Page 17 of Sweet Sinners
My jaw tightens, his use of my full name slicing through my defenses like a blade. He always says it with a quiet authority, as if he’s reminding me exactly who has the upper hand here.
“It’s none of your business,” I snap, forcing myself not to look him in the eye.
“It is when it affects this house,” he counters sharply. “You’re the CEO now. If you unravel, it takes everyone down with you.”
A bitter laugh slips from my throat. “Now suddenly you care about the family legacy? Worried I might ruin your cozy little hideout?”
His eyes darken, intensity flaring. “Don’t twist this around, Cali. If you’re pissed at the assholes on that board, go take it out on them, not me. I’m not your fucking punching bag.”
His words hit me hard, my anger fracturing just enough to let vulnerability slip through. I hate him for being right, for seeing through the cracks I’ve desperately tried to hide.
“I’m not falling apart,” I whisper, but the conviction isn’t there.
He steps forward, invading my space until I can’t escape the intensity in his gaze. “Then why do you look like you’re barely holding it together?”
I can’t breathe, the walls closing in as he stares straight through every barrier I’ve carefully built. My throat tightens painfully, and before I can stop myself, the truth spills out—messy, raw, and unfiltered. “They don’t respect me,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “All the board sees is my father’s shadow. I’m just a placeholder until someone better comes along. And maybe…maybe they’re right.”
Something shifts in his expression, that harshness softening just enough to leave me exposed. I turn away quickly, pulse racing, unwilling to confront whatever truth lingers behind those eyes.
“You’re wrong,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence like a razor. Firm. Unyielding. Daring me to challenge him.
I let out a bitter laugh, crossing my arms over my chest. "What makes you so sure? You’ve been here for what, five minutes? You don't even like me."
His lips twitch, but it's not a smile. It's darker, sharper, more dangerous. "I don't need to like you to see what's right in front of me, Calliope."
The way he says my full name twists something deep in my chest, but I push it down, raising my chin defiantly. "Enlighten me, then. Tell me exactly what you see."
He steps closer, every movement deliberate, eyes fixed on mine with a fierce intensity. "I see someone who's smart. Someone stronger than she pretends to be. Someone who gives a damn about this place even when it doesn't deserve her." His voice drops to a rough whisper. "And if they can't recognize that, they're the fools, not you."
His words hit deeper than I'm prepared for, slicing through layers of carefully constructed armor. My throat tightens, but I fight to keep my composure. "You don't know what you're talking about," I mutter.
Connor moves in closer, closing the distance until he's nearly pressed against me. His presence fills every inch of space between us, the air charged with something heavy and dangerous. "Don't I?" he murmurs, his voice low, rough, holding secrets I don't want to uncover. "I see you clearer than you think."
I shake my head, stepping back instinctively, only for my spine to meet the hard edge of the counter. Trapped. "Why do you even care?" I snap, my voice wavering with frustration and somethingelse.
He leans in, invading my space, the heat of his body a tangible force. "Because whether you like it or not, we're stuck here together," he growls, frustration threading through his tone like silk over steel. "And dealing with your attitude is easier than facing the ghosts haunting these halls alone."
My heart pounds wildly, pulse echoing in my ears. He's too close, his scent, the intensity in his eyes, the way he watches me like he sees right through me.
"Maybe you're the one who's stuck," I throw back, grasping for control. "You're the one chained to this place. You're the one wearing that goddamn ankle monitor. Don’t pretend this house isn't just another prison for you."
His jaw tightens, a flicker of something raw crossing his features before melting into a slow, dangerous smirk. "You're right," he says softly, stepping so close I can feel his breath against my cheek. "It is a prison. But you're the one who keeps coming back to my cell."
My breath catches, his words landing like a blow, knocking the air from my lungs. The tension coils tight between us, stretching like a wire pulled to its limit, ready to snap at any moment. I hate that he's right. Hate that I keep stepping closer, keep letting him get under my skin.
“You don't know anything about me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, almost hoping he doesn't hear.
But he does.
Connor lifts his hand slowly, fingers reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from my cheek. The touch is feather-light, softer than I ever imagined possible from him, almost reverent. My pulse spikes, myheartbeat suddenly a fierce rhythm in my ears. His fingertips linger just long enough to scorch my skin, heat trailing behind his touch, leaving a mark even as he pulls away.
“Maybe not,” he murmurs, voice low and thick, layered with something dark and complicated I don't want to unravel. His eyes hold mine, intense and unflinching, like he's digging for truths I haven't even admitted to myself yet. “But I'm starting to.”
His words hit deeper this time, tightening my chest painfully, unraveling parts of myself I've buried so carefully beneath layers of control.
Just as quickly as it happened, he steps back, dropping his hand and leaving my skin tingling, colder for his absence. I take a shaky breath, trying to find my footing again, feeling as if he's stolen something from me that I didn't mean to give.
Then, like a switch flipping, he smirks—slow, lazy, infuriatingly self-assured. “Dinner’s on me,” he says casually, dismissing the tension like the last minute never happened.
