Living Transaction

Hazel

I didn’t know how long I stayed like that—pressed against the wall, chest rising and falling in silent desperation as Tristan stood a breath away, silent as a statue. The marble corridor felt colder than before, or maybe that was just me.

When I finally lifted my eyes to him, his gaze was already waiting.

Steady. Sharp. unreadable.

But not unkind.

“You should go back,” he said quietly. His voice was low, almost hesitant—like he hated saying it as much as I hated hearing it.

I gave a shaky nod. There was no other choice, was there? I was expected to be a good girl and that was what I'd be doing.

There never had been.

I straightened my dress, smoothed my hair, and forced my feet forward.

The soft echo of our steps on the marble floor filled the silence as we walked back down the corridor. Click. Click. My heels sounded far too loud. My heart—louder.

When we reached the dining room, the door was slightly ajar.

Richard's voice filtered out.

“Sweet thing must be overwhelmed. I can’t blame her. Poor girls like her, they’re raised soft. But don’t worry, Victor—I’ll firm her up. Make her a real wife.”

I froze.

Tristan reached forward before I could, pushing the door open like a silent sentinel. Richard turned in his seat, startled for a second before his leering smile returned. “Ah, there she is,” he said.

He stood up—too fast—and approached me with arms slightly open, like he expected me to walk into them.

I stopped just shy of his reach.

His smile faltered.

“She’s always been shy,” Victor said, sipping his wine, unbothered. “Even as a child. But she’s obedient. She’ll do her duty.”

My father’s words sliced through me like a blade.

My mother used to say I was a quiet child because I listened too much. Because I noticed the things no one else did.

She died when I was twelve.

And from that moment on, I stopped being a daughter and became an investment.

An asset.

A bargaining chip.

My birthdays became board meetings. My report cards were inspected like profit margins. My dreams—art school in Italy, a small studio apartment of my own, messy with paint and freedom—were dismissed as “phases.”

Victor Voss never raised a daughter.

He raised a product.

“Sit down, Hazel,” he said sharply when I didn’t move. “We’re not done.”

I sat.

Richard resumed his place beside me. His hand dropped on the back of my chair like a brand. I stiffened. His fingers brushed the top of my shoulder, then lazily traced a line down my spine.

I wanted to scream.

Tristan stood by the door again. Still. Watching. But I felt it—that tension under his skin, the tightness in his jaw. He hated this.

I clung to that, selfishly.

“I’ll have my assistant contact your office, Victor,” Richard said. “We’ll begin the engagement formalities tomorrow. I’m eager to have her settled.”

I turned to my father, looking at him for the first time in years not as the man who gave me life—but the one who sold it.

“You didn’t even ask me,” I said quietly. My voice didn’t shake. It was calm. Too calm.

Victor’s lips tightened. “Don’t start. We’ve discussed this.”

“No,” I said, louder. “You discussed it. I was just the merchandise on the shelf.”

His eyes snapped to mine.

And for the first time, I saw it—not anger, but cold calculation. Like I was a spreadsheet refusing to balance.

“You will do this,” he said. “Because you owe me. Because I fed you, raised you, gave you everything. And now you’ll give back.”

Richard chuckled. “Don’t be too hard on her, Victor. She’s young. She’ll learn.” He leaned closer. “And I’ll make sure she enjoys the learning.”

My stomach turned.

I stood abruptly. “I’m done.”

Victor opened his mouth, but Tristan had already moved. He stepped forward, his frame blocking my father’s view of me.

“I’ll take her to the car,” Tristan said. His voice was calm, unreadable. But his presence… it was a storm behind glass.

Victor didn’t argue.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. But we’re not done, Hazel. Not by a long shot.”

I didn’t look back.

I followed Tristan out of the room, and this time, I didn’t care how loud my footsteps were. I wanted them to echo. I wanted the marble to remember.

We rode the elevator in silence.

Only when we stepped outside into the cool evening air did I finally speak.

“Do you think I’m weak?” I whispered.

Tristan turned slightly toward me. “No.”

“But I am.”

“No,” he said again, this time firmer. “You’re trapped. That’s not the same.”

I met his eyes. “Then help me get out.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t walk away either.

And maybe… just maybe… that was the beginning.