focus on just the feel of his hand — the way it never left my back, the warmth bleeding through silk. People greeted him with nods and too-wide smiles, trying to draw him into their webs, but he barely looked away from me. I saw a few women glance between us — curious, surprised even. As if they expected us to stand separately. As if this wasn't the same man who once used to walk three feet ahead of me at events, keeping his distance like I was an unwanted shadow.

But tonight, he stayed close. Too close. And I didn’t ask him to stop. His presence beside me was what kept.

“Hazel.”

I blinked, realizing I had zoned out. My gaze lifted to his. His brows were drawn slightly, not in frustration, but something softer. Concern. “You’re zoning out again,” he said gently.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “It’s the lights. The noise. The stares.”

“They’ve always stared,” he said, tone tightening. “They just used to pretend to look away quicker.”he said and I snorted at his sassy comment.

His fingers brushed against mine. It was an innocent touch, but my heart skipped anyway.

“I never fit in here,” I said before I could stop myself. “Even when I was a child… I always felt like the whole world had been given a script and I forgot my lines.” I don't even know why I was sharing this part of me to him.

He was quiet for a moment, then said something I wasn’t ready for.

“You didn’t forget them,” Tristan murmured. “You just weren’t meant to follow theirs. You have your own play going out.”

I looked up at him. His gaze held mine — steady, unreadable, but full of something unspoken. Something that didn’t need approval or applause. Something real. I hate how effortlessly handsome he is, the scar under her eyes, everything about him is handsome.

And for a moment, despite the weight of silk and diamonds pressing in from all sides, despite the cold of m
y father's looming presence just across the room…

I didn’t feel alone.