Page 33 of Sweet Sinners
I sink into the chair across from her, cautious. “Cali, what’s going on here?”
She takes a sip of her beer, her movements slow, deliberate, before answering. “Thanks to your help, I made some actual progress at work today. And honestly, I’m too tired to argue.” Her voice is lighter than usual, almost playful.
Something in my chest loosens, a weight I didn’t realize was there. She chose this—chose to sit here, in the dark, with me. The thought does something reckless inside me, something I shouldn’t let myself acknowledge.
Before I can get too comfortable with it, though, she suddenly leans forward and pinches my arm. Hard.
“What the hell?” I snap, jerking away, nearly losing my grip on the slice of pizza.
She smirks, eyes glinting. “Just letting you know this is real,” she says lightly, taking another sip of beer. “Enjoy this while it lasts, Connor. Don’t get used to it.”
She takes another bite, barely paying me any attention, but I can’t stop watching her. The soft glow of the terrace lights catches in her strawberry-blonde hair, illuminating the exhaustion in her posture that never quite dims the fierce spark behind her eyes.
She doesn't look like someone who should be carrying the weight of an empire. She looks human. Just a girl, running on empty but refusing to slow down, chasing something most people can't even see. I thought I'd glimpsed every side of Cali since I started living in this house, but this version—carefree, open—might just be my favorite yet.
I don’t realize I’m staring until she meets my gaze, eyebrow lifted in a silent challenge. "What?"
I shake my head, quickly reaching for my beer. "Nothing."
Nothing I can say out loud, anyway.
Cali keeps talking, filling the silence with boardroom battles, financial figures, and all the strategic moves she's making to stake her claim on a legacy that's hers by birth but not yet by right. She picks distractedly at the pizza crust, eyes locked on mine with a quiet demand that I respond, to share something—anything.
She wants me to talk.
Fuck.
I inhale slowly, pushing words out before I can talk myself out of it. “I thanked Nathan for his help, but he's still not much of a talker. Spent some time in the greenhouse. And then…I paced. A lot.”
Her head tilts, confusion flickering across her face. “Paced?”
Iglance back at the mansion, the towering columns and floor-to-ceiling windows, at pristine white walls that still feel stained no matter how many times they’re scrubbed clean. It’s suffocating. A gilded cage, where ghosts linger at every corner, pressing in closer, always watching.
“This house is haunted,” I murmur, my fingers tightening around the cold beer bottle. “I pace to clear my head, but the ghosts never stop whispering.” I trail off, suddenly aware how pathetic I sound. Maybe the beer is hitting me harder than I thought. Or maybe it’s because I haven't had anything stronger than stolen sips of whiskey in years. “Forget my bullshit. Tonight’s supposed to be a celebration.”
Cali shifts in her seat, pulling her legs beneath her, turning fully toward me with eyes sharp enough to see straight through me. “Maybe,” she says carefully, holding my gaze, “but if something’s wrong, I should know.”
Her voice is soft, gentler than I deserve, and for some reason, it makes my chest ache. Annoyed, I deflect with a smirk. “Since when did you start caring so much?”
Her lips twitch, amusement dancing in her eyes, but she holds steady. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she shoots back, tone dry. “I’m not saying I trust you yet. But if I was ever going to, now’s your chance.”
The teasing comment hits harder than it should, lodging painfully behind my ribs.
I could keep things easy. Surface-level. Pretend it means nothing.
Instead, my grip tightens on the bottle, and I let myself go deeper, straight into the darkness. Because I want her trust, more desperately than I ever wanted freedom.
“I still remember that night, Cali,” I tell her quietly, voice scraping raw. “I walked into the living room, right into their blood, and I can’tget those images out of my head.” The beer bottle feels heavier now, its cold seeping into my bones. “I know I shouldn’t have touched anything, but I pulled the knife from her neck. I just—” I break off sharply, shaking my head, jaw clenched. “I couldn’t leave her like that.”
The terrace feels too small, the air too thick.
But her expression doesn't shift, not to pity, not disgust. She just watches me, quietly, waiting for whatever comes next.
“I tried to save her, even though she was already cold.” My voice is quiet, raw, edged with something that hurts too much to name. “I was so fucking stupid. Should’ve called 911, but I was high, stumbling around, not thinking.”
I close my eyes, but the darkness only sharpens the memory. The metallic scent thick in the air, my mother’s skin already losing warmth, stiffening beneath my hands. The blood soaking through my fingers as I pressed desperately against wounds that couldn’t heal—wounds I couldn’t fix.
I swallow hard, chasing the past down with another long, bitter sip of beer. One of the staff found me first, panic written all over their face before they called the cops. After that, it was all blurred lines and numbness. Interrogations. Accusations. And me, stuck somewhere between anger and emptiness.
