BUT YOU'RE MY SISTER

Chapter Three – A New World

The car rolled through gates so tall and ornate they could have belonged to a palace. Gold filigree curled around the black wrought iron, catching the weak winter sunlight in brief flashes. Alicia sat in the back seat beside her mother, watching as the gates swung inward without a sound. It felt like crossing a threshold — not just into someone’s property, but into another life entirely.

The road beyond curved upward, lined with towering oaks whose branches arched overhead like a cathedral ceiling. Their leaves whispered in the breeze, scattering shadows across the gravel. The hum of the engine was the only other sound.

When the house came into view, Alicia’s breath caught.

It wasn’t a house — not really. It was an estate, sprawling and symmetrical, its pale stone walls gleaming against the dark green of the surrounding gardens. A row of arched windows reflected the grey sky, and two stone lions flanked the front steps as if guarding whatever lay inside.

Dylan glanced at them in the rear-view mirror. “Welcome home,” he said, smiling.

Shelly squeezed Alicia’s hand, her eyes shining. “Can you believe this, Ali?”

Alicia could believe it. She just didn’t know if she liked it.

The car stopped at the foot of the steps, where two men in matching dark suits were already waiting. They moved forward in perfect sync to open the doors.

“Good afternoon, sir,” one of them said to Dylan, his voice smooth and practiced.

“Afternoon, Collins,” Dylan replied. “This is Shelly and Alicia. Make sure their things are taken to their rooms.”

“Of course, sir.”

Before Alicia could protest, her suitcase was already being whisked away. She climbed the steps after her mother, the lions’ stone eyes seeming to follow her.

The foyer was the size of their old flat.

A crystal chandelier hung overhead, scattering light across polished marble floors. A sweeping staircase curled upward to a second-floor balcony lined with gilded railings. To the right, a sitting room overflowed with velvet chairs and heavy drapes. To the left, tall double doors stood closed, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns.

Alicia’s shoes clicked against the marble, the sound too loud in the cavernous space.

A woman in a crisp black dress appeared from a side hall. She was older, her silver hair pinned neatly back, and her gaze was sharp but not unkind.

“Mrs. Grant,” she said, inclining her head slightly toward Shelly. “Welcome.”

“Oh, I’m not—” Shelly began, then flushed. “It’s Shelly.”

The woman’s eyes flicked briefly toward Dylan before returning to Shelly. “Of course. I’m Mrs. Whitlow, the housekeeper. If you need anything, just ring.”

She didn’t offer a handshake.

Dylan led them through a set of French doors into a sunlit conservatory. Glass walls stretched from floor to ceiling, revealing a garden that looked like something out of a painting. Roses climbed trellises, hedges had been sculpted into perfect symmetry, and a fountain trickled softly in the center.

“This is where I like to have my morning coffee,” Dylan said. “You’ll find the grounds are very peaceful.”

“They’re beautiful,” Shelly murmured, already leaning toward the glass as though drawn by it.

Alicia stayed back, her eyes on the staff moving briskly across the lawn beyond — gardeners, she assumed, though their uniforms were so formal it seemed they could just as easily have been guards.

They were shown to their rooms next.

Shelly’s was at the end of the main hall — spacious, with a four-poster bed draped in cream fabric and a balcony overlooking the gardens. Alicia’s was across from it, smaller but still far grander than anything she’d ever had. A writing desk sat beneath the window, and the bedding smelled faintly of lavender.

Collins set her suitcase by the wardrobe. “If you require unpacking, Miss, we can take care of that.”

“No, thanks,” Alicia said quickly. She wasn’t ready for strangers to handle her things.

He inclined his head and left without another word.

That first evening, Alicia wandered.

She told herself it was just to get familiar with the place, but the truth was she needed air — or at least the illusion of it. The halls were too long, the ceilings too high. The sheer scale of the house made her feel smaller than she liked.

She passed rooms that looked like they hadn’t been used in years — a music room with a grand piano under a dust cover, a library with books whose spines were too pristine to have been read.

In the dining room, the table was set for three, though she knew Dylan had said his son was still away. The silverware gleamed under the soft light of yet another chandelier.

As she turned to leave, she heard low voices from the kitchen.

“…wild as ever, I imagine,” a woman was saying.

“Shh,” another voice replied. “Walls have ears in this house.”

A pause, then: “Still — when he’s back, you’ll see. Tristan doesn’t change. Not for anyone.”

Alicia stepped quietly away before they could notice her.

Later that night, she found Shelly sitting at the vanity in her room, humming softly as she brushed her hair.

“You look happy,” Alicia said.

“I am,” Shelly replied simply. “This place… it’s like a dream.”

“It’s something,” Alicia said carefully. “Do you know much about Tristan?”

Shelly frowned at the sudden question. “Just that he’s Dylan’s son. Why?”

“Nothing. I just… overheard the staff talking about him. Sounds like he has a bit of a reputation.”

Shelly waved a hand dismissively. “You can’t believe everything you hear.”

Alicia didn’t argue, but the unease settled deeper.

Over the next few days, the sense of dissonance grew.

On the surface, the estate was perfection. Breakfasts appeared precisely at eight, served on fine china. Fresh flowers rotated through the halls daily. The gardens looked as though they’d been painted anew each morning.

But beneath it, there were cracks.

The staff spoke in low voices that cut off abruptly when Alicia entered a room. There were areas of the house she was told were “private,” though no explanation was given. At night, when the wind died, she swore she could hear faint footsteps in the halls — too heavy to be the maids, too soft to be Dylan.

One afternoon, as she walked along the east wing, she found a locked door at the end of the corridor. She tried the handle, more out of curiosity than anything, but it didn’t budge. A moment later, Mrs. Whitlow appeared behind her.

“That part of the house isn’t in use,” the housekeeper said smoothly.

“Why not?”

“It simply isn’t,” she replied, her tone making it clear no further questions would be answered.

That evening, Dylan joined them for dinner.

“Tristan’s back next week,” he said casually, pouring wine into Shelly’s glass.

Shelly beamed. “That’s wonderful. We’ll finally meet him.”

Dylan’s eyes flicked to Alicia. “Yes. I think you’ll get along well.”

Something in his voice made her skin prickle — the same note she’d heard when he first mentioned his son. She forced a polite smile but kept her thoughts to herself.

The chandelier’s light caught on the rim of Dylan’s glass as he raised it. “To new beginnings,” he said.

Alicia clinked her glass against her mother’s, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that this beginning might also be the start of something else entirely — something she wasn’t sure she wanted to see.