The Villain's Sister - Chapter 8

I choked on my water at Linda’s comment. She pressed the point.

“But really, is it not true?”

“You might as well just kill me…”

It was so funny I wanted to burst out laughing, but the coughing wouldn’t stop, and my face just kept heating up.

Tristan avoided my eyes as he handed me water. His red face was hilarious.

“Tristan. I’m fine.”

“What is?”

“Anything. No matter who you’ve loved before, I’m the one next to you now.”

“You—seriously…”

His furious gray eyes glared at me.

I gave him a gentle smile and turned to Linda. “Are you knitting a scarf?”

“Yes. I wanted to try making a sweater, but since I’m new to knitting, I thought I’d start with a scarf.”

She showed me the basket of yarn.

Meanwhile, Tristan stepped out to speak with the medical staff and hear more details about Linda’s condition.

“It’s a red scarf, so I think it’ll suit Tristan well.”

“Really? He absolutely hates red. Always chooses those dull colors.”

“That does sound like him. Honestly, we even argued about his outfit before coming here.”

I lied without batting an eye.

“I told him he should at least wear a shirt with a knitted vest, but he was adamant about dressing comfortably.”

Small, plausible lies using realistic details have a way of reinforcing bigger lies, making them feel real.

Thanks to that, I became the girlfriend annoyed by her boyfriend’s sloppy dress sense, and Tristan became the boyfriend sick of nagging.

“But don’t you think that kind of man is nice?”

Linda’s eyes folded gently as she looked at me.

Her eyes, unlike wild-animal-like Tristan’s, were a warm, deep brown, like the base of a Christmas tree.

The kind you’d expect from a mother at the center of a family gathered around a fireplace on a winter day.

Maybe that’s why I suddenly felt uncomfortable.

I started to wonder what the hell I was doing to such a kind person.

“Yes. That’s why I like him.”

“Giselle, how old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“So you’re five years younger than Tristan. A bit young to marry, but it’s also an age when a lot of people do.”

“We’re not thinking about marriage yet…”

“I’m not trying to push you. But if the day comes when you decide to marry, and Tristan is still by your side, and you two end up together… please take good care of him.”

“……”

“I’m only speaking hypothetically, so don’t let it weigh on you. I don’t wish for you to be tied down by marriage when you’re this young and beautiful.”

Linda held my hand.

Her hand, unlike her warm eyes, was completely dry.

Only then did it hit me that she was dying.

This was the hospice ward.

It wouldn’t be strange if she stopped breathing today.

And I was lying to her.

The warmer Linda’s smile grew, the heavier my lie became.

‘I feel like throwing up.’

Whatever the cost of survival is, it turns out it’s this heavy and painful.

To stay alive, Raphael and I need to grow closer to Tristan, and that’s why I’m part of this lie—but I didn’t expect it to feel this wrong from day one.

I forced my lips into a smile.

I just hoped it didn’t look too awkward.

***

“I’ll visit again.”

Before leaving the room, I gave Linda a tight hug.

I thought it might ease my guilt for deceiving her, but feeling her brittle shoulders only made me feel worse.

As soon as I got into Tristan’s car, I leaned my forehead against the window.

My whole body felt drained.

“This is why I hate Langfester Hospital.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“My mom passed away here.”

“Ah.”

Caught off guard, Tristan opened his mouth like he wanted to say something.

It was the first time I’d seen him flustered.

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

“Let’s go eat. I’ll take you home after dinner.”

“…My stomach’s queasy.”

“You were that nervous? What were you thinking, volunteering when you’re such a coward?”

“Don’t you feel bad lying to your mom like that?”

“And you? Were you really that sorry about going along with it?”

“Honestly… a lot. It’s just… deceiving someone so kind and good doesn’t sit right with me.”

And I’m the one telling the biggest lie to this man.

I felt disgusted with myself.

Tristan drove calmly.

He kept his eyes on the road. No words. No intention of speaking.

Regret washed over me.

‘He must feel heavier than I do, so what the hell was I saying?’

The sky turned red between the forest of buildings.

Soon, as the day darkened, the streetlights lining the roads would flicker on.

When darkness falls, the ownership of this city passes to the villains.

They trade illegal weapons, distribute drugs, and corrupt this land through the night.

And in the deepest hour of night, the man beside me appears.

As a hero named Black Pistols.

He will punish evil in the name of justice, and when the mist and morning fog lift, he’ll leave this city behind in the rays of the rising sun.

What remains in that place will be dead Raphael—and me, crying.

So, it’s right to talk to this man next to me, even if only a little, to build some rapport.

But I felt so down, I didn’t have the energy.

After parking on a side street in the bustling district, Tristan got out of the car and said, “I believe that it’s for my mother. Lie or not, at least it gives her peace of mind.”

Bathed in the sunset through the window, Tristan looked strangely forlorn.

While I hesitated outside the car, he went straight into the restaurant and ordered without hesitation after picking a table.

I followed him in and, while waiting for the food, apologized.

“I’m sorry. It’s not like you’re comfortable either, and I was thoughtless.”

“Don’t play both sides. Just eat. How’s your stomach? Think you can eat?”

“I’m fine now.”

“Good. I was about to stop by a pharmacy.”

Tristan began shoving the food he’d ordered into his mouth.

He ate enough for three people by himself.

I suppose with a body that large, he naturally eats a lot.

Raphael is the same.

Back in the special forces, Raphael could eat an entire pizza, two hot dogs, and three steaks in one sitting.

“About your mother… is she sick? You don’t have to answer if you’d rather not.”

“Stage 4 ovarian cancer.”

“My mom died from a cerebral hemorrhage. It was an accident.”

“Car accident?”

I shrugged and twirled pasta around my fork.

“Are you free next weekend?”

“I am. What weekday evening works best for you? I’d like to go on a date.”

“Being popular is exhausting.”

Tristan shook his head.

He probably has no idea how irritating he is.

“Even if I’m handsome, don’t be too aggressive―”

“Wipe that sauce off your mouth before you say stuff like that.”

You’re making me feel pathetic for throwing myself at you.

I sighed and handed him a tissue.

He scrubbed his lips, but sauce still lingered.

I reached out and wiped near his mouth.

In that moment, Tristan’s shoulders stiffened.

His tense, gray eyes locked onto mine.

My fingers brushed his thick lips. Softer than I expected.

I pulled back and wiped my hand clean with a tissue.

Tristan’s face stayed frozen.

I could tell how unfamiliar and flustered he was with physical touch like that.

“Have you seriously never dated a woman before?”

“And what, you have?”

“If I seemed experienced, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Despite being a large, muscular man, he only felt like an annoying boy, so I couldn’t even think of him romantically.

Thanks to that, it was easy to hide the fact I’d never had a proper date.

It’s rare for a man to show interest in a woman who lives with a Death Adder executive.

And not many men would dare face an overprotective and intimidating brother.

‘Raphael would be better off dating and living more normally.’

He works nonstop. And not in a good way.

“So, what day works for you? Monday? Tuesday? Or Friday?”

“Wednesday.”

“Why Wednesday?”

“Because Monday’s Monday, so I need to rest after work. Tuesday, I need time to mentally prepare to see you. Thursday is the day after, so I need to rest, and Friday is Friday.”

“Ah. Were you excited to see me?”

“What are you talking about? You’re a stalker. I have to mentally prepare. Stalking is a dangerous crime, you know.”

Hard to believe that noisy guy is the main character of this world…

A main character is usually kind, sweet, or at least gentlemanly, right?

Tristan Lindbergh’s every word is so annoying it makes me want to smack him in the mouth.

I stomped his foot under the table.

He didn’t even flinch—just chuckled and sipped his drink.

Someday, when I’m in a position above this guy, I won’t forget today’s annoyance and make sure to get my revenge.