Page 45 of Sweet Sinners
The words land like a slap, sharp, stinging. My breath catches, and my chest twists painfully. He’s never called me that before. It feels deliberate, designed to shove me into a role that doesn’t fit.
I force myself to exhale slowly, masking the hurt with anger. "I already told him no. I said we work together, that my friend has a crush on him, and I’m not interested in dating anyone while I figure out theCEO thing." My voice turns colder, more pointed. "He’s not on my radar, Connor. I’m not like that."
Connor lifts his phone, the bright screen harsh between us. "Good. Because you'll need him to back you up if you want this bullshit gone."
"He will," I snap back, hating the defensiveness in my tone. "Dean’s a decent guy. When I told him you weren’t involved in—" I falter, the words bitter on my tongue, "—in our parents’ deaths, he believed me over every rumor he’s heard. I trust him."
Connor exhales heavily, his expression unreadable. Just as I think he’s done, that he’s retreating behind those carefully constructed walls again, his voice lowers to something raw.
"You really believe I’m innocent?"
The question hits deep, cutting me wide open. I hate that he even has to ask.
I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. "You struggle to cut onions, Connor," I remind him, my voice firm, unyielding. "After what you told me that night on the terrace, after the way you described finding them, I don't believe for one second that you did it. But someone did. Someone tore our lives apart, and I intend to find out who."
What I don’t say, what I can't quite push past the ache in my chest, is how much it kills me that I ever doubted him. That even for one second, I thought he could've hurt my father like that. That he could’ve taken his own mother's life. It claws at me, dark and relentless, but those words are stuck behind the lump in my throat.
Maybe that's why I sit with him at night. Maybe that's why I let him keep pulling me closer, why I can't seem to look away now.
Connor drops his gaze for a heartbeat, then meets my eyes again, something guarded flickering behind his. "Cali—"
"No, I’m serious," I cut in, leaning forward, desperate for him to see this my way. "Killers don't just vanish. They linger. They watchthe chaos. But who benefits from our parents being gone? Everything went straight to us and my grandparents, there's no hidden motive, no mysterious beneficiary." I press harder, frustration tightening my voice. "Maybe it was a crime of passion. Maybe someone snapped. Maybe—"
"Calliope."
His voice is low, rough. A warning shot. A line drawn firmly between us.
I tense, my jaw tight. He shakes his head slightly, holding my gaze with unflinching intensity. "That's not a road we go down. Trust me—believing I'm innocent, that’s more than enough. Let it rest."
My fists curl against the table. "But whoever did this needs to pay, Connor. It's the only way you'll ever really be free. Do you know how many internet sleuths are still whispering your name? They still think it's you. They still—"
He shrugs, quiet, defeated. Like it doesn’t even matter. Like he’s already accepted his fate.
No. Absolutely not. Fuck that.
I lean forward, my voice steady but fierce. "Connor, you're going to have a future outside these damn walls, one where you can work, walk freely, actually live instead of just existing." The words tumble out, tight and desperate. "So while your stained glass project is on hold, you need to start thinking,really thinking, about who else could’ve done this."
His jaw tenses, the muscles flexing beneath his skin. His fingers curl against the table, white-knuckled, as if bracing for something he doesn't want to face.
After a long, heavy pause, he exhales slowly, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough. "That’s not a road I’m ready to go down yet, Cali."
Something about his tone, the reluctant confession, the quiet admission of pain, hits me hard, squeezing around my chest.
I nod carefully, giving him the space he needs. "Okay."
He shifts in his seat, hesitant, something restless in his eyes before he speaks again. "You know, even after three years, it feels like a different fucking universe out here. I’m still trying to get used to it, to not being behind bars, to not having to constantly glance over my shoulder, bracing for the next threat, the next shiv aimed at my spine."
I freeze, my pulse suddenly racing. Another?
"Connor—"
He leans back, gaze locked on mine, dark, intense, something haunted flashing beneath. "In prison, murderers usually stick to their own kind, form groups to stay safe. But I kept myself apart. I didn’t want any part of that life, not at first." He swallows, his voice tight, controlled. "But that didn’t stop trouble from finding me."
I stare at him, my heart slamming against my ribs. "You were hurt?"
His jaw tightens, eyes darkening at the memory. "I was twenty-three, Cali, younger, smaller, vulnerable. The perfect target. Until this one lifer, old-school, inked from head to toe, stepped in." His voice grows rougher, distant. "He was untouchable. No one fucked with him, and after he decided I was worth the trouble, no one fucked with me either. He taught me how to survive."
The shift in his voice, the weight behind the words, there’s more beneath the surface, but he keeps it locked tight.
