Page 47 of Sweet Sinners
And then Anna lingers at my door, uncertain.
I glance up, taking in her tense posture, the way she's twisting her hands. "What's wrong?"
She bites her lower lip, clearly wrestling with something before finally stepping inside. "I heard about Connor."
"Yeah." I don’t look up from my paperwork. "What about him?"
She hesitates again, then blurts out what's clearly been gnawing at her. "Aren’t you afraid he’ll hurt you too?"
My pen stops, my heart stuttering in my chest. Slowly, deliberately, I raise my gaze to meet hers. "No, Anna." My voice is quiet but firm, the edge sharp enough to warn her to drop it. "Connor didn’t do it. And once this chaos settles, I’m going to prove exactly who did."
She’s quiet for a moment, something uncertain flickering across her face. Then she exhales sharply, stepping closer to my desk. "Cali, it’s just—" She pauses, her voice dropping lower. "You’re taking on so much. Running the company, dealing with crisis after crisis, looking out for Connor because he can’t leave the property, and now you’re talking about hunting down a killer? Aren’t you worried you’ll burn yourself out? Or worse—what happens if you actually find them? What if they decide to come after you next?"
The question settles heavy between us, a dark, unspoken truth.
Anna pushes forward softly, her eyes filled with concern. "I get it. You want justice. I respect that. But digging around in your father’s past might stir up things you’re not prepared to see. Things you can't unlearn." Her voice softens further. "Are you really ready for that?"
I hold her stare, a familiar ache building in my chest. "I have to be."
Anna studies me quietly for another beat, then nods slowly. "All right. Just promise me you'll be careful."
Then she turns, leaving the room silent and heavy in her wake.
I sink back in my chair, dragging my hand over my face, when my phone buzzes on the desk, lighting up with Connor’s name.
Connor:
You're only one person, Miss CEO. It's okay to let someone help. It's not that hard.
Me:
Maybe. But trusting others means letting go of control, and I'm not great at that.
Don't pretend you are either.
I laugh softly, tiredly, shaking my head at the screen.
Chapter twenty-three
Connor
Ifumblewiththeingredients,my fucked-up finger turning every task into a Herculean effort. The simplest motions, gripping a knife, twisting open a jar, become a battle I’m barely winning.
Prison flashes through my mind, uninvited. Every corner was a threat, every closed door a promise of violence, unless it was my own cell door. I’d never been so grateful for steel bars. Lately, I wonder if zoo animals feel the same way. If they find some twisted comfort in knowing the bars keep the real predators out, that the people on the other side can only watch, take pictures, throw peanuts. Not that it makes captivityany better.
The guys who wanted to fuck me up would stroll past my cell, their eyes brimming with malice, waiting to catch me close enough to shank. They’d taunt me, promise they’d get me before trial, because rich boys always slip through the cracks of justice.
I’d be dead if it weren’t for Dante.
The yard, the cafeteria, the work detail, he was there. He convinced the guards to pair us up, kept me from walking blind into an ambush. He taught me to keep my head up instead of down, to watch, to move like I had a right to be there. And when he saw what fighting did for me, how it burned the fear out of my system, he made sure I got more of it. Fights made him money, and they made me feel free. It worked for everyone, until it didn’t. Until I hit too hard. Until my opponent didn’t wake up.
I inhale slowly, forcing the memory back down.
My hand drifts to my lower back, fingers absently tracing the scar just above my kidney, a breath away from where the shiv stopped. Four attempts. Four shallow punctures. Not deep enough to kill, just enough to make me understand. I never sought revenge in the ring, but I learned. I learned that weakness would bury me, that if I wanted to survive, I had to fight like I meant to.
It was the only reason I walked out of that place alive.
The sound of the door clicking shut yanks me back. I turn, catching the wary gaze of one of the maids. She lingers just a second too long, eyes full of something—hesitation, maybe distrust—before she scurries off like I’m something to be avoided. Like I don’t belong here.
