Page 52 of Sweet Sinners
Connor
Inthedaysthatfollow, I see the full force of Cali’s determination. She isn’t just keeping control, she’s commanding it. When she’s on a work call, her eyes blaze with unwavering fire, her voice sharp and measured, each syllable a weapon she wields with surgical precision.
She’s not the kind to raise a fist. If she had to take someone down, she’d do it with strategy, with pressure applied at just the right moment. If she were the type to resort to violence, it wouldn’t be some messy outburst, it’d be poison, slow and undetectable. And she’d get away with it, flawlessly.
Not that she ever would. Cali is too ethical for that. Tooprecise.
But she carries herself with the kind of power that makes people fold, makes the world bend to her will.
Like theAngel’s Trumpetin the greenhouse, stunning, delicate-looking, but toxic if you don’t know how to handle it. People are drawn to her, intoxicated before they realize just how much danger they’re in. She doesn’t have to threaten. She doesn’t have to scream. One word, one glance, and she’s already made up her mind, already sealed someone’s fate.
It’s beautiful.
And maybe a littleterrifying.
“I made it clear those reports were due on my desk today, along with the investigation notes… No, Monday won’t cut it. When I label something a top priority, I mean it. Make it happen… Yes, that means overtime is required. If those documents aren’t waiting for me first thing, we’ll have a serious discussion, or you can justify to the legal team why we’re lagging on critical evidence.”
Her voice is like steel, every word precise, every demand calculated. She doesn’t raise her tone; she doesn’t need to. There’s something about the way she speaks—controlled, unwavering—that makes her impossible to argue with.
I start toward the kitchen, but catch her gripping her phone tighter, knuckles white. She inhales deeply, exhales slowly, and when she finally looks at me, there’s no surprise in her expression. Just that sharp, piercing gaze.
“You,” she states flatly.
I lift my hands in mock surrender. “What did I do now? I haven’t touched the glass.”
She exhales sharply, crossing her arms as her gaze pins me in place. “I need people like you at the office—people who don’t need to be babysat, who just handle shit without excuses or half-assed effort.” Shetilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You don’t wait for someone else to fix a problem. You see it, you deal with it. No whining, no delays. I don’t think everyone gets that.”
Her voice drops lower, more controlled, like she’s weighing every word before she says it. “Maybe they assume I’ll just clean up their mess, pick up the slack when they fall short. But they’re wrong.” A slow, deliberate pause. “Because if they can’t do their job, I’ll find someone who can.”
She holds my gaze, unwavering.
Something tightens in my chest. I don’t know if it’s the way she looks at me when she says it, like she means me specifically, or if it’s the fact that I actually fucking like hearing it.
How could anyone doubt her as CEO? She’s a force. If she hadn’t been thrown into this role, she would’ve fought her way to the top anyway, carving a path with sheer will. It’s impossible to look away, watching her like this—watching the way she maneuvers, commands, makes the corporate world fall in line like it’s just another battlefield she was born to dominate.
I smirk, pushing past whatever the hell is twisting in my chest. “I guess I better start on dinner before you replace me in the kitchen too.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts. I follow the flicker of hesitation in her eyes as she glances toward the foyer—toward the door—then down at my ankle. Her posture shifts, softens, just slightly, like she’s just remembered something she wishes she could forget.
“What?” I press, watching the change in her expression.
She hesitates again, then sighs, rubbing her temple. “I wanted us to go somewhere tonight. I even picked out a place, but I forgot…” Her voice trails off as she gestures toward the ankle monitor, frustration flashing across her face. “Why do you even still have that?”
I freeze.
A cold weight settles in my stomach, a slow, creeping dread I can’t shake.
Is this the moment? The part where I tell her what I had to do to survive in that hellhole?
I could. I could tell her about the fights, about what they made me do, about how, in there, survival wasn’t about innocence or guilt, but about how many bones you were willing to break before someone broke yours. I could tell her about Dante, about how he kept me alive, about how I repaid him in the only way I could.
I could tell her.
But then I think about the way she looked at me that first night back. The suspicion. The fear. The way she saw me as something monstrous.
I don’t ever want to see her look at me like that again.
Not when, for the first time, she’s looking at me like this—like I’m something steady, something familiar. The person she comes home to. The one who has dinner ready for her when she’s too exhausted to function.
