"It's not often we get to sit down together like this." Grandpa declared as he took his seat at the head of the table, smiling warmly at all of us. "I've had the chef prepare a special meal for us," he added, turning to Tristan. "Something traditional, like your mother used to make, Tristan."

Tristan said absolutely nothing. He just sat there with his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might fuse together.

Cue the awkward silence. And, right on schedule, the maids appeared, their timing impeccable, as if they had sensed the tension from the kitchen. Plates were set down in front of us with the kind of grace reserved for royal banquets. The lavish spread of food seemed almost ridiculous given the circumstances, like it belonged to another, more functional family, not one that was one passive-aggressive comment away from imploding.

I cut a glance at Tristan. Yep, still stiff as a board. Meanwhile, Lily—sitting across from me—wasn't even pretending to care. She completely checked out, glued to her phone like it was her lifeline to a much better world, one where this dinner didn't exist.

The sound of silverware scraping plates became the evening's soundtrack, every clink and clatter practically a scream for help. We all began to eat, but it felt more like we were just going through the motions, none of us daring to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Or the fact that there was a whole herd of them.

At some point, Grandpa leaned forward with a smile that had a little too much effort behind it. "So, Lily," he started, his voice carrying that familiar warmth he always used when he was trying to diffuse a situation. "How's that modeling thing going? The one you've been chasing? I hear it's quite a prestigious opportunity."

Lily barely looked up from her plate, and when she did, it was with all the enthusiasm of someone forced to sit through a two-hour PowerPoint presentation. "It's fine," she said crossly, stabbing a piece of asparagus a little harder than necessary. "Nothing's confirmed yet, but I'm not holding my breath."

Grandpa nodded. "Well, I'm sure they'll come around. You've got the talent and the drive, just like your mother."

Lily didn't even bother with a shrug. She was clearly done with this conversation before it had even started.

Silence crept back over the table, the kind that felt both a relief and unbearably heavy at the same time.

Then Grandpa's gaze shifted toward me, his smile gentler now. "And you, Sienna?" he asked warmly. "What's new with you?"

I sat up a little straighter and cleared my throat. "Well, actually, I just landed a new job," I said, trying to keep my voice light and breezy. "It's a step up, and I'm pretty excited about it."

Grandpa's smile widened. "A new job, eh? That's exciting! What is it, then? Something glamorous?"

I gave a small, nervous laugh. "Not exactly glamorous," I said, glancing at Tristan out of the corner of my eye. His jaw tightened again, but I pushed through. "I'll be working as an auxiliary nurse at a city hospital. It's mainly volunteer work but I'm just happy to be contributing to the society."

Grandpa's face lit up, genuinely pleased. "That's wonderful, Sienna. Such a noble profession. I'm so proud of you."

I smiled weakly at him, appreciating the genuine praise, but I could feel the tension from Tristan beside me like a lead weight on my chest. "Thank you, Grandpa. Sadly, not everyone shares that sentiment. Tristan here thinks it's a waste of time."

Grandpa's eyebrows shot up, intrigued. "Is that so?"

Tristan bristled. "It's not that I think her sudden corporate pursuit is a waste of time," he started, the words stiff and a little defensive. "I just think it's unnecessary."

I shot him a look, barely able to keep the irritation from my voice. "Unnecessary?"

He turned to me. "Yes, unnecessary. I just don't see why you would enjoy working long hours in some overcrowded, understaffed hospital for barely any money. We're doing fine—better than fine. You don't have to exhaust yourself in some job when you could—"

"When I could what?" I interrupted, my voice rising just a notch. "Stay home and watch soap operas all day? Knit? Bake pies? Not everything is about money, Tristan. I'm happy. Isn't that what's supposed to matter?"

He shook his head, his jaw clenched. "I'm just saying you don't need to take on extra stress. You've been through enough."

"I'll decide when I've been through enough." I countered.

Tristan sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "See, this is her problem," he turned to Grandpa. "She never listens to me."

Affronted, I snapped, pointing my fork at him like a sword. "I don't listen? If there's anyone in this relationship who doesn't listen, it's you!"

Grandpa, to my complete and utter surprise, was loving this. He sat back in his chair, chuckling like we were the best show he'd seen in years. "Tristan, let the girl work. It's good for her."

I shot a smug look at Tristan. "See? Grandpa agrees. Case closed."

His groan sounded like that of a disgruntled teenager. "Whatever," he muttered, shoving a piece of asparagus into his mouth.

Grandpa laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, don't be such a sourpuss. Trust me, son, when she gets pregnant, she'll have plenty to keep her busy. She won't need a job then!"

His spontaneous words hit me like an ice bath, and just like that, I froze along the rest of the room.

Dead silence.

It was like someone hit the pause button on life.

Tristan stiffened beside me, his face turning a strange shade of pale, and even Lily—who had been casually stabbing her salad—suddenly perked up like someone had just switched the TV to the drama channel.

Noticing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, Granpa laughed awkwardly and waved a hand. "I'm just teasing! Just a joke, don't get so worked up."

I forced a laugh, though it came out more like a strangled hiccup. "Yeah... hilarious, Grandpa."

Tristan, however, was as still as a statue, staring at his plate like it held the secrets of the universe.

Grandpa cleared his throat. "Well, let's not let the food get cold, shall we? Eat up."

"Right," I muttered, picking up my fork again. "Let's just... eat."

With no other option, we all awkwardly returned to our meals, pretending the last thirty seconds of pure discomfort hadn't just happened. Grandpa tried once more to break the ice. "The roast is quite good, don't you think?" he said, offering a weak smile in my direction.

I nodded, though the taste barely registered. "It's delicious."

"Mmm," Tristan muttered, though I doubted he even heard the question. He hadn't taken more than a few bites, still too tense to relax.

Lily, true to form, barely touched her food, pushing it around the plate as if it were a chore. Her earlier fire had dulled into cold indifference, and the rest of lunch passed in near silence, broken only by the occasional attempt from Grandpa to fill the void.

It wasn't until the plates had been cleared and we were sitting around the remnants of dessert that Grandpa, seemingly still restless, decided to bring up something that had clearly been on his mind.

"Tristan," he began, his tone shifting to something more serious, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

Tristan's gaze flicked up, guarded. "What is it?"

Grandpa leaned back in his chair, his cane resting beside him. "It's about your father's inheritance. You haven't touched a dime of it. Not the money, not the properties... nothing. It's just sitting there, collecting dust."

For a second, Tristan didn't respond. He seemed to weigh his words before speaking. "I've been... busy."

Grandpa's brow lifted incredulously. "Busy?"

"Yes," he replied stiffly. "Busy."

A frown etched deep into Grandpa's face. "That inheritance is your birthright—your father's blood, sweat, and tears. He built it for you, left it for you. You can't just ignore it like it's meaningless. Busy or not, you owe him that."

Tristan groaned. "I never said I wouldn't utilize it. Right now, I have my own company to run. The inheritance... it's not my focus."

Grandpa's tone grew pressing. "And when will it be? When will you finally have the time for it?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Tristan's hands balled into fists. "I said I don't know, alright?" he snapped. "I've got enough on my damn plate as it is. The inheritance can wait. I never wanted it in the first place."

Grandpa's gaze hardened. "Then why fight so hard to get it?" His voice lowered, brimming with intensity. "You made sure it was passed to you, didn't you? You could've walked away."

The room held its breath, waiting for Tristan's response. For a moment, it seemed like he might answer, but before he had the chance to speak, Lily, who had been unnervingly quiet throughout the conversation, suddenly interjected.

"Because he's a selfish bastard, that's why."

Everyone's heads snapped toward her.

"Poor Tristan," she drawled, casually twirling her fork in her hand. "So burdened by the family fortune. Must be tough." She stabbed the fork into her cheesecake so forcefully it spewed across the table. "Spare me the tortured anti-hero act and be honest with yourself. You fought for that inheritance because you despised Dad, because you so desperately wanted to watch everything he ever worked for decay and crumple to the ground while you built yours."

"Lily," Grandpa warned, his voice tight with frustration, but the look in her eyes told me she wasn't finished—not by a long shot. She snatched a napkin, wiping her hands clean. "We all know the truth, but we dance around it like cowards. Tristan doesn't give a damn about this family. He only cares about himself."

Grandpa shot her another sharp look. "Lily, this isn't the time."

"Oh, don't give me that look," She spat, slapping the napkin harshly on the table. "You know what, it sickens me to my stomach how you can sit here and laugh with these people."

"Lily, we—"

"Alaric is dead!" She suddenly blurted. "He's freaking lying six feet under somewhere because your golden grandson shot him full of holes!"

I froze, my eyes darting to Tristan. He barely looked up at her but I could feel the change in him, the way his posture hardened.

"No one talks about it," Lily pushed, her chest rising and falling as though she could barely contain the storm brewing inside her. "No one admits the truth. Alaric is dead because of you, Tristan. And then you just... moved on, like it didn't even matter. Like none of us mattered."

Tristan's voice, when it finally came, was low and tight. "I didn't kill Alaric on purpose, Lily, it was self-defense."

Lily's laugh was a sharp, bitter bark. "Is that what you told the cops?"

"That's how it happened," he growled, staring her down.

"Of course, that's what you'd say," she sneered. "You're great at pretending, aren't you? Just like you pretended everything was fine after Mom died. Or better yet—after you killed her too."

The blow landed hard. Tristan flinched, his mask of composure slipping. I could see the pain flash across his face, raw and unguarded.

"How do you live with yourself?" She pressed. "How do you even sleep at night, knowing you destroyed the one person who believed in you? The one who loved you? And now you walk around pretending like you're this tortured soul, acting like none of it was your fault but you've always been a disaster waiting to happen. You wrecked this family, and somehow everyone lets you believe it wasn't all on you. But it is."

The scrape of her chair against the floor was violent as she shoved it back and stood. "Do you know what I really wish?"

The way she looked at him in that moment—it was like a dam of bitterness and pain had finally burst. Years of anguish poured from her eyes. "I wish it had been you instead of Alaric."

"Lily!" Grandpa's voice cracked like a whip. "Take that back, right now!"

But she didn't flinch, didn't even blink. She just stood there, chest heaving, her fists curled into a tight ball. "I wish you were the one buried six feet under, rotting in the ground. Do us all a favor, Tristan, and just die."

Grandpa shot to his feet, face flushed with rage. "Liliana Larsen, what the hell is wrong with you?!"

Lily turned to him. Her eyes were so red I thought she might cry. "What's wrong with me?" She swept the room, taking in the silence. "This family is what's wrong with me. I'm done."

Without another glance, she turned on her heel and stormed out.

The door slammed behind her like a final gunshot, echoing in the suffocating silence she left behind.

I turned to Tristan. He sat motionless, his breath coming in heavy, ragged bursts, his eyes fixed on the door Lily had just disappeared through. His entire body was rigid, as if he were trying to keep himself from breaking apart completely. It was like he was a dam on the verge of collapse, holding back a torrent of grief, anger, and regret that could no longer be contained.

Grandpa Bernard sighed heavily, sinking back into his chair. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "She's hurting, Tristan. But that doesn't excuse what she said."

Tristan didn't respond. He didn't even seem to register Grandpa's words. His gaze remained locked on the doorway, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His face was a mixture of raw anguish and simmering fury, emotions that stayed hidden behind the walls he had built long ago, walls no one—not even me—had been able to break through yet.

Suddenly, with a loud scrape of wood against the tile, he pushed back his chair and stood.

"Tristan," I called softly. He glanced at me but his expression was unreadable. "I should go," he muttered, his voice low and rough, as though speaking was painful.

Grandpa shook his head gently. "Don't go, Tristan. We can—"

But Tristan didn't wait to hear the rest. He turned on his heel and walked out, following the same path Lily had taken just moments before.

The sound of his footsteps echoed in the hallway, growing fainter until the only thing left was the oppressive silence.

Grandpa let out another weary sigh, pushing his plate away as though he no longer had the appetite for anything. He rubbed his eyes, his age showing more in that moment than I had ever seen. "Stubborn girl," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to me. "Just like her father."

I didn't know what to say. Lily's hatred for Tristan was deeper than I'd realized, and it was clear that her wounds, like Tristan's, weren't going to heal easily—if at all.

"I had hoped things would be different this time," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with disappointment. "That we could finally heal, or at least try."

"Maybe... maybe it was too soon," I offered weakly, knowing it wasn't much of a comfort.

Grandpa shook his head slowly. "It's never too soon for family, Sienna. But the past..." He trailed off, rubbing his temple with a sigh. "The past just holds too tight a grip."

I nodded, though I didn't really know what to say. It wasn't my place to intervene in the years of bitterness between Tristan and Lily, or the complicated legacy their father had left behind. But being caught in the middle of it, seeing Tristan torn apart by ghosts he didn't even want to acknowledge—it was exhausting.

As if reading my mind, Grandpa turned to me with a weary smile. "I'm sorry Sienna, I didn't mean to drag you into this mess of a family."

I shook my head. "It's okay. Family is complicated. I get it."

He gave me a long look, then nodded. "Still, you shouldn't have to be caught between them. I only wanted to have a nice lunch." His voice broke slightly at the end, and it tugged at my heart to see him so defeated.

I reached over and placed a hand on his arm. "We'll figure it out, Grandpa. One way or another."

I felt him relax just a little. He gave me a small nod of gratitude before rising slowly, steadying himself on his cane. "Come," he said, his voice soft but still firm. "Walk with me."

I stood, grateful for something to do, and followed him out of the dining room. We moved through the grand halls of the mansion, the silence between us punctuated only by the steady tap of his cane against the marble floors.

After a few moments, Grandpa spoke again, his tone quieter, almost reflective. "You know, when I was younger, I thought I had all the time in the world to fix things. To make up for my mistakes. But time slips through your fingers before you even realize it's gone." He glanced at me, his eyes carrying the weight of years of regret. "Tristan and Lily... they're not so different, you know. Both of them are lost in their own way, too proud to admit it. But I'm afraid the clock is ticking. They need to find their way before it's too late. I fear I won't be here for long to keep them from tearing each other apart."

I turned sharply. "Don't say that, you're not going anywhere."

He smiled. "Sadly, It's not for you or me to decide." He touched his chest, where his heart rested. "I can feel it. I know."

"Grandpa..."

He chuckled weakly and waved me off. "Promise me one thing, Sienna."

I felt my throat tighten, the pressure of his words settling heavily in my chest. "What is it?"

"Be there for my grandson. Just be there for him. Even when he falls into his pit of despair and tries to push you away, be there. He needs that, he needs a family of his own."

A family...

My hand rested protectively over my stomach.

"Do you think..." I hesitated. "Do you think he'll make a good father?"

Grandpa paused and looked at me. His hands lowered to my fingers caressing my stomach. "Sienna, are you perhaps—"

"Twins," I confessed. "We're having twins."

His eyes widened in surprise. "Heavens! Twins?"

My shoulders sagged. "I still haven't told him."

"I see."

"I'm scared," I admitted. "What if he doesn't want this? What if he's not ready?"

He smiled. "No one is ever truly ready for the role of fatherhood, my dear, But that's the beauty of being human—we learn to embrace the changes that come, even when they terrify us. He might resist now, but trust me, my little boy will come around. And to answer your question; he's a good man. Hesitant and sometimes stubborn but he is a good man and I know for a fact that he will make a great father."

His words hung between us, a bittersweet truth that settled in my chest. I wanted to say something but the air shifted as we rounded the corner and saw Tristan.

He stood at the far end of the hall, his tall frame silhouetted against the soft glow of the setting sun pouring in through the window. His broad shoulders were tense, his back to us, as though the weight of the world rested on him alone.

Grandpa's gentle nudge brought me back to the present. "Go to him," he whispered, his hand warm on my shoulder.

I hesitated, my heart fluttering in my chest as I watched him. "Are you sure?" I asked, my voice barely a murmur. "He looks like he wants to be alone."

Grandpa's eyes softened. "Sometimes, that's when they need you the most. Go to him, Sienna."

Drawing a shaky breath, I nodded and forced myself forward. As I approached, I whispered his name, "Tristan."

He didn't turn, didn't acknowledge me, but I knew he heard. I stopped beside him, my eyes following his to the gardens below. The scene was beautiful—tranquil even. The late afternoon sun bathed the flowers in a golden light, and the fountain shimmered like diamonds in the distance. But amidst all that serenity, I could feel the storm brewing beneath his surface, as if the beauty outside was mocking the chaos within him. I looked at him. "Tristan, you need—"

"In his last moments..." He started, cutting my speech short. "Alaric begged me for his life."

My body stiffened.

"He begged me, Sienna," he continued, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "With tears in his eyes, he pleaded for me to spare him. And I could have—I should have. He was already broken, barely clinging to life. I could've tied him down, called the cops, done anything else... but I just..." His words trailed off. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

"Oh, Tristan." I could feel the pain radiating from him, the darkness he carried like a second skin. "That's enough."

"I blacked out," he kept going, still refusing to look at me. "I blacked out and shot, and I kept shooting until he was nothing but a lifeless pile before me."

"It's okay...you don't have to talk about it." I whispered, trying to soothe the ache in both of us.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "But I should because I hated him, Sienna. I hated him so much that in that moment, I felt nothing but utter relief. Lily was right. It wasn't self-defense, I... I killed him."

I reached out, gently touching his arm. "You're wrong. It was self-defense, I was there and he was going to kill you. You survived."

He said nothing, just continued to stare out into space.

I gripped him firmly. "Tristan, look at me."

He didn't.

"Tristan," I demanded. "I said look at me."

Finally, he turned to face me, his eyes meeting mine. They were filled with a kaleidoscope of emotions—guilt, anger, sorrow, and something deeper, something fragile. For a moment, I thought he'd pull away, and retreat into the shell he'd built around himself. But instead, he leaned into me, burying his face in my neck.

His warmth washed over me, and I wrapped my arms around his waist, holding him close, as if I could protect him from the shadows in his own heart.

"Am I a monster, Sienna?" he whispered, his voice so small, so vulnerable against the curve of my neck.

I closed my eyes, allowing a tear slip free as I held him tighter. "No," I whispered back, my lips brushing his ear. "An idiot, maybe, but not a monster."

The tension in his body eased just a little. His shoulders sagged. "I don't even know who I am anymore."

I gently pulled back, cupping his face in my hands, "You're Tristan. My stubborn, infuriating, over-protective Tristan."

He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch as though it was the only thing keeping him anchored. "Tell me more," he murmured, his voice a little lighter now.

I smiled through my tears. "You're Tristan Larsen," I whispered. "The man who built empires with nothing but his will and hands, the man who's fierce and relentless, but with a heart as gentle as it is powerful. You're strong, yes, maybe even intimidating at times, but you're also the kindest man I've ever known."

My thumb traced his cheek as I watched the weight of the world lift, piece by piece, from his tense shoulders. "You're the man who protects what he loves, who fights with everything he has and never gives up. You're a warrior, Tristan, a survivor. And I love you for all of it—for every scar, every imperfect, beautiful piece."

His eyes fluttered open, finding mine, and in that gaze was a tenderness that made my heart melt. "Do you really mean all that?"

I nodded. "Fuck what your little shit for a sister said. So what if you have a dark side? I love my men dark and dangerous with a little blood in their hands."

A soft, broken laugh escaped him. "No, you don't."

I chuckled, leaning closer. "I love you, Tristan. Every part of you. Even the parts you try to hide."

His gaze held mine, the unspoken weight between us lifting as something fragile, something real, passed between us. "I believe you," he whispered.

And then, as if the final wall between us had crumbled, he tilted his head and kissed me—softly at first, hesitant, but then with more certainty.

It was a kiss that spoke of all the things we couldn't say, of all the battles we had fought, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, we were done fighting for good.