Page 67 of Sweet Sinners
The spatula he'd been gripping lies neatly in the sink, and the food he prepared remains untouched, growing cold and forgotten. The silence hangs heavy in the air, mocking me. It's as if he's vanished, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of what almost happened between us.
My eyes dart around the empty space, seeking any trace of him, any lingering sign of the moment we shared—the moment he so swiftly ended.
But there's nothing.
Only silence.
I fix myself a plate, eyes drifting around the kitchen, seeking him out like some lovesick teenager. Pathetic.
No, I'm not pathetic—I'm Calliope Stavros, CEO of one of the world's largest shipping companies. I'm confident, capable, attractive. Desired. And I'm…completely losing it over a man I shouldn't want in the first place.
With a groan, I retreat to my office, doing the only thing I know to clear my head: I write out a list.
Pros and Cons of Kissing Connor
God, this is humiliating. I really am acting like a teenage girl scribbling in her diary.
The pros column fills itself easily. He's attractive—no, that doesn't even cover it. He's magnetic, irresistible. I'm practically vibrating with the need to touch him, to taste him. He'd be good at it. That much is obvious. I can already imagine how perfectly he'd handle me, how quickly he'd take control, how he'd overwhelm me until all I could do is surrender. Maybe one kiss would finally silence the relentless ache that's been building since he came home.
The cons side…fuck. The cons list is like staring into an abyss. If anyone found out, the headlines would write themselves—my reputation shredded, his already damaged name dragged through the mud all over again. He’s still seen as a monster by most of the world, accused of a crime he didn’t commit, and no amount of PR could erase the damage we'd cause.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. What am I even thinking?
I should tear up this stupid list, burn the evidence before I sink even deeper into this mess.
But instead, I glance back at the pros, my eyes lingering on one thought that stands out more than the rest: maybe a kiss is exactly whatwe need. One reckless, heart-stopping kiss to erase this unbearable tension between us.
And if it’s terrible—if he feels nothing at all—I might finally be able to breathe again.
The only way to keep Connor out of my head is to drown myself in work. Maybe the distraction will erase the memory of our near-kiss—of how close I came to crossing a line I shouldn’t even acknowledge. I open my laptop, picking at my cold breakfast as I tick tasks off my to-do list. But it's not long before my focus slips, and I nearly catch myself Googling if "proximity lust" is even a real thing.
It can't be. Because if proximity alone explained these tangled feelings, I'd be drooling over Dean instead. He's competent, attractive, always around. Hell, there are buff security guards at the office who wink every time I pass—and technically, they're not even my employees. Yet, none of them light even a spark within me. If this twisted craving was just about availability, I'd probably be pining over Anna or Mr. Sinclair, given how much time we spend together.
Clearly, the issue here isn’t proximity—it’s Connor.
Shaking off those thoughts, I drag my attention back to something I can manage. I need a project—a logical one, structured, with clearly defined objectives and zero chance of leaving my heart bruised. Uncovering the source of the office leaks is the perfect starting point. And if I’m brave enough, there's always the second mission: finding who actually killed my father and stepmother. Both are complicated enough to keep me occupied, to keep my mind off Connor and my heart intact.
Swallowing down the last of my coffee, I sink slowly into my father's oversized leather chair, feeling small and out of place in the space he once filled. The leather is cool against my skin, distant somehow, as if the chair itself knows I don't belong here yet. This office hadalways been his sanctuary when I was growing up—a room I rarely entered without permission—and calling it mine now feels surreal, like stepping into shoes far too big to ever fill.
I pull open the top drawer, sifting through its contents: pens, loose change, sticky notes, notepads with scribbled half-thoughts and unfinished ideas. Nothing useful. Nothing hidden beneath the ordinary clutter.
But why would there be? The house has been combed through by the police a dozen times.
Frustration starts to tighten in my chest, but then my gaze catches on the deeper bottom drawer. A vague memory tugs at my consciousness, a faded whisper from childhood creeping in from the edges of my mind.
I used to sit on the plush carpet at my father’s feet, quietly playing while he worked. I remember clearly one evening when I was about eight, how he'd carefully lifted a hidden panel from the bottom of that drawer. He’d slipped something beneath it, shooting me a conspiratorial wink. “Our secret, koukla mou. Don’t tell Mom.”
My heart kicks hard in my chest.
Without hesitating, I slide from the chair and kneel on the floor, pulling the heavy drawer out all the way. My breath catches, fingers trembling as I trace the wood’s inner edges. I press softly, methodically, searching until I feel the slightest shift beneath my touch. Pulse hammering, I grab the knife from my breakfast plate—still greasy from bacon—and slide it carefully into the narrow gap, gently prying upward.
The false bottom lifts with a faint creak, and my breath rushes out in a shaky exhale.
Hidden beneath, untouched and waiting, lies a worn manila envelope and a small USB drive. My stomach twists violently, dread coiling around my heart.
“Shit,” I whisper, barely audible, as my fingers reach out to claim whatever secret my father had so carefully hidden away.
Carefully, I slide the folder from the envelope and spread it open, my pulse quickening as my eyes scan the pages. They’re call logs—meticulous, extensive. Two numbers immediately stand out, each distinctly marked: one highlighted in soft green, the other glaring in stark, ominous yellow.
