Chapter 51: The Nightmare That Was Reality

TRISTAN WOLFE

It was always the silence after the storm that hurt the most.

I jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat, heart thundering like it had just been cracked open. The nightmare had slithered into the corners of my sleep again, like a thief with familiar footsteps. I sat up, breathing hard, the thin blanket twisted around my legs. My fists clenched and unclenched, and I stared into the dark ceiling above me as if it could offer answers I didn’t want to hear.

My fingers trembled.

I didn’t scream. I never screamed. Not even when I watched everything burn.

The room was dark and still, save for the blinking blue light of the router in the corner. That cursed silence settled again, pressing against my chest. I could still feel it—smoke in my lungs, the weight of a tiny body in my arms, slipping… slipping… gone.

I rubbed a hand down my face, skin clammy, jaw tight. My throat burned with the phantom taste of ash. It was always the same: I ran, I reached, but I was too late.

Too late.

I pushed the blanket off, rising to my feet with the stiffness of a man twice my age. The hardwood floor was cold beneath my soles. I didn’t bother turning on the lights as I walked to the tiny kitchen, leaning against the counter as I filled a glass with water. My hand shook slightly, enough to make the rim clink against the tap.

Useless.

I downed the water in one gulp and braced both palms on the edge of the counter, letting the chill from the stone seep into my skin. It was grounding. Barely.

I shouldn’t still be haunted. It had been years—years—but grief didn’t recognize time. It didn't care how many nights I tried to bury it beneath bourbon, beneath distraction, beneath cold logic. It always came crawling back when I let my guard slip. And tonight, it hit harder than usual. Probably because the apartment was too quiet. No more hammering nails into the wall or arguing over curtain colors. Hazel had finally gone to bed hours ago, in her own room across the hallway.

Innocent, bright-eyed Hazel.

I let out a bitter laugh.

What a joke.

She had no idea what kind of man I was. What kind of filth she had married. She thought I was her shield, her reluctant ally against her father’s schemes. But really… I was just using her. Another pawn on a board that had long been soaked in blood and guilt.

And still… I didn’t feel sorry. Not really.

Guilt was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Not when the ghosts still whispered my name every time I closed my eyes.

I stared at the dull reflection of myself in the black glass window over the sink. Shadows pooled under my eyes. A tightness in my jaw. A weariness that couldn’t be scrubbed away with sleep.

“You didn’t save them,” I whispered.

The words tasted like poison.

You didn’t save them. You were supposed to protect them. And you failed.

The rage came next. It always did. Not loud, but slow and venomous, curling around my ribs like barbed wire. I punched the cabinet once—just hard enough to feel the throb. Wood splintered under my knuckles. Good. I needed pain to remind myself I was still here.

I sat down heavily at the kitchen table, running both hands through my hair.

Hazel. God. She trusted me now. At least, enough to stand beside me in front of the cameras, to share a space, to joke about how ugly the penthouse’s old chandelier was. There were moments when she smiled like she actually saw me—really saw me—and it made something in my chest ache.

She deserved someone better. Someone who wasn't broken.

But I couldn’t let her go.

Because the truth was, Hazel Voss might be Victor’s daughter… but to me, she was a door. A way back into a world that had discarded me. A chance to finally bury the sins I’d once buried myself under. And maybe, just maybe, she was something more dangerous too.

Hope.

I closed my eyes, drawing a deep breath in.

But hope was dangerous.

Hope got people killed.

I couldn't afford to feel anything for her. No softness. No guilt. No redemption.

This marriage, this alliance—it was survival. Nothing more.

At least… that’s what I told myself.

But in the quiet, when the shadows whispered my name and the memories clawed through my chest like wildfire… even I didn’t believe that anymore.

I exhaled sharply, stood up, and walked to the bathroom. I washed my face in freezing water, letting it run over my skin until I felt numb again. Until the tremble faded from my hands and the screaming in my chest was caged behind my ribs.

When I finally looked at myself in the mirror again, I saw no grief. No love. Just purpose.

This wasn’t about her.

It never was.

It was about finishing what I started. Even if it meant dragging Hazel through a fire she didn’t deserve.

And if I lost myself in the process?

So be it.

I opened the wardrobe.

The stale scent of leather, wood, and time-worn grief escaped like a ghost I'd locked away, but never quite silenced. My hands trembled slightly as I reached toward the back—past the neatly hung suits, the folded sweaters Hazel had arranged just last week, past the boxes I pretended not to notice every morning.

And then, I touched it.

A small box, worn at the corners. Light. Innocuous.

But I’d carried the weight of it in my chest for years.

I sat down heavily on the floor, back against the cool wood of the wardrobe, the box cradled in my lap like something holy. My fingers traced the edges before I flipped open the lid.

There they were.

Tiny brown shoes—soft suede with frayed laces and creased soles from the few times he’d ever walked in them. He didn’t even need shoes at that age. But she had insisted. “He’ll grow into them,” she had said, her voice lilting with pride. And I had laughed. Teased her. Called her sentimental.

Now I was the one holding on.

I pressed the shoes against my forehead and let my eyes fall shut.

It wasn’t just a nightmare. It was the nightmare. The one that clung like smoke in my lungs, refusing to let me breathe. The one where I heard the scream—hers, then his—then silence.

And the silence was worse.

The guilt churned inside me, a festering wound that had scabbed over but never really heal

ed. I had been too late. Too far. Too focused on doing what was “right” by everyone else.

I couldn’t save them.