The Wrong Sister

Chapter Five

Dinner had been going on for nearly an hour.

The restaurant was warm and elegant, filled with the soft clinking of glasses and low conversations from nearby tables. The long table our families occupied was crowded with plates, candles, and half-finished glasses of wine.

Claire looked happier than I had seen her in a long time. She leaned forward in her seat, her eyes shining as she spoke to everyone at the table.

“I’ve been crunching the numbers and the logistics,” Claire said, her voice bright with a confidence that usually belonged in a boardroom. “Six months is the sweet spot. It’s enough time for the bespoke details, but not so long that we lose momentum.”

My father looked thoughtful as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Six months?” he repeated.

Claire nodded eagerly. “Yes. It’s enough time to plan everything properly, but it’s not too far away either.”

Margaret King, Sebastian’s mother, smiled politely. “That sounds reasonable. Planning a wedding of this size does take time.”

Victoria King sat beside her, calm and composed as always. “Six months allows both families to prepare,” she said.

Claire turned immediately to Sebastian. “What do you think?”

Sebastian looked up from his plate. For a moment he seemed almost distracted, like he hadn’t been fully listening. Then he nodded.

“If that’s what you want. Claire,” he said. His voice was a calm, steady baritone, but there was a lack of heat in it that only I seemed to notice. “Then six months it is.”

The table erupted in a small, refined cheer. My father lifted his glass, the liquid a pale, expensive gold. “To the happy couple. And to a very busy half-year.”

“To the happy couple,” the table echoed.

The sound of the crystal clinking felt like a series of small, sharp percussions. I drank my wine, the cold acidity of the Sancerre doing nothing to settle the fire in my nerves. Every time I looked up, the composition of the table felt wrong. It was a high-resolution editorial shot with a glaring, hidden defect: me.

The waiter arrived shortly after with the next course, placing plates down carefully before stepping away. Conversation continued. My father asked Sebastian about his company. Margaret spoke about how busy the coming months would be with wedding preparations.

Claire excitedly began discussing possible venues, flowers, and guest lists. The entire evening had been carefully planned. A formal dinner. Two families meeting properly. Everything about it was meant to feel official. Perfect.

But across the table, every time I looked up, Sebastian was looking at me. Not constantly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough for me to feel it.

And every time our eyes met, my chest tightened. Because the memory of the night before refused to leave my mind. The bar. The quiet conversation. The rule we had made.

No names. No tomorrow.

Except tomorrow had arrived much sooner than either of us expected.

Sebastian’s phone vibrated softly on the table. The sound was quiet, but in the momentary lull in conversation, it seemed louder. He glanced down at the screen. His expression didn’t change.

“Excuse me,” he said calmly.

Claire waved a hand without looking up from the wedding ideas she had started listing on her phone. “Work?”

“Always,” he confirmed.

He stood up from his chair. “I’ll just take this outside.”

My father nodded. “Of course.”

The chair slid quietly back into place as Sebastian stepped away from the table and walked toward the restaurant entrance. The door closed softly behind him. Claire barely noticed.

The air at the table felt marginally lighter once he was gone, but the restlessness in my limbs only grew. I watched Claire and my father go back and forth over the merits of a black-tie requirement. I watched my mother and Margaret discuss the logistics of a multi-city bridal shower.

Minutes passed. The conversation began drifting into details about music and catering. I sat quietly, picking at the edge of my napkin. The excitement at the table didn’t reach me. Claire was happy. Everyone else seemed pleased. But something about the evening felt heavier than it should have. Eventually the conversation turned into a long debate between Claire and my father about guest lists. I leaned back slightly in my chair. Suddenly I felt restless.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” I said quietly.

Claire didn't even look up from her screen. “Don't be long, Lena. We’re getting to the guest list.”

I walked toward the back of the restaurant, the hallway silent and lined with mirrors that I refused to look into. I stepped into the restroom, letting the cold, bright light ground me. I washed my hands, watching the water swirl down the drain, and tried to breathe.

For a moment I hesitated. The restaurant suddenly felt too crowded. Too warm. I walked toward the front entrance. The cool night air brushed against my skin the moment I stepped outside. I closed the door gently behind me. The street outside was quiet.

I exhaled slowly, wrapping my arms around myself. Just a moment of fresh air. That was all I needed. Footsteps sounded behind me. I turned. Sebastian stepped out of the restaurant. His phone was still in his hand. He paused slightly when he saw me standing there. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then he slipped the phone into his pocket.

“You came outside too,” he said.

“I needed some air.”

“I know the feeling,” he replied. He stepped closer, his movements measured. “I didn’t know you were her sister, Lena.”

His voice was calm, but there was something restrained beneath it. I let out a quiet breath.

“Neither did I. Yesterday, you were just a man in a bar with a bad night.”

“And you were just a stranger who didn't want to be a victim.” He paused, the silence between us heavy with the memory of Room 1708. “That would have been useful information to have before the elevator doors closed.”

I looked at him then, my chin lifting. “Yesterday we had a rule. No names. No personal information. No tomorrow.”

His jaw tightened, a small muscle leaping in his cheek. He gave a reluctant, sharp nod. “The rule was sound. The timing was just… catastrophic.”

The air between us grew heavier.

Inside the restaurant, Claire’s laughter drifted faintly through the door. My chest tightened.

“That night…” Sebastian began.

“It can’t happen again,” I said quickly.

The words left my mouth before I could soften them. He studied my face for a moment.

“I mean it, Sebastian. She’s my sister. She’s happy.”

“I know,” he repeated, but he didn't move away.

Finally, I stepped back toward the door. “We should go back inside before Claire notices we’re both gone.”

Sebastian nodded. “Yes.”

He reached out, catching the door and holding it open for me. As I brushed past him, the scent of sandalwood and the warmth of his presence hit me again, a physical reminder of everything I was supposed to forget.

We returned to the table as the waiter was setting down plates of delicate, architecturally plated desserts. Claire looked up, her smile blinding.

“There you are! Sebastian, did you handle the London crisis?”

“It’s under control,” he said, sliding back into his seat with practiced ease.

“Good,” Claire said, turning her attention to me. “Lena, we’ve decided on the venue. It’s that old converted gallery downtown. Minimalist, high ceilings, lots of glass. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

I looked at the table, at the families, and at the man sitting across from me, who was now officially a permanent fixture in my future.

“It’s perfect,” I said quietly.

As the conversation turned back to the guest list and the music, Sebastian’s eyes met mine one last time over the rim of his glass.

And suddenly…

Six months

It was supposed to be a short engagement. But as I sat there, watching my sister plan a life with a man whose secrets I already carried, six months felt like an eternity to keep a fire from spreading.