Page 20 of Sweet Sinners
Ipacethestudy,thefaint scent of aged books and dust mixing with the cool night air seeping through the cracked window. The room still feels like foreign territory despite my obsessive cleaning, scrubbing away years of neglect until every surface gleamed. It helped, at first—kept my hands busy, offered the illusion of control. But now, standing here, staring at the barely touched book on the desk, restlessness coils tighter in my chest.
Sleep isn’t happening; I already know that. My body hums with energy I need to burn off—to find a gym, to run until my lungs beg me to stop, to push until exhaustion finally silences the noise in my head. Instead, I’m stuck here, wearing a hole into this expensive rug, my nerves pulled tight enough to snap.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I grab a random book, flipping open a page and forcing my eyes over the lines. It doesn’t help. The words blur, my thoughts drifting stubbornly back to the knife Connor held at dinner.
A real knife. Sharp. Weighted.
He’d fumbled through slicing an onion, his grip awkward, the cuts uneven, as though the blade felt foreign in his hand. Yet that same hand had been accused of wielding a knife with lethal precision, cutting lives short without a second thought. The contradiction gnaws at me, unsettling and relentless.
If he can barely dice a vegetable, how the hell could he have—
I slam the book shut, the sound echoing sharply in the quiet room. My thoughts spiral, each one clashing violently with the next, pushing me closer to an edge I’m not sure I can come back from.
Believing he was guilty had been easy. Anger kept me upright; certainty was solid ground beneath my feet. But now, the foundation I built that belief on feels cracked and unstable, threatening to collapse beneath me.
Yiayia has always read people effortlessly, seeing truths hidden beneath layers. She believes him. Swears by his innocence without a single flicker of doubt in her eyes.
So what’s holding me back?
Frustration claws at my ribs, and I exhale sharply, the words spilling out in a whisper, "I can't do this right now."
My first week at the company drained me. I’d imagined marching in and commanding respect instantly, but reality had been a slap to the face. My father’s legacy is a crushing weight on my shoulders, and I can’t afford distractions—not now, not ever. Especially not questions about Connor and a past that refuses to stay buried.
So I push it down, locking it away deep inside myself, and compartmentalize.
I retreat to my room moments later, leaving behind every attempt at distraction. Reading won’t help. Work won’t either. I need silence, need to shut off my brain before it spirals further. Stripping down, I step beneath the shower, letting scalding water wash over my skin, hoping the burn might cleanse me of thoughts that refuse to quiet. I scrub until I’m raw and flushed, until every last worry feels temporarily drowned out by heat and steam.
Afterward, I follow the entire self-care playbook: thick face mask, rich serums, moisturizer, freshly painted nails—the works. The kind of ritual that’s supposed to soothe, to convince me I have my shit together.
But by the time I slip into my softest pajamas, my skin glowing like I’ve been remade, the quiet in my head still doesn’t come.
In bed, I squeeze my eyes shut, begging for sleep. It stays stubbornly out of reach. My mind won’t stop replaying scenes, Connor’s hands gripping the knife awkwardly, the unreadable intensity in his eyes. Questions twisting around me like chains, refusing to loosen their grip.
Frustrated, I roll onto my side, clutching the pillow tighter.
If this is what being CEO means, I seriously doubt I’ll survive the year without completely losing myself.
The next morning, I'm buried in paperwork, flipping through files, scribbling notes on fresh sheets of paper. Anna’s stacked everythinginto tidy piles, her organization bordering on obsessive—but God, I’m grateful for it. One hour in, and the red flags are already glaring at me. Excessive spending, unnecessary expenditures—things my father would’ve never let slide.
Like the fleet of private jets.
I pause, tapping my pen against the polished desk. The numbers staring back at me are fucking insane. Why the hell does a shipping company need more planes than a small airline? A reckless luxury that could bleed us dry if we hit even a minor snag.
My gaze slides to the employee PTO structure, and my jaw tightens. The numbers there are dismal. Slash the jet count and redirect that budget toward better benefits—it would boost morale, retention, and more importantly, my leverage with the board.
And right now, leverage is everything.
A voice breaks through my concentration. "Cali?"
I glance up as Anna strolls in, balancing a tray of drinks like it's second nature.
"I've figured out a way to cut our jet fleet down to three," I tell her, flipping another page. "Should be an easy sell to the board. Are these our usual presentation slides?"
Her eyes brighten, setting the tray down with a little flourish. "There's that strategic mind I remember. And don't worry—I have the inside scoop on each board member."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Really?"
She grins, looking like she’s waited forever to share this. "Oh yeah. Mr. Ramon? HR nightmare. Guy’s drowning in misconduct claims, so a well-timed skirt might leave him speechless." She tosses me a teasing look, knowing damn well I wouldn't stoop to that. "And Mr. Sinclair—the one always scowling like he’s chewing glass? Total softie for his corgi. Bring up anything dog-related, and he melts."
