The History

The History
HAZEL WOLFE

The clamor of laughter, glass clinks, and rehearsed conversations faded behind us as Tristan gently guided me toward the far end of the gallery terrace — his hand lightly resting against the small of my back, steady and reassuring, like he knew I couldn’t breathe until I was far from the velvet and shadows of the party.

We stepped out through a pair of open French doors, framed by heavy curtains the color of wine. The evening air met my skin with a welcome coolness, brushing against my bare shoulders like a whispered apology.

The terrace stretched wide, wrapped in stone balustrades that curved like a scene from another century. Gas lanterns flickered along the edges of the marble floor, casting a honeyed glow over everything. Ivy curled up the ancient columns, and potted white roses stood like silent sentinels in between old wrought-iron benches. The manor’s gallery was everything my father loved — old money grandeur, every corner steeped in history he could rattle off when investors came to visit. But tonight, under the sky, it felt quieter. Softer.

Tristan didn’t say anything until we were near the edge, where the marble opened into a view of the city lights blinking in the distance — the hills beyond lit up like scattered constellations.

“Here,” he said, finally releasing his gentle hold on my back and stepping beside me, handing me my drink. “One overpriced, half-watered-down glass of champagne for the lady.”

I huffed a little laugh and took it, letting the stem settle between my fingers. “What a romantic.”

He smirked, but his eyes scanned my face, cautious — like he was still watching me for aftershocks. Like he hadn’t stopped worrying since Richard showed up.

I took a sip, letting the bubbles tickle my tongue. I wasn’t really in the mood to drink — but I was in the mood to forget.

“Do you think he’ll still be staring at me from some corner?” I asked, my voice quieter now, more tired than I meant it to sound.

“If he is,” Tristan replied without missing a beat, “he’s doing it with a broken ego.”

I smiled, turning my face toward the wind. “He never had one. He borrowed it from my father.”

Tristan didn’t laugh, but I felt his quiet agreement in the way he stood next to me — solid and close, but not crowding. He gave me space while still making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

I looked down at my drink, then back at him, feigning a playful seriousness. “You know, I’m just glad we’re not in Vegas again. Can you imagine?”

He arched a brow. “Imagine what?”

“If we get drunk out here, someone might push us into a chapel again,” I said, lifting the champagne like a toast. “And God forbid, we accidentally get married… again.”

Tristan let out a short laugh — not one of those fake, polite ones I’d heard all night, but real. His head tipped back slightly, and for a brief second, he looked younger. Lighter.

“I’d at least make sure the second time, we remembered the vows,” he said, his eyes glinting with that rare flicker of amusement. “And that we didn’t look like two runaways who lost a bet.”

I laughed, softer than I expected. “Speak for yourself. I thought I looked fabulous in my club outfit and messy bun.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said with a straight face. “No one rocks post-flight exhaustion like you.”

I leaned against the cool stone of the terrace railing, taking another sip, grateful for the levity. My fingers brushed the smooth marble edge — the texture grounding, real. Unlike everything else in there.

He stayed beside me, our arms close but not quite touching. I tilted my head to glance at him. He was looking out over the edge of the terrace, jaw tight again — not from anger, but from thought. From everything he wasn’t saying.

“I was joking, you know,” I said softly. “About Vegas.”

“I know,” he replied just as quietly. “But maybe next time we run away from our problems… let’s choose somewhere with better drinks.”

“Next time?” I echoed with a smile. “Planning a second escape already?”

He looked at me then, and for a moment, his eyes held mine in that way he did sometimes — like he saw something I didn’t even know I was showing. He didn’t smile this time. He didn’t need to.

“I just want you to know,” he said carefully, “if you ever need to run again… you won’t be running alone.”

The words sank into me like heat, threading through the chill in my bones. And I hated how much they meant. How much I wanted to believe them.

I looked away too quickly. “Well, I’m not running tonight. Not with these heels.”

“Hazel…”

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a little more lightness into my voice. “Really. Just… shaken.”

He didn’t press. He just leaned against the rail next to me, letting our silence settle. Letting me breathe.

The night air wrapped around us like a comfort, the kind that only came after noise — after lights and expectation and everything I’d had to hold together inside that ballroom. Out here, I wasn’t Victor Lancaster’s daughter. I wasn’t a name, or a scandal, or an arranged bride.

I was just Hazel.

And Tristan… was still standing here.

“I can’t believe we actually did it,” I said after a while.

“Vegas?” he asked.

I nodded. “That night. You and me. Rings. Marriage certificate. Some Elvis impersonator who smelt like whiskey.”

“Don’t forget the vending machine that gave us warm soda.”

I smiled, and he did too.

And for a little while longer, we just stood there — two people who hadn’t planned any of this, who probably didn’t even believe in fate — drinking champagne under flickering lanterns, pretending like the past hadn’t just tried to claw its way back into our lives.

I knew the chaos would find us again. It al

ways did.

But for now… I had this moment. And I had him.

And that was enough.