Chapter 205: THE LIVING ROOM STORM

CHAPTER 205: THE LIVING ROOM STORM

No, no," I reply immediately, shaking my head before he can even finish the thought. My voice comes out too fast, too defensive. "I'm not doubting you, baby. I just... well, I don't know. I think I know my sister better than you. It’s definitely going to take longer than that." I take a breath, watching his faint smirk. "When she hates someone, when she’s decided not to have anything to do with them, that’s just how she is. She locks in. There’s no reasoning with her once she’s there."

Tristan chuckles, his laugh low and deep, a sound that both disarms and irritates me at the same time. "You know," he says, sliding his hands into his pockets, "I can be persuasive when I want to be. But why don’t we go and test that theory right now?"

I blink up at him, disbelief crawling through me. He’s serious. His grin proves it.

"What?" I say, pulling slightly away from him, eyes widening. He just smiles that easy, confident smile that always gets him what he wants.

"She could be in the living room, right?" he says casually, as if this is some sort of friendly drop-by instead of walking straight into a thunderstorm. "Let’s go over and meet her. We could talk."

I scoff, crossing my arms. "Talk? With what she just saw? With that look on her face a few minutes ago? Tristan, she’s probably plotting your execution right now. I doubt she wants to have any kind of conversation with you."

He frowns, though there’s still amusement lingering in his eyes. "You really, really underestimate people, Gloria. Come on, let’s go."

Before I can argue, he catches my hand and starts tugging me out of the study. I resist half-heartedly, dragging my feet as we move down the hall. My pulse races, dread twisting my stomach into tight knots. Oh my God, I think, this is going to turn out so bad. He has no idea what he’s walking into. But there’s no stopping him—Tristan has decided, and once he’s decided, the world might as well rearrange itself around him.

Moments later, we step into the living room.

Annabelle sits on one of the sofas, her back straight, her legs crossed sharply, typing furiously into her phone. Even from here, I can feel the fury radiating off her like heat from a flame. It’s suffocating, that invisible force that fills the room, wrapping around everything. My sister’s anger has always been terrifying, but when it’s directed at me? It’s nuclear. It’s like staring at a storm that’s already torn the roof off your house.

I hate seeing her like this. Her fury isn’t loud—it’s contained, simmering, dangerous. Her silence says more than any scream ever could. I brace myself, because I know what’s coming.

The moment she hears our footsteps, her head turns slowly, mechanically, like she’s winding herself up to face us. Tristan doesn’t pause; he keeps leading me forward toward the nearest sofa. His hand is still wrapped around mine, warm and steady. I want to pull away—God, I need to pull away—but he doesn’t give me the chance. His grip tightens slightly, protective or defiant, I can’t tell which.

Annabelle’s eyes drop to our hands. I see it, the flicker of rage that sparks there, sharp and unmistakable. A chill races up my spine. My pulse spikes. Oh my God, I think, things are about to explode.

Tristan clears his throat, still trying to play it cool. He glances around at the sofa, then back at her, flashing that calm, charming smile of his. "Oh, so... um, hello, Annabelle," he says, like we’ve just bumped into her at brunch.

Her eyes narrow, blazing red with fury, though she says nothing. The silence stretches too long, thick and oppressive.

Tristan keeps going, his tone light, almost playful. "So, I was just thinking about something. Do you think I’m welcome to sit down on your sofa? In your home?"

Her frown deepens, her entire face tightening, her jaw clenching visibly. The way she stares at him—God—it’s like she’s trying to hold back a scream. I can see the pulse in her neck, the twitch of her fingers, the restraint it’s taking for her not to hurl something across the room.

Tristan chuckles again, raising his hands slightly. "Ooookaaay, yeah, right, noted. I’m not welcome. Got it." His sarcasm drips like honey, too smooth, too smug.

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh, but the absurdity of the whole thing hits me. This man is either brave or suicidal. I drop my head, staring at my knees, trying to hide the shaking of my shoulders.

He leans closer, whispering just enough for me to hear. "Yep. Definitely going to take a year to settle this one."

I lose it. I burst out laughing before I can stop myself. The sound bursts from me in a small, helpless explosion, and I slap my hand over my mouth too late. Oh my God, Gloria, I scold myself. What are you doing?

I try to smother the laugh, but it only comes out muffled, shaking my shoulders harder. I glance up, and there’s Annabelle, her face blank but her eyes—God, those eyes. They’re stabbing straight through me. The frown she gives me is deep and cutting, and I know exactly what that look means: Why the hell are you laughing right now?

I force myself to stop, pressing my lips tight. Push yourself, Gloria. Fucking push yourself, I chant silently. I have to hold it together, but it’s so hard. Tristan’s smirk, his ridiculous timing—it’s killing me. But one look from my sister and I know I’m hanging by a thread.

She stares at me, her expression unreadable for a moment, then her lips part. Her face twists with something between disbelief and disgust. She runs her fingers through her hair, pacing a slow, dangerous line.

"God, I can’t believe this," she mutters. Her voice is low at first, then sharpens like a blade. The sound slices through the room.

Then her gaze snaps back to me, full force. She rises suddenly, the motion quick, violent. The sharpness of it makes both me and Tristan flinch. For a second, it’s like the entire air gets sucked out of the room. Her presence fills the space, commanding, dangerous.

Tristan stiffens beside me. I glance at him and almost laugh again, because for the first time since I’ve known him, he actually looks nervous. Really nervous. The man who always knows what to say, how to move, how to manipulate his way through anything—now he looks like a schoolboy caught cheating. His eyes dart between us, his mouth parting slightly, unsure.

It’s absurdly human, seeing him like this. His charm, his arrogance—all of it just collapses.

Annabelle snaps her fingers sharply, making me jump. "Hey, you," she says, her voice slicing through the tension.

I blink. "What?"

"Right now," she says, her tone sharp and final, like an order. Then she turns and walks briskly toward the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor.

I freeze for half a second, my stomach sinking. Oh my God, I think. I am so screwed.

Slowly, I turn to look at Tristan. He meets my gaze, then sighs heavily, raking his fingers through his hair. His expression is a mix of amusement and worry.

"So," he says slowly, trying to sound casual, "I think that’s my cue to... put on my armor."

I stare at him. "Is that supposed to be encouraging?" My voice wavers with nerves.

He chuckles, the sound low and breathy. "Nah. She’s your sister. She can’t kill you. But honestly, I think it’s better you go than me. She might actually murder me if I walk in there."

I can’t help it—I laugh again, this time quieter, but no less genuine. I cover my mouth quickly, shaking my head. The tension breaks just slightly, a thin crack of light in the chaos.

Then I glance up and freeze.

Annabelle is standing at the edge of the hallway, her silhouette framed by the soft light from the other rooms. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes locked on me. There’s something dangerous about her calmness now, the kind of silence that comes before an explosion. My laughter dies instantly. My chest tightens.

She doesn’t say a word. She just stands there, watching.

And I know—this is far from over.