Page 22 of Sweet Sinners
Holding their stares, I force my voice steady. "I'm managing just fine. I understand exactly what's at stake. Trust me—I'm not here to play."
They wait, expecting hesitation, maybe even defeat. But I offer nothing but cool, quiet confidence.
After a deliberate pause, I add, "The title may be new, but my perspective isn't. I'm here to learn from all of you—and perhaps you'll learnfrom me."
One shifts slightly, just enough to let me know I’ve landed a blow. It isn't respect—not yet—but I’ve caught his attention.
Good. It’s a start.
The elevator doors open smoothly, and I step out, throwing casually over my shoulder, "A stronger company means better benefits. Flexible hours. More family time. Maybe even longer vacations."
The subtle reminder lands exactly as intended, aligning their self-interest firmly with mine.
When I get home, there’s an unfamiliar ease in my chest. For the first time since stepping into my father's shoes, I feel like I might actually be able to breathe.
And then, without thinking, I almost call out for him.
The realization punches me hard, stopping me cold.
My fingers curl tightly around the strap of my bag as I breathe through the sudden ache.He’s gone, Cali. You're on your own.
I lean heavily against the door, eyes closed, waiting for the sting behind my eyelids to fade.
God, what I wouldn't give for one more conversation. To tell him I'm figuring it out. That I'm doing things my own way, leading through trust, not fear or control.
Because I don’t just want power. Or success.
I want loyalty.
Not the kind you can buy or intimidate into submission.
I want the kind that sticks, the kind worthfightingfor.
Pushing away from the door, I drift toward the kitchen, the scent of something unexpectedly…good filling my senses. Warm, rich, curling around me like an invitation I’m not sure I should accept.
I stop short.
Connor?
There’s no one else here. The staff had the day off—I’d made sure of that. They needed a break, and I craved the silence. Coming home to an empty house, I’d planned on grilled cheese or toast—something mindless and easy.
But this?
This smells like effort. Like patience. Like someone actually gave a damn. My brows draw together as I step closer, confusion pressing down on me as heavily as the silence in the room.
Did he…cook?
I hesitate at the threshold of the kitchen, cautiously intrigued. Three years in prison—is that long enough to learn more than just how to get into trouble?
Then another thought creeps in, whispering in the back of my mind like a snake in the shadows.
He wouldn’t poison me…would he?
I swallow hard, my stomach knotting slightly. He wouldn’t. He needs me alive, he’d said it himself. But as I slide onto a stool at the island, staring down at the carefully plated meal, doubt trickles through me, slow and toxic.
It smells incredible—warm, savory, and so inviting that my stomach twists with hunger.
Slowly, carefully, I pick up my spoon.
