BUT YOU'RE MY SISTER

Chapter 5 – The Chase Begins

Dinner was the kind of elegant affair Alicia still didn’t feel she belonged at.

The long mahogany table gleamed under the chandelier’s golden light, crystal glasses catching the glow. Silver cutlery, polished so meticulously she could see her reflection, sat at either side of pristine white plates adorned with food arranged like art.

She had been quiet through most of the meal, keeping her focus on Shelly — who was beaming in a way Alicia hadn’t seen in years — and Dylan, who talked with the easy charm of someone used to having an audience.

And then there was Tristan.

He’d been sitting directly across from her all evening, his elbows resting lazily on the table, wine glass cradled between his fingers. Every so often, he’d flick his gaze up at her, and each time, she felt that same infuriating heat crawl up her neck. He wasn’t looking the way polite people looked — he was studying her, like he’d found something interesting and wanted to see what happened if he poked at it.

“You’re awfully quiet, Alicia,” he said finally, his voice cutting through Dylan’s anecdote about a corporate gala.

Her fork paused midway to her mouth. “Some people prefer listening to talking,” she replied, keeping her tone even.

Tristan’s lips curved. “Is that so? I always thought conversation was a two-way street.”

“Not when the other person is speeding and refuses to slow down.” She speared another bite of her food, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full glance.

Dylan chuckled, oblivious to the undercurrent between them. “Tristan’s been told he talks too much his whole life. You’ll get used to him.”

“I’m not sure I plan on trying,” Alicia murmured, just loud enough for Tristan to hear.

He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. From where she sat, she could feel his gaze lingering. There was something in it — amusement, yes, but also the faintest flicker of interest, the kind that made her stomach knot.

Tristan

He liked her fire. Most people — women especially — melted into syrup when he turned the full force of his attention on them. Alicia didn’t. She kept her chin up and her walls higher. That made her dangerous in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on yet.

But he wanted to.

The conversation swirled on without her, but the tension stayed, like an invisible thread pulled taut between them. Under the table, her knee brushed something solid — his leg, and she jerked back instinctively. He didn’t move away.

By dessert, she had begun counting the minutes until she could retreat to her room. This family dinner was starting to feel like a very polite battlefield.

When the plates were cleared, Dylan suggested they move to the drawing room for drinks. Shelly, already halfway into a laugh at something Dylan said, didn’t notice when Tristan lingered behind, letting Alicia pass him in the hall.

He fell into step beside her.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue,” he said softly, the kind of tone meant to be private even in a crowd.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “And you’ve got a bad habit of trying to get a rise out of people.”

“It’s not a bad habit if it works.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched — and his smirk deepened at catching it.

The drawing room was vast, with tall arched windows draped in velvet, a fire already crackling in the hearth. A grand piano gleamed in the corner, untouched. Shelly and Dylan drifted toward a pair of armchairs near the fire, already locked into conversation.

Alicia had barely taken a seat on one of the sofas before Tristan appeared, sliding into the cushion beside her. He didn’t sit close enough to touch her, but close enough that the air between them felt charged.

“You know,” he said, leaning forward to pour himself a drink from the decanter on the low table, “most people would be trying to impress me right now.”

“And why would I do that?”

He looked at her from under his lashes. “Because you live here now. And I can make your life either very comfortable… or very interesting.”

“Sounds like a threat.”

“Not at all. Just an observation.”

The crystal glass caught the firelight as he took a slow sip. She noticed his hand — long fingers, a faint scar across the knuckle — and cursed herself for noticing.

Alicia leaned back into the plush sofa, angling herself slightly away from him. It was a defensive move, she knew, but the last thing she wanted was for him to see how the space between them seemed to shrink in her mind no matter how far she shifted.

“I think you’re used to people chasing you,” she said, her voice steady but her pulse betraying her. “That’s not going to happen here.”

Tristan rested his arm casually along the back of the sofa — the movement so natural it could have been innocent, yet it left his hand a whisper away from brushing her shoulder. “You say that like you’ve already thought about it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re assuming I’ve thought about you at all.”

“Oh, you have,” he murmured, leaning just enough for her to feel the faint warmth of his breath at her temple. “Even if it’s only to decide you don’t like me.”

Alicia turned her head to meet his gaze, and it was a mistake. His eyes — blue in daylight, but now darkened to something deeper under the glow of the fire — held hers like they were daring her to blink first.

“You’re infuriating.”

“Better than boring.”

The back of his fingers brushed the cushion beside her hip as he shifted, the movement drawing her attention lower, where the sharp line of his knee had tilted toward her. She hated how aware she was of the exact inches between them.

“Is this what you do with everyone?” she asked, forcing her voice to stay dry. “Prod them until they react?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

Her lips curved before she could stop herself, and he caught it instantly. He leaned in, closing that already narrow gap, just enough that their shoulders almost — almost — touched.

“That’s better,” he said softly. “You should smile more. Suits you.”

“Stop trying to charm me.”

“Why? Is it working?”

“Not even close.”

His smirk widened, but there was a flicker of something else there — a flash of curiosity, like she’d just set herself up as a challenge he couldn’t resist.

The fire popped, and in that small sound, the rest of the room seemed to fade further. Dylan and Shelly’s voices were a low murmur on the far side of the room, but Tristan kept his focus locked on her, his body angled in a way that left no doubt he’d chosen this position deliberately.

Her pulse jumped when his knee brushed hers under the table. It could have been an accident — except he didn’t move it away.

“You’re not like the others,” he said, voice dipping into a register that made something low in her stomach twist.

“That’s because I’m not here to be one of your… conquests.”

He chuckled, and the sound was low, warm, sliding over her in a way she wished she didn’t notice. “Good. I like a long game.”

Alicia shifted just enough to create space between their knees, but his arm remained along the back of the sofa, the weight of his presence still pressing in from her right. She could smell his cologne — faint spice, something clean beneath it — and cursed herself for noticing.

“You really think you can figure me out?” she asked.

“I don’t think,” he said, tilting his head, “I know.”

She leaned in slightly, close enough that their eyes were level. “Then you’re in for a disappointment.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The space between them was tight with the kind of tension that felt like a coin teetering on its edge, about to fall.

And then—

“Alicia, darling,” Shelly’s voice cut in from across the room. “Would you like to see the terrace? The view’s spectacular at night.”

Alicia blinked, the invisible cord between her and Tristan snapping. She stood — maybe a little too quickly — and turned toward Shelly with a polite smile. “Of course.”

Behind her, Tristan leaned back into the sofa, watching her go. And if she’d turned around, she might have caught the way his smirk lingered — sharper now, edged with something that looked dangerously like intent.

The terrace was exactly as Shelly promised — a sweep of marble and glass, overlooking the manicured gardens lit by soft golden lamps. In the distance, the dark silhouette of the hills rose against a sky spattered with stars. The air was cooler out here, fresher, and for a few minutes Alicia let herself breathe without feeling the weight of Tristan’s gaze.

Shelly, ever the enthusiastic hostess, pointed out the rose garden, the koi pond, the old stone fountain imported from France. She spoke with a kind of lightness Alicia hadn’t heard in years, and Alicia tried — she really tried — to focus on that instead of the unsettling hum still lingering under her skin.

But when they returned inside, it was as though he’d been waiting.

Tristan was leaning casually against the doorway leading back into the drawing room, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of amber liquid. He didn’t say anything as they stepped past, just let his eyes slide over Alicia in a slow, deliberate sweep that she felt everywhere.

Shelly was instantly pulled into conversation with Dylan, their laughter soft and intimate. That left Alicia in the no-man’s-land between the terrace and the drawing room — and Tristan, who stepped forward like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Enjoy the view?” he asked, his voice low enough that it didn’t carry.

She glanced at him, wary. “It’s beautiful.”

His gaze held hers a beat too long. “It’s better in the summer. Everything in full bloom.”

He was close enough now that the warmth of him brushed against her arm, though he made no move to touch her. It was proximity without contact — an unspoken dare.

“I thought you weren’t going to corner me again tonight,” she said, keeping her tone light, but she could feel the tightness in her chest.

“Cornering is such an ugly word.” His mouth curved. “Let’s call it… conversation.”

She arched a brow. “You’re terrible at casual conversation.”

“That’s because casual isn’t interesting.”

He stepped to the side, subtly guiding her toward a quieter corner of the drawing room — not the deep seclusion of the library earlier, but far enough from Dylan and Shelly that their voices blurred into background noise. It was intentional, she knew, but her feet still carried her there.

“I’m curious about you,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the wall, body angled toward hers. “Most people I meet either want something from me or want to be me. You seem to want neither.”

“That’s because I don’t.”

“Then what do you want?”

Her mouth curved in a humorless smile. “That’s not something I discuss with strangers.”

His smirk sharpened. “Strangers don’t usually look at each other the way you just did.”

She froze for a fraction of a second — and cursed herself when his smile widened, like he’d caught her in a tell.

“You’re imagining things,” she said.

“Maybe.” He took a slow sip from his glass, eyes never leaving hers. “But I’m rarely wrong.”

The air between them shifted — not suddenly, but gradually, like a tide creeping higher. She became acutely aware of the space between their bodies, the faint scent of whiskey on his breath, the way his voice dipped when he spoke.

Her shoulder brushed his arm as she shifted, and it was barely a touch, but it sent a small, unwelcome spark racing down her spine.

“Does this usually work on people?” she asked, trying to inject the question with enough bite to cover the fact that she’d noticed the contact.

He tilted his head, studying her like she was a particularly intriguing puzzle. “Sometimes. But you…” His gaze dropped briefly — deliberately — before meeting her eyes again. “…you’re not that easy.”

The heat under her skin flared, even as she kept her expression neutral. “And that bothers you?”

“It fascinates me.”

A voice called from across the room — one of the staff announcing that dinner was served. The sound broke the moment like glass.

Tristan straightened, stepping back just enough to let her pass, though his eyes stayed locked on hers. “Guess we’ll continue later.”

The problem was, Alicia had the distinct feeling he meant every word

The dining room could have belonged in an old European manor — long polished table gleaming under a chandelier dripping with crystals, silverware arranged in perfect lines, and tall windows framing the darkness outside. The air smelled faintly of roasted herbs and wine.

Alicia was led to her seat by Shelly, who smiled warmly before drifting toward Dylan. Tristan was already in his chair across the table, lounging like he owned not just the room, but every thought in it.

His gaze found her the moment she sat down. Not immediately — he let her think she’d escaped notice — but then it was there, that slow, measured look that skimmed over her like warm fingertips.

The first course arrived — something delicate and French-sounding — and conversation started politely enough. Dylan asked about her studies, Shelly shared some story about the renovation of the west wing, laughter bubbled here and there.

And then Tristan joined in.

“So,” he said casually, spearing a piece of fish with his fork, “you’ve been in our world what — two days?”

She nodded, wary of where this was going. “Something like that.”

“And you’re still here,” he mused. “Most people either fall in love with the place immediately… or run.”

“I’m still deciding,” she said, sipping her wine.

His mouth curved. “You’ve always been indecisive?”

“I prefer ‘thoughtful.’”

“Oh, I doubt you’re indecisive,” he said, leaning slightly forward, elbows on the table in a way that brought him closer without making it obvious. “I think you just like to keep your cards close. Makes people work harder for your attention.”

Her brows rose. “And you think you’ve earned mine?”

He didn’t answer right away — just let the question hang there, his eyes locked on hers. Then he smiled, slow and infuriating. “Not yet. But I like the challenge.”

Under the table, his foot brushed hers — barely, lightly — as if it could be an accident. She moved hers back, but the spark had already lit.

The next few exchanges were a game. Every question he asked was laced with something sharper, every answer she gave returned with twice the bite. Shelly and Dylan, absorbed in their own conversation, seemed oblivious.

“You know,” Tristan said at one point, swirling the wine in his glass, “most people in this house try to impress me.”

“Sounds exhausting,” she replied, reaching for her water.

“Not for me. For them.” He tilted his head. “But you don’t seem to care what I think.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“Or maybe you do,” he countered, “and you just don’t want to admit it.”

She smiled faintly. “You must be fun at dinner parties.”

His gaze dipped to her mouth for the briefest second before he said, “Only when I have the right company.”

It was ridiculous how much the air between them changed in that moment. The food might as well have been invisible; her skin prickled with the awareness of his attention.

When the main course arrived, he shifted slightly in his chair, leaning his forearm along the table edge so that his hand rested near hers — not touching, but close enough that she felt every inch of the space between them.

By dessert, she was acutely aware of the weight of his presence, the way his voice dipped lower when speaking to her, the subtle lean of his body that drew her into his orbit whether she wanted it or not.

The conversation never crossed any explicit line, but it danced along the edges of one — a brush of fingertips when passing the sugar bowl, his gaze lingering a second too long when she laughed, the undercurrent of something dangerous and unspoken.

And then, just as the plates were cleared and coffee was served, Dylan stood, stretching. “Tristan, Alicia — why don’t you show her the music room? You know, before she gets lost in the east wing like last night.”

Tristan’s eyes met hers, and the smirk that curved his mouth promised trouble. “Gladly.”

The problem was, she believed him.