The Life She Wants To Live

The Life She Wants To Live
TRISTAN WOLFE

There are knocks that feel like invitations.

And then there are knocks that feel like threats.

This one? It was the latter.

Hazel was barefoot on the rug, trying to convince our new cactus that it would survive near the windowsill. I was in the middle of rearranging my tie drawer — badly — and the living room still looked like a war between color and comfort had taken place. A throw blanket was draped over the back of the couch like it had been launched there. There were three half-burnt candles flickering unevenly on the kitchen counter. And someone, likely me, had left two mugs on the coffee table. One of them had lipstick on the rim. Hazel looked like a complete mess and it made me feel perfect.

We’d made the penthouse feel like home.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to sit well with the man standing outside the door.

“I’ll get it,” I muttered, already half-dreading who I knew it would be.

I didn’t need a peephole. I felt Victor’s presence like a thundercloud through the wood.

When I opened the door, he was standing there in a dark three-piece suit, holding a bottle of aged wine like it was a peace offering. His eyes did a once-over of me — barefoot, sleeves rolled, hair a little too tousled — and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Tristan,” he said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. He thinks that he owe this place and so he has the right come and go whenever he wants. He does not even consider his daughter's privacy.

Hazel appeared beside me, her expression somewhere between wary politeness and tight-lipped annoyance. She didn’t say anything, just nodded. Victor glanced at her, then looked past us.

And I saw it—the flinch in his jaw the moment he took in the mess.

Books stacked haphazardly on the side table. That ridiculous cactus with its clay pot that read Don’t Be a Prick. Hazel’s painting above the fireplace instead of the absurd million-dollar monstrosity he had handpicked. Fairy lights. Candles. Warmth.

“Looks like you’ve been...busy,” Victor said, voice clipped.

I shut the door behind him. “We’ve been making it feel like home.”

He turned slowly, eyes scanning the penthouse like it had personally betrayed him. “This place was furnished by the best interior designers in the city. Imported pieces. Custom art. I brought in architects from Milan, for God’s sake.”

“I know,” I said evenly. “It just didn’t feel like us.”

Victor’s gaze landed on Hazel again. “And who exactly is us?”

Hazel stiffened beside me.

I stepped forward, placing myself subtly between them. “Hazel and I are trying to build something real. That starts with making this place ours, not an extension of your legacy.”

He raised a brow. “ You changed so much after being promoted from bodyguard to a husband. You sound awfully sentimental for someone who once said emotions were liabilities. ”

“I was wrong.” I say with my face blank and void of any emotions. I have expertise my expression for years.

That made him pause. Maybe even blink.

Hazel stepped forward then, quiet but steady. “I appreciate the gesture, dad. But your gift—it came with your name on every wall. Every surface felt like it was watching me, reminding me I didn’t belong. We needed to change that.”

She wasn’t angry. She was honest.

And for a split second, I thought I saw something in Victor's expression soften. But it vanished just as fast. He is so used to Hazel being an obedient child that I can see him getting whiplash each time Hazel opened her mouth.

“I don’t mind that you changed a few things,” he said finally. “But don’t forget, this penthouse is part of your marital arrangement. Part of what the public sees. You live here as representatives of the Black family. Presentation matters.”

Hazel’s hand brushed against mine. I took it.

“We're not props,” I said. “This isn't just PR. And frankly, if the public sees a home that looks lived-in and loved, maybe that’s better than some polished marble museum with no heart.”

Victor’s gaze flicked down at our joined hands.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he placed the wine bottle on the table—next to a stack of romance novels Hazel had been devouring—and let out a breath.

“You’re different,” he murmured.

“Maybe I finally have something worth being different for.”

he said as he looked between me and Hazel. “i just came here to see how you both of are doing but I think everything is going fine.” He said , I could say that he was not pleased with the changes p

He turned to go, his voice low as he opened the door again. “Just don’t forget where you came from, Tristan. You can’t escape legacy. No one in this family ever has.”

He left the door open behind him.

Hazel stared after him in silence, her hand still in mine. I let the quiet stretch between us, warm and fragile.

“I didn’t expect him to show up like that,” she whispered.

“Neither did I.”

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t understand you,” I corrected. “But that’s his problem. Not yours.”

She looked up at me, eyes full of a storm she wasn’t ready to release yet. “What if I ruin everything?”

“You won’t.”

“But what if—”

I cupped her cheek gently, tilting her face toward mine. “Hazel, this place—this life—we’re building it together. Victor doesn’t get to walk in and dictate what we become.”

She nodded slowly, and I felt her relax under my touch. I like how she trusts me completely. Would she be this relax when she knows what my true intentions are? Probably not but I don't think that I care enough.

“He didn’t like the cactus,” she murmured with a small smile.

“That makes me love it even more.”

We both laughed then. Quiet, shaky, but real.

And I realized in that moment, standing in the middle of our chaos, that we hadn’t just
made the penthouse ours.

We’d made it the beginning of something that no amount of legacy could erase.