BUT YOU'RE MY SISTER

Chapter 4 – First Impact

The first thing Alicia noticed when she woke up was the quiet.

Not the soft hum of the pub’s fridge, or the creak of the upstairs floorboards when the old tenant next door moved about. The Grant estate had its own kind of silence—thick, expectant, the kind that seemed to swallow even her breathing. The curtains in her new room were the kind of heavy velvet that made dawn irrelevant; the only reason she knew it was morning was because a faint ribbon of gold light had found its way between the folds and was painting a thin line across the foot of her bed.

She lay there for a moment, staring at the gilded crown molding on the ceiling, still half expecting to wake up in her old cramped bedroom above the pub. But this wasn’t a dream. Her mother had married Dylan Grant. They now lived in a mansion. And today, according to the whispers she’d overheard at dinner last night, Tristan was coming home.

She didn’t know much about him, only that he was Dylan’s son from his first marriage and that he’d been away at a prestigious boarding school somewhere in Europe. She’d caught snippets of conversation—staff using words like wild, headstrong, and troublemaker. The way they said his name had a peculiar mix of admiration and warning, as though he were both the sun and the wildfire it could cause.

A soft knock pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Miss Alicia?” It was Marianne, one of the housemaids. “Your breakfast is ready in the sunroom. Mr. Grant said you should eat before Tristan arrives.”

Alicia pushed back the duvet, the silk sheets sighing against her skin. “Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute.”

She dressed simply—jeans and a fitted cream sweater, hair left loose over her shoulders. No matter what she wore, she felt like she stood out here, and not in a way she liked. Everything in this place was polished, curated. She still felt like an accident in the middle of a luxury showroom.

The sunroom smelled faintly of citrus and warm bread when she entered. Her mother was already there, sitting at the glass-topped table, buttering a croissant. She looked lighter these days, her smile easier, her posture more relaxed.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Shelly said warmly. “Sleep well?”

Alicia slid into the chair opposite her. “Yeah. It’s… quiet here.”

Shelly’s eyes softened. “You’ll get used to it. And wait until you see the gardens in spring.” She hesitated before adding, “Tristan’s arriving just before lunch. Dylan’s very excited for you to meet him.”

Alicia bit into a piece of toast. “I’m sure he is.”

Her mother gave her a look—half curious, half warning. “Don’t start, Alicia.”

“I’m not starting,” Alicia said evenly. “I just… don’t know him. And from the way people talk about him, he sounds like—”

“Like what?”

“Like trouble.”

Shelly smiled faintly, the kind that said she knew something Alicia didn’t. “He’s Dylan’s son. You’ll get along fine.”

Alicia didn’t answer.

After breakfast, she found herself wandering the estate’s gardens. The winter air was crisp, the grass glittering with frost. Two maids were sweeping leaves near the marble fountain, their voices carrying just enough for Alicia to catch fragments of their conversation.

“…remember last summer? That party in Ibiza—”

“Oh, don’t even start. I still don’t know how the papers didn’t get wind of it.”

“That’s because Mr. Grant paid for it to go away. Like he always does.”

They both laughed, glancing around before noticing Alicia nearby. The conversation ended abruptly, replaced by polite nods and murmured greetings.

She walked on, but their words clung to her.

By late morning, the air around the estate felt charged, as if the whole house were holding its breath. She was in the upstairs gallery when she heard it—the deep, throaty purr of an engine in the distance. It grew louder, smoother, until it rolled into the courtyard below like a living thing. She stepped closer to the railing and looked down.

The car was a low, gleaming silver sports model—one of those machines designed not just for speed but for display. Music thumped faintly from inside, the bass vibrating through the air.

The driver’s door swung open.

He stepped out slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Sunglasses covered half his face, but the smile—lazy, knowing—was clear enough. His dark hair was tousled in a way that was definitely deliberate. Black jeans, a leather jacket over a white T-shirt, the sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms and a watch that probably cost more than her mother’s old apartment.

Even from up here, Alicia felt the weight of him. The way his presence seemed to fill the space, how the staff moved just a fraction faster under his gaze.

“Tristan!” Dylan’s voice boomed from the steps as he came out to greet his son. They embraced quickly, Dylan clapping him on the back.

Then Dylan turned toward the doorway. “Shelly! Alicia! Come meet him!”

Alicia’s stomach tightened. She took the stairs slowly, her pulse loud in her ears. When she stepped outside, the cold hit her first, then the scent—clean, sharp cologne mixed with faint leather and something darker, like smoke.

“This is your new sister,” Dylan said with a broad smile, motioning between them.

Tristan tilted his head, looking at her over the rim of his sunglasses. He didn’t speak right away, just let his gaze travel—subtle, but enough for her to feel it.

Finally, he smiled. “Sister, huh?”

Alicia met his eyes—deep, unreadable behind the glass—and forced a polite smile. “Apparently.”

The corner of his mouth curved higher, like she’d just given him a challenge.

The pause stretched, and Alicia could swear she felt the temperature shift between them.

Tristan removed his sunglasses slowly, letting them hang from his fingers. His eyes were a shade she couldn’t quite place—stormy, shifting between grey and blue depending on the light. And right now, they were fixed on her with a lazy intensity, like he was trying to read something written behind her face.

“You don’t look much like the type to live here,” he said at last, his voice low, edged with a kind of teasing she wasn’t sure how to take.

Alicia’s brows lifted. “I could say the same for you.”

That earned her a quiet chuckle, the sound rich enough to ripple under her skin. Dylan, oblivious to the undercurrent between them, clapped his hands together.

“Right! Let’s get your bags in. Alicia, why don’t you show Tristan around after lunch? He’ll need to see the changes we’ve made.”

Tristan’s gaze didn’t leave hers. “I’d like that.”

The way he said it made her pulse trip over itself.

She stepped back as the staff began unloading sleek black luggage from the trunk of his car. He carried nothing himself, just shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and followed Dylan inside with a stride that was unhurried but somehow commanded attention.

The Dining Room

Lunch was a strange dance of politeness and unspoken glances. The table stretched far enough that she could have avoided looking at him if she’d wanted to—but she didn’t. Not exactly.

Tristan sat two seats away, leaning back in his chair like the rules of posture didn’t apply to him. When he wasn’t answering Dylan’s questions about school and travel, he was watching her in those quiet intervals, his expression unreadable but never disinterested.

She tried to focus on her plate, but her senses betrayed her. The scrape of his fork, the low rumble of his laugh when Dylan said something, the faint scent of his cologne when a shift in the air carried it across to her—all of it seemed heightened, like the volume on him had been turned up and everything else was background noise.

At one point, Shelly asked Tristan if he’d like to attend an upcoming charity gala.

“Depends,” he said smoothly, “will my… new sister be there?”

Alicia’s fork paused mid-air. She looked up to find him already watching her, one brow arched in that infuriating, knowing way.

“Yes,” Shelly said brightly, missing—or ignoring—the implication.

“Then I’m in.”

The words shouldn’t have made her skin heat the way they did. She forced herself to take a sip of water, eyes down.

The Tour

After lunch, Dylan disappeared to take calls, and Shelly went to meet with the housekeeper. Which left her alone with him.

“So…” Tristan said, drawing the word out as they stepped into the hallway. “You’re going to show me around?”

“That’s what your dad asked.”

“I’m sure he did.” His tone was amused, like they were sharing some private joke she wasn’t fully in on yet.

They walked through the east wing first—the gallery of oil paintings, the music room, the library that smelled of leather and dust. Every now and then, he’d ask a question that wasn’t really a question.

“Do you actually use this room?”

“No.”

“Figures.”

When they reached the winter garden, sunlight poured through the glass ceiling, catching in the dust motes. The warmth in here was almost a relief from the chill of the rest of the house.

“You like it here?” he asked suddenly.

She hesitated. “It’s… different.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I have.”

He smiled faintly. “You don’t give much away, do you?”

“I’m not sure you’ve earned that yet.”

He stepped closer—not so close that it was inappropriate, but enough that she could feel the presence of him, the slight heat radiating off his body.

“Challenge accepted,” he murmured.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The faint hum of the heating system filled the silence. Her heartbeat felt loud enough to hear.

The West Wing

The west wing felt quieter, more insulated from the rest of the estate. The air smelled faintly of polish and something floral—maybe from the arrangement of white lilies on a side table.

Alicia walked ahead, determined to keep some space between them, but Tristan’s unhurried steps never fell too far behind.

“This wing’s mostly guest rooms,” she said, glancing back.

“Mm.” He reached out as they passed a doorway, fingers brushing the carved wood of the frame. “And where’s your room?”

She shot him a look. “Why?”

His smirk deepened. “Just curious. You’re part of the house now. Seems fair I should know where to find you.”

“You’ll have to make do with the guest list,” she replied, her voice cool, but her pulse betrayed her.

They passed a window, the glass hazy with winter condensation. Beyond it, the gardens stretched in careful symmetry—hedge mazes, marble statues, and fountains now frozen over.

“You grew up here?” she asked.

He gave a short laugh. “If you can call it that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means this place teaches you two things early—how to hide what you feel and how to make other people guess wrong about it.”

She studied him for a moment. “And which one are you better at?”

Instead of answering, he tilted his head. “Which do you think?”

She kept walking, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

The Terrace

The double doors at the end of the corridor opened onto a wide stone terrace. Even in the cold, the view was arresting—rolling lawns that faded into the dark edge of the forest, the sky pale and low with cloud.

Tristan stepped past her, leaning against the balustrade. His jacket fell open, the wind ruffling his hair. For someone who looked like he’d been born to chaos, he seemed utterly at ease here, like the whole place existed for his amusement.

“You don’t like me very much,” he said suddenly.

“I don’t know you,” she countered.

“Fair.” His eyes lingered on her face, tracing over it like he was cataloguing every reaction. “But you’ve already decided something about me.”

“Maybe.”

“Let me guess—you think I’m spoiled, arrogant, probably trouble.”

“Am I wrong?”

He grinned, slow and unapologetic. “No. But that’s not all I am.”

The wind caught a strand of her hair, sweeping it across her cheek. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing it away. The contact was light, barely there, but it was enough to send a current through her that she hated herself for feeling.

She stepped back, breaking whatever moment might have been forming. “We should head back.”

The Return

They walked in silence at first, though she was acutely aware of him beside her. His scent—clean, with a trace of cedar—seemed to cling to the space between them.

As they neared the main hall, he glanced over. “You know, you’re not what I expected.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning…” He let his gaze sweep over her, not in a way that was crass, but as if he was measuring something invisible. “You’re not impressed by any of this. Most people are.”

“I’m not most people.”

His smirk returned. “Good. Most people bore me.”

The Library

When they stepped back into the warmth of the main hall, Alicia expected him to veer toward the staircase. Instead, Tristan slowed beside a tall, arched doorway framed in dark wood.

“You’ve seen the library yet?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then you should.” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the door open.

The scent hit her first—aged paper, leather, and the faintest trace of pipe smoke clinging to the air, like memories that refused to leave. The room stretched deep, shelves climbing all the way to the coffered ceiling. A rolling ladder stood ready against one wall, its brass wheels gleaming. Heavy drapes muted the winter light, giving the space a golden dimness.

She stepped inside reluctantly, her heels clicking on the polished floor.

“Your father’s?” she asked, running a finger lightly along the spine of a book.

He gave a short laugh. “Partly. Mostly inherited. Every generation adds something. Some of it’s just for show.”

“You read much?”

“Enough to keep people guessing.” His voice was closer than she expected.

She turned—and found him only a few feet away, his shoulder against a shelf, watching her with an unreadable half-smile.

The Questions

“So, Alicia,” he began, “what’s your story?”

“My story?”

“You know—what makes you tick. Why you look at people like you’re measuring them before you speak.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he said, without hesitation. “It’s not a bad thing. Just means you don’t hand out trust cheaply.”

“Maybe I learned not to,” she replied evenly.

His gaze sharpened, catching on that word—learned. “From who?”

She picked up a book and flipped it open, letting the pages give her something to focus on. “Does it matter?”

“It matters if I’m trying to understand you.”

“And why would you be doing that?”

Instead of answering, he moved closer. The space between them shrank until she could see the fine stubble along his jaw, the faint smudge of tiredness under his eyes.

“Because,” he said softly, “you’re different. And I want to know why.”

Shadows and Distance

She stepped sideways, putting the curve of a reading table between them. “Different doesn’t mean interesting.”

“In your case, it does.” He walked his fingers along the table’s edge as if he was tracing her retreat. “So—small town girl, protective of her mother, immune to charm…” His eyes flicked over her. “Or maybe just pretending to be.”

“Or maybe you’re reading too much into it.”

He grinned faintly, but there was something sharper in it now, like he enjoyed pushing at the edge of her composure.

The Interruption

Before she could respond, the muffled chime of a clock rang somewhere down the hall. He straightened slightly.

“Dinner soon,” he said. “Guess we’ll have to continue this later.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

He smirked as he moved past her toward the door, the scent of cedar brushing her as he went. “Oh, I will.”

She stood alone in the golden half-light of the library for a long moment after he left, pulse unsteady, wondering whether she’d just been subtly warned—or invited into something she wasn’t sure she wanted.

The Dining Hall

By the time Alicia entered the dining hall, her pulse had settled enough for her to walk without feeling every beat in her fingertips.

It was absurdly long—easily big enough to seat thirty—though tonight, the table was set for only four. Heavy silverware gleamed beside fine china, and the chandelier above spilled warm, golden light across the polished wood.

Shelly sat already, looking softer than Alicia had seen her in years, her hair shining in the glow. Dylan was at the head of the table, a picture of relaxed confidence in a navy dinner jacket.

Tristan was nowhere to be seen.

She chose a seat opposite her mother, closer to Dylan than she would have liked, the far end of the table yawning into empty space.

Then she heard it—that unhurried, almost feline tread.

Tristan appeared in the doorway, still in his dark jeans and fitted shirt from earlier, as though formal dinners weren’t worth changing for. He gave his father a small nod before his eyes found her, locking with hers in a way that made her feel pinned.

Without breaking the stare, he crossed the room and dropped into the chair directly across from her.

Subtle Games

The first course was served—delicate bowls of butternut squash soup drizzled with cream.

“So, Alicia,” Dylan began warmly, “how are you finding the place so far?”

“It’s… different,” she replied carefully.

“Different how?” Tristan’s tone was almost lazy, but his eyes held an alertness that made her think of the library again.

“Bigger. Quieter,” she said.

“Quieter?” he echoed. “You haven’t met all of my father’s friends yet.”

Shelly laughed lightly. “Oh, I’m sure Alicia will adapt. She always does.”

Tristan smiled faintly, almost to himself. “We’ll see.”

The Pressure Under the Table

When the second course arrived—grilled sea bass with lemon butter—Alicia reached for her glass of water. The table was wide, but not impossibly so. She felt, rather than saw, Tristan shift.

Her knee brushed something solid.

She froze.

It didn’t move.

She glanced up, and he was cutting his fish with meticulous ease, expression unreadable. She shifted back, and the contact broke.

A few minutes later, it happened again—this time softer, more deliberate, a slow press rather than a bump.

Her grip tightened on her fork. She forced herself to look at Dylan, who was recounting some story about a charity gala, entirely oblivious. Shelly listened with open admiration, leaning toward him.

When Alicia risked a glance across the table, Tristan was watching her, one brow raised, as if daring her to speak.

Testing Boundaries

Between courses, conversation drifted to the estate’s history. Dylan spoke proudly about the generations before him, Shelly asked polite questions, and Tristan kept steering his words back toward her.

“Do you ride?” he asked suddenly, cutting into his dessert.

“Ride?”

“Horses.”

“No,” she said. “Never had the chance.”

“You should learn,” he said, taking a slow bite. “We’ve got some worth your time.”

Shelly smiled. “That would be lovely for you, Alicia. Something new.”

“I’m fine sticking to my own two feet,” she said, sharper than she intended.

Tristan’s smirk deepened, like she’d just confirmed something for him.

The Unspoken Message

By the end of dinner, the low hum of tension between them was a constant presence. As the servants cleared the plates, Dylan suggested they all have coffee in the drawing room.

Tristan rose first, his chair scraping softly. As he passed her, he leaned just close enough for his voice to reach her alone.

“You don’t belong here yet,” he murmured. “But you will.”

And then he was gone, striding toward the drawing room without looking back.

She stayed seated a moment longer, her heart doing that unsteady rhythm again, wondering whether he’d meant it as a promise or a threat.