Chapter 49: The Chaos Is Our Personal Heaven

HAZEL WOLFE

As the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, I stepped out and found myself staring into a space that didn’t feel real. This wasn’t just an apartment. It was Victor Voss’s signature written in glass, chrome, and marble.

My heels clicked softly against pristine white marble as I stepped further in, each echo sounding louder than it should’ve. The living room stretched endlessly in front of me—floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline of the city like it was a painting hung just for us. Cream-colored sofas, untouched and sterile, sat arranged around a fireplace that flickered like it was part of a showroom. Above it hung a piece of abstract art I didn’t recognize—probably expensive, definitely soulless.

Tristan stepped in behind me, his eyes sweeping the space with the same unease I felt in my bones.

“Feels like a stage,” I muttered.

He nodded, his voice quiet. “Like someone else is supposed to be living here.”

I turned a slow circle. Everything was too clean. Too curated. The kitchen glimmered with high-end appliances, not a single fingerprint or dish towel in sight. The hallway that led to the bedrooms was lined with sleek recessed lighting and floors so polished they reflected the soft gold glow above them. A wine bar stood tucked near the dining area, all glass shelves and expensive liquors neither of us had ever heard of.

We moved in silence, walking into what I assumed was the master bedroom. A king-sized bed dressed in beige linens dominated the room, facing another set of panoramic windows. The closet looked like it could hold a boutique. The bathroom was the size of our old living room, with a sunken tub and a rainfall shower, all in monochrome gray and white stone.

It was… beautiful. And cold.

Like dad had gone out of his way to prove a point.

I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. “This doesn’t feel like home.”

Tristan stood beside the window, staring out at the glittering city below us. “It’s not. Not yet.”

He said it like a promise.

We stayed in the master bedroom for a while, each of us silent in our thoughts. I could still hear the secretary’s voice echoing in my head from earlier that morning—so smug, so clinical.

“This is Victor Voss’s daughter, not some charity case. You cannot be seen living in a… dingy apartment.”

As if my marriage was a stain. As if my life before this penthouse was something to be ashamed of.

As if Tristan—my husband—was a phase.

“You okay?” Tristan asked softly. He’d moved closer, his hand resting gently at the small of my back. His warmth made me exhale, grounding me.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure.

“I don’t want to feel like a guest in my own life,” I admitted. “Like everything in here is another thing I have to live up to.”

“Then we change that,” he said simply. “We hang your paintings on these walls. Put your mug collection in the kitchen. Let my horrible coffee machine ruin the aesthetic of this perfect countertop.”

I smiled at that. “You’d really do that?”

He gave me a small grin. “I’d do worse if it meant this place stopped feeling like Victor’s ego and started feeling like ours.”

My chest swelled with something I couldn’t quite name—gratitude, maybe. Or a longing for something real. Something not born out of control and legacy and contracts.

“Then we start tonight,” I said, resolve hardening my tone. “We’ll keep the penthouse, but we’ll fill it with our own chaos.”

Tristan extended a hand toward me like a pact. “On our terms?”

I placed my hand in his.

“Always.”

…

The next morning smelled like fresh coffee and cinnamon.

I padded barefoot across the marble floors, still in Tristan’s oversized T-shirt, carrying a steaming mug in both hands. The sun had poured itself generously through the massive windows, lighting up the penthouse in soft golden hues. It almost felt warm today. Almost.

“Good morning,” Tristan said, walking out of the bedroom holding two shopping bags and wearing the smug expression of a man with a plan.

I eyed him suspiciously over my mug. “You went out?”

“At 7 a.m., yes.” He set the bags down on the dining table with a dramatic flair. “If we’re going to ruin Victor’s museum-quality aesthetic, we’re going to do it right.”

I blinked. “What’s in the bags?”

He smiled. “Chaos.”

Turns out, chaos came in the form of fairy lights, sticky wall hooks, a box of mismatched fridge magnets, a plush throw blanket in the exact shade of forest green I loved, and—somehow—a mini cactus in a clay pot that said Don’t Be a Prick.

I laughed until my stomach hurt.

“I thought you’d like that one,” Tristan said, pleased with himself.

“You bought a cactus that sasses people?”

“I saw it and it reminded me of you.”

I threw a pillow at his face.

We started with the living room. The first thing I did was take down that massive abstract painting above the fireplace. It might have cost more than our wedding, but it looked like a toddler’s tantrum in color.

Tristan helped me replace it with one of my canvases—something soft and watercolor, painted in blue and copper tones. He stepped back after we hung it, tilted his head, and said, “There. That looks like you.”

I looked at him. “Meaning?”

“Beautiful,” he said simply. Then walked off like he hadn’t just sent my heart into a tailspin.

Next came the kitchen. I arranged my collection of chipped mugs on the open shelf, the ones I’d been too embarrassed to bring out the first week. One had a cracked handle but said World’s Okayest Human. Another had an ink stain that looked like a heart.

It made the kitchen look more alive.

We unboxed old books and threw pillows onto the pristine couch. I lit a candle that smelled like vanilla and warm wood. Tristan wrestled with a string of fairy lights until they tangled around his arms.

“I’ve fought actual assassins with less struggle,” he grumbled as I untangled him, giggling.

“Want me to call for backup?”

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, but he was smiling.

After two hours, the penthouse didn’t look like Victor’s trophy anymore. It looked messy. Lived-in. Ours.

We stood at the center of the living room, slightly sweaty and covered in sparkles from the throw blanket. My cheeks ached from smiling. I didn’t remember the last time I felt this… settled. Not in a forever kind of way, but like maybe I didn’t have to run anymore.

Tristan turned to me, his tone softer. “I know we didn’t choose this life the traditional way. But this… what we’re doing—choosing each other every day—maybe that matters more than where we started.”

I reached for his hand, fingers sliding between his like they’d always belonged

there.

“I like what we’re building, Tristan.”

He leaned down and pressed his lips to my forehead.

“So do I.”