Page 11 of Sweet Sinners
Not the fleeting, irrational kind of hate that sneaks in late at night, whispering doubts and fears. No, this hatred was deeper—raw, relentless, and etched beneath my skin. Connor wasn’t just a person to me; he was a living symbol, a walking reminder of everything I never wanted but was forced to accept.
He might not have been directly responsible for my father’s death—at least not officially—but he was still the reason I stood here now, trapped in the life I'd never chosen. The heir to my father’s throne, the face of a business empire built on legacy, power, and sacrifice. All of it was suffocating, a burden I despised.
But who else was there?
Papou was growing older, the weight of his age evident in every slowed step, every tired sigh. Yiayia found happiness in simpler moments—her garden, quiet dinners, and stories of a life left behind in Crete. And Connor? He might’ve been sharing our roof, but he was still an outsider. My father would’ve never handed his legacy to someone without our blood.
My gaze flickered to the porcelain dolls lining the shelves, their cold, unblinking eyes fixed straight ahead. At twelve, I'd thought they were beautiful, the embodiment of grace and elegance. Now their lifeless stares unsettled me, reminding me of everything in this house that had gone cold.
I pushed off the covers, sliding to the edge of the bed. Sleep was pointless tonight; it wasn’t coming, not while my mind was still spinning.
The clock on the bedside table glowed softly in the dark: 3:00 AM.
Four hours.
That’s all the time I had left before I’d walk into that building I’d avoided for years, enter the boardroom that had once been forbidden territory, and take my place at the desk that represented my father’s pride and had always been my own private hell.
My throat burned, but water wouldn’t help—not tonight. I needed something stronger. Sliding out of bed, I padded barefoot across the cool floor, heading toward the study. Papou always kept the good stuff there.
I should've stopped after that one glass at dinner, but the bottle was empty now, and I needed more. This was a rabbit hole I swore I'd never fall into again. Dr. Anderson would be disappointed after all the progress we’d made these past few years.
After my father’s murder, alcohol had filled the void he left behind—helped me forget that I was suddenly alone. Anxiety and grief dragged me down until I hit rock bottom. A crash, my car wrapped around a tree back in London. That had been my wake-up call. I refused to become another tragic headline like my parents, like my stepmother.
Walking into my father’s old study—my new office—sent a chill down my spine. Shelves lined with antique books and heirlooms whispered stories of a life that wasn't mine. Stretching onto my toes, I reached for the top shelf, fingertips grazing cool glass. “Gotcha,” I murmured, pulling down the bottle of ouzo.
"Just one more glass," I promised quietly, more to myself than anyone else.
The kitchen felt different at night, quieter, heavier. Grabbing a glass, I set the bottle down on the marble counter—and froze. Sitting at the kitchen island was Connor.
He turned slowly to face me, the faint glow from the range hood catching the amber liquid swirling lazily in his glass. Whiskey, probably.
This house was massive, yet somehow we kept ending up in the same spaces.
His eyes locked on mine, unflinching. It felt like judgment. Like he'd caught me doing something reckless—but he was the last person entitled to judge.
Ignoring him, I poured myself a generous measure of ouzo, the burn sliding down my throat, grounding me.
"What are you staring at?" My voice was harsher than I intended.
I leaned against the counter, pretending his presence didn’t bother me. But it did. He wasn't supposed to be here—in this house, in my life.
The silence dragged until he finally spoke, voice low and rough.
“You're not wearing a bra,” he said, his tone casual, as if pointing out the weather.
My glass froze halfway to my lips. Heat flooded my cheeks, and my pulse quickened. Suddenly I was aware—painfully, frustratingly aware—of my body, of the thin tank top, of him.
“You’re such a—” I started, but the arrogant smirk on his lips stopped me dead.
Connor stood, movements deliberate, confident. He placed his empty glass on the counter between us. “Goodnight, Cali,” he murmured, voice quiet and teasing as he turned and disappeared down the hall.
I stared after him, my pulse still pounding. “Asshole,” I whispered, finishing off the rest of my drink in one burning gulp. The ouzo did nothing to ease the frustration coiled tight in my chest.
Refilling my glass, I leaned against the counter, staring into the shadows. Sleep wouldn’t come now—not with Connor haunting every corner of this house.
"Just two glasses," I whispered again, though it sounded like a lie even to my own ears.
Chapter six
