Sienna

The helicopter blades sliced through the thick afternoon air, their relentless thrum beating in time with the migraine brewing in my skull. Every thump sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me, a cruel reminder that I now had a pair of tiny dictators playing a game of ping-pong inside me.

Pregnancy was definitely not for the weak-hearted.

I felt completely off-kilter, like I'd been shoved into a chaotic dance where the music kept speeding up and I had no idea what I was doing. Everything inside me was out of sync—my emotions, my thoughts, even my sense of self. It was like pregnancy had turned me into a walking mood swing with legs. One minute, I was ready to cry over a cute puppy video, and the next, I was fuming because my toast was too crunchy. The hormones were running the show, and let me tell you, they were doing a terrible job.

And then there was Tristan. Of course, he was noticing. He had that look in his eye like he was Sherlock Holmes and I was a mystery he'd just solved. The more I tried to keep things normal, the more I felt like I was broadcasting every ounce of my anxiety. And then he'd gone ahead to ask me that question.

"Are you pregnant?"

He'd nailed it, right on the nose. And instead of owning up like a sane person, I panicked and ducked the truth.

What was I even thinking?

I should've just told him, right then and there—spit it out that I was pregnant and, oh yeah, we were having twins. But the look in his eyes stopped me cold. You should've seen it—fear, confusion, sheer panic. It completely unraveled me. And, like a total coward, I froze... and chickened out. Again.

Now I was trapped in this silent disaster of my own making, and let's be real, there's no rescue team for self-inflicted stupidity.

I slumped back in my seat, the cool faux leather pressing against my back as I fumbled with the seatbelt. Of course, this would be the moment when my hands decided to betray me, trembling so badly that the buckle felt like a Rubik's cube. Air travel was bad enough under normal circumstances, but throw in a case of "pregnancy nausea" and a side of emotional wreckage, and it was pure torture.

I hated flying—always had. The claustrophobia, the droning engines, the sensation of leaving solid ground behind—it all felt like an invitation for disaster.

Just as my fumbling reached new pitiful heights, Tristan's voice broke through the noise. "Let me help," he offered softly, his presence close enough to send my already frayed nerves into overdrive.

"I've got it," I snapped, avoiding his gaze like the plague. Of course, I didn't have it—not by a long shot. My hands shook like I was trying to perform surgery on myself, and the seatbelt remained a tangled mess.

Tristan crouched down beside me, his warmth annoyingly reassuring, like he had all the time in the world for my meltdown.

"I said I've got it," I insisted, my voice sharper than intended, but he just leaned in closer, ignoring my protest. "Just breathe," he murmured as his hands gently pried mine away from the seatbelt and clicked the buckle into place with smooth, practiced ease.

"There... all done."

And yet, he didn't pull away.

I cleared my throat and looked away, trying to ignore the fact that his face was inches away from mine and I could literally feel his warm coffee breath on my lips.

"Sienna," he called softly, his fingers lingering on the buckle. I knew that tone. He was gearing up for another heart-to-heart. I wasn't ready for a heart-to-anything. My body was too busy hosting a hormonal carnival.

His eyes remained hot on me, searching for something—some sign that I would soften, that the argument could be left behind, but I remained rigid, staring straight away.

Eventually, he gave me the "Why do I even bother?" sigh and retreated to his own seat.

Thank God.

I could feel the frustration radiating off him like heat from an open flame, but I didn't care. I wasn't in the mood to engage, and the more he pushed, the more I wanted to retreat into my shell.

The hum of the engines grew louder, and moments later, we were rising into the sky. I gripped the seat, my heart beating out of time. Tristan sat in front of me, brooding in silence, his body tense with the frustration he wasn't voicing. The space between us felt thick and heavy with all the things we weren't saying. But I couldn't deal with that right now. My brain was barely functioning as it was.

Needing a distraction, I turned toward the window, watching as the city below shrank into a miniature world. The streets twisted like threads, cars reduced to tiny specks crawling across the landscape. It was beautiful, in a way, watching everything grow smaller and smaller until it felt like none of it mattered.

As if reading my mind, Tristan spoke up. "It's amazing, isn't it?" His voice was soft, almost wistful, as if he was trying to connect with me through the view.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Engaging with him felt like stepping onto a battlefield I wasn't ready for. So I kept my eyes fixed on the view outside, letting the world below consume my attention. It was easier to focus on the city, on the sprawling chaos of life down there, than on the mess of things up here.

The truth was, it wasn't just about our fight or the tension hanging between us. I was terrified. The pregnancy was still so new, and everything between us felt fragile—like a house of cards on the verge of collapse. I didn't know how to tell him, how to face the possibility that he might not react the way I needed him to.

I knew I couldn't keep dodging the truth forever. Eventually, he'd find out. And the longer I waited, the worse it would get. But God, that fear in his eyes... what if it was more than just a momentary shock? What if it was a glimpse of how he really felt?

I needed to mentally prepare myself, and until I was ready, avoiding him just seemed the safest option.

Before long, the skyline of Queens came into view, the sprawling cityscape giving way to quieter streets and larger homes. In no time, the helicopter touched down with a gentle thud, and the roar of the blades began to fade. I unbuckled my seatbelt, moving a little too quickly to be the first one out.

The cool breeze hit me the second I stepped out, crisp and fresh, cutting through the nausea that had been building inside me since takeoff. Of course, right behind me, like an overly attentive shadow, was Tristan. His presence lingered close, impossible to ignore, no matter how much I wished I could.

As we walked across the tarmac, he moved closer, his hand reaching out, aiming for the small of my back like he always did when we were in public. Without thinking, I stepped forward, pulling away from his touch. It wasn't aggressive—just a subtle rejection of the gesture, making it clear without words that I wasn't ready to bridge that gap between us yet.

Ahead, a sleek black car waited, its engine quietly humming in anticipation. Tristan reached the passenger door first, his hand outstretched to open it for me in some chivalrous gesture, but I opened the back door instead and slipped into the backseat without a word.

I heard his sharp exhale of frustration as he shut the door with more force than necessary and walked around to join me in the backseat.

"Sienna," he began, voice heavy, "can we just—"

I cut him off, turning my face toward the window before he could finish. The car began to move, the gentle hum of the engine filling the space between us.

"You can't keep shutting me out, Sienna, we can't keep doing this."

His words floated around me but I refused to catch them. I kept my eyes on the window, refusing to spare him.

We drove in silence, and if awkwardness was a physical thing, it would've filled the car like a balloon about to burst. Tristan tried to speak a few times, his mouth opening as though he was on the verge of saying something—anything—but each time, he seemed to think better of it and sank back into the same brooding quiet that mirrored my own.

I didn't mind. The silence was exactly what I needed—what I wanted. No explanations, no confessions. Just space to think.

Soon after, the car turned off the main road and onto a private drive that seemed to stretch forever, winding through a landscape so perfectly manicured it felt unreal. It wasn't long before the tall iron gates of the mansion came into view, creaking open to welcome us in.

I leaned forward instinctively, drawn to the sight of it. For the first time in hours, something besides nausea or dread filled me—awe. This was no mere house—it was a fortress, an empire of stone and ivy, the very embodiment of old wealth and untouchable power.

As the car came to a smooth halt, two uniformed guards approached and opened the doors with swift precision. I slid out, the gravel crunching softly beneath my shoes as I stood and gazed up at the mansion once more. This place was a symbol of wealth on a different level—old, inherited wealth, the kind that spoke of generations of privilege and power. And now, by marriage, it was part of my life too, whether I liked it or not.

Tristan appeared beside me, his presence steady, though I felt his eyes on me again, searching for some sign of where my head was at.

"Are you ready?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but before any words could form, the grand double doors of the mansion swung open, and my heart stumbled for a beat as Grandpa Benard emerged, his walking stick tapping lightly on the stone steps.

Two maids flanked him, their hands hovering, ready to help if needed, but Grandpa seemed stronger than the last time I'd seen him—more himself.

"Sienna!" he called out with warmth, his arms outstretched as he slowly made his way toward me.

I hesitated for a second, the guilt I had been carrying—about Alaric, about not being here sooner—starting to swell inside me. But I shoved it down, and before I knew it, I was rushing forward to meet him halfway.

When he pulled me into a hug, everything else—this mansion, my worries, the storm of secrets—faded away. In that moment, I wasn't a woman drowning in lies. I was just Sienna, wrapped up in Grandpa's familiar warmth. His embrace seemed to melt the tension from my body, leaving me lighter than I'd felt in weeks.

"I've missed you, Grandpa," I murmured, pulling back slightly to take him in. "I'm sorry it's been so long. Things have been—"

He cut me off with a wave of his hand, smiling. "Nonsense, my dear girl. No need to explain. You're here now, and that's what matters."

I smiled back, relieved. "You look good. Stronger."

"And you, my dear, look like you've been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders," he patted my back with affection. "But don't worry, we'll sort that out soon enough."

I chuckled, though I wasn't sure what "sorting it out" even looked like anymore. "We will."

His eyes crinkled at the corners, filled with warmth. "You have no idea how much I've missed you. Both of you," he added, looking at Tristan with a smile. He reached out and gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder. "Took you long enough, my boy," there was a hint of playful reproach in his tone. "For a second there I thought you no longer cared about your old man again."

Tristan offered a small smile, his usual stoicism softening under Grandpa's familiar affection. "You know I do."

Grandpa grinned. "Come inside, both of you," he said, turning toward the doors.

The warmth of the mansion enveloped us as we stepped inside, and I found myself slowing down, mesmerized by the house's interior. If the outside was impressive, the inside was breathtaking. The grand foyer was expansive, with intricate chandeliers gleaming above and a staircase that spiraled upward like something out of a fairy tale.

Everything about this place screamed elegance and old-world charm, from the polished marble floors to the priceless artwork adorning the walls. But it also had a coldness to it, the kind that reminded you that this wasn't a home—it was a monument. A fortress of family legacy.

As we walked deeper into the mansion, Tristan fell back slightly, letting me and Grandpa lead the way. I couldn't help but notice how stiff he seemed, how out of place he looked in this world that technically belonged to him. But before I could dwell on it, Grandpa stopped in front of a long wall of framed portraits. "Sienna, come here," he beckoned, pointing his cane at a large portrait of a man and woman. Tristan's parents. "That," he said, with a wistful smile, "is Authur and Meredith; the heart of this family."

I stepped closer, staring at the painting. They were a regal-looking couple, both with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes. Such sad excuses for parents.

I didn't need to look at Tristan to know his reaction. I could feel the shift in his energy beside me, the subtle tightening of his posture.

"They were good people," Grandpa continued, his voice heavy with nostalgia. "Your mother especially. She was a saint, Tristan—always graceful, always looking after this family. You're lucky to come from such strong roots."

Okay, that was wrong in so many ways. I shot a glance at Tristan, whose face was now a mask of stone. The warmth Grandpa had pulled out of him earlier was gone, replaced by something colder, harder.

"Such grace," Grandpa pressed on, oblivious to the weight of his words. "I wish you could have met her, Sienna. She would've loved you."

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. Tristan remained stoic, his jaw clenched tightly. For a moment, I wanted to reach out to him, to say something, but I stayed quiet. Some wounds were too deep for words.

Thankfully, Grandpa seemed to sense the shift and motioned for us to continue down the hall. The conversation drifted as we neared the dining room, but my nerves were sparking, like I was about to walk into something destructive. Something felt... off, and I didn't know what it was until we stepped into the dining room and the reason hit me like a punch to the gut.

There, sitting at the head of the table, lounging in a scarlet dress sharp enough to draw blood, was none other than the ever-spiteful Lily freaking Larsen.

My stomach dropped. Of course, she was here. Because nothing in this family ever stayed simple for long.

"Lily," Grandpa called out. "We have company."

She barely lifted her gaze from her phone. Her fingers continued to tap away, as if the sight of us wasn't worth the effort.

"Lily," Grabdpa repeated, his tone firm.

"I see that," she replied flatly, still not bothering to look up. "I'm not blind."

Her dismissiveness prickled at my nerves, but I didn't have the energy for her drama. "Nice to see you, Lily," I said, though my voice lacked any real conviction.

At that, her icy eyes flicked toward me, holding my gaze for a beat. Cold. Calculating. It was as if she were deciding whether I was even worth the effort of a response. After a moment, she rolled her eyes and went right back to her phone.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Bitch.

"I didnt know she was going to be here," Tristan said crossly, eyeing her.

Her head snapped up. "Neither did I, fuckface," she shot, her voice sharp and dripping with venom.

Grandpa reproached her wearily. "Language, Lily. He is your elder brother."

Her lips twisted into a smirk—somewhere between mockery and malice. "Oh, did I offend you?" she asked, her voice syrupy with false sweetness. "My apologies, let me rephrase that." She leaned forward slightly, offering a thin, insincere smile that barely reached her eyes. "Good afternoon, Mr. Larsen. What an absolute delight it is to see you again. Grandfather must have put in a lot of effort in dragging you out from whatever hole you've been hiding in."

Tristan stiffened beside me, his hands flexing at his sides. He was holding back, but I could feel the simmering anger beneath his cool exterior. Lily was baiting him, like she always did. She thrived on seeing him unravel, on turning him into the villain villain in her twisted version of events.

"And look," she added, her eyes sliding over to me. "You even brought her, the nobody. How quaint."

My anger flared, but I swallowed it down. I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Not here. Not now.

"Enough," Grandpa interjected, his voice sharp. "I didn't invite you here to bicker like children. I invited you because I want us to sit down and have a meal together, like a family. Is that so much to ask?"

Lily's laugh was bitter, almost venomous. "Family? You call him family?"

Grandpa sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off a headache. "Yes, Lily, he is family."

She scoffed, her voice thick with disgust. "I'm sorry but I refuse to be related to a psychotic killer."

"Lily, stop," Grandpa tried, his tone edging toward warning, but she wasn't listening. Her eyes drifted to his. "What's next, huh? Who are you planning to kill this time? Me? Grandpa? Or maybe your wife," she laughed. "Oh, never mind that, she must already be dead inside for her to have settled for a creep like you."

My heart sank as her words sliced through the room, but before I could say anything, Tristan stepped forward, face dark and jaw tight. "You better shut that dirt hole you call a mouth."

Lily shot up from her chair, eyes blazing. "Or what?"

Just as Tristan was about to surge forward, Grandpa's cane came down hard against the floor, the loud crack reverberating through the room. "That's enough!" His voice was sharp, the weight of authority freezing both of them in their tracks. "I will not have this nonsense under my roof!"

Lily's posture relaxed slightly, but her mouth twisted in a sneer. "You should've told me," she muttered, quieter but no less cutting. "I wouldn't have wasted my time coming here if I'd known they were involved."

Grandpa shook his head slowly, disappointment clear in his eyes. "Lily, this attitude of yours is exactly why I didn't tell you. I wanted to give us a chance to be together—to heal as a family. But all you've done is drive a wedge deeper."

"I'm not the one driving wedges," she snapped. "I'm just calling things like they are. I mean, how long are we supposed to keep pretending like he's the golden child? Because that ship sailed a long time ago. He did kill a man, you know, not just any man, he killed his own cou—"

"Lily," Grandpa's voice cut through her words. This time, his voice was hard and his eyes leveled hers with a stern look. "Enough."

For a moment, she looked like she might say more, but she relented, sighing dramatically before muttering. "Whatever."

Grandpa straightened, his gaze moving between the two of them. "I invited you all here because we are family, like it or not," he said firmly. "And we will sit down for this meal. Together. Now sit."

The command in his voice left no room for debate.

With an exaggerated huff, Lily sank back into her chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Let's just get this over with."

Tristan hesitated, his eyes still locked on Lily. The tension in his body didn't ease and for a second I feared he might do something rash.

"Tristan," I called softly, reaching for his arm.

His anger hadn't dissipated, but for a moment, his gaze softened as he looked at me.

I gave him a small smile, though I wasn't sure what it meant, but it seemed to do the trick because he pushed his chair out and sat.

Relieved, I followed, sliding into the chair next to him.

This was going to be a long, long day.