Page 18 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter fifteen

Cali

C onnor’s room isn’t like the rest of the house, quiet, hollow, empty.

I’ve never been one to believe in spaces holding emotions or energy, but standing here, I feel something pressing in, suffocating me with its absence.

Like whoever lives here is trying desperately not to leave a trace behind.

Maybe it feels temporary to him, a space borrowed rather than owned, but either way, it doesn’t fit Connor.

The rest of the house echoes with memories, history etched into heirlooms, portraits, and polished wood.

But here? Blank walls. Empty surfaces. Nothing personal, nothing that says Connor.

Just sparse essentials and the faint, unsettling trace of his scent, clean, sharp, threaded with something darker beneath the surface .

Shifting uneasily, I flip through his handwritten notes, frustration simmering under my skin. "This can’t be it," I mutter. "Just track down the culprit, pin everything on them, and wash our hands of it? What about oversight? Prevention? What about the employees who—"

"You’re just one person, Cali," he interrupts softly, his voice tired, resigned, as if we've argued about this a hundred times already. The PR friend he'd reached out to had turned out to be completely useless, leaving me no choice but to come here, to Connor’s too-empty room, looking for answers I wasn’t sure he had.

I exhale slowly, meeting his gaze head-on. "That’s not an excuse to settle for the bare minimum."

Connor leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes darkening as he draws a heavy breath—like he’s standing on the edge of something he’s not sure he should jump into. "When I was in prison—"

"You don’t have to," I interrupt softly, instinctively. Because as much as part of me aches to know, I don’t want him to feel obligated to share a piece of himself he might not be ready to give.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.

"I thought I could handle it alone," he says, voice low, almost as if he’s admitting it to himself more than me. "I never understood why guys buddied up with gangs or allied with people who’d done fucked-up things. But it didn’t take long before I learned the truth, you can’t fight the whole world by yourself.

The press, the board, everyone waiting for you to fail, it’s too much for one person. "

I know he’s right, but admitting I need help has never been my strong suit.

I swallow my feelings and spit out perfection, wrapping everything inside a neat, unbreakable package.

But it’s always temporary, eventually, it all bursts open, like the night of my accident.

Except I’m better now. I haven’t had a drink in weeks.

I refuse to believe it has anything to do with Connor, because acknowledging that would lead me down a path I’m not prepared to face.

He goes on, dragging me from my thoughts. "I ended up with bruises, a broken nose, busted fingers, all proof of my stubbornness." His mouth twists into something bitter, not quite a smile. "You stand to lose a hell of a lot more."

I groan, leaning back against his desk, frustration and reluctant acceptance twisting painfully together in my chest. "I really hate that you’re right."

Connor’s lips curl, satisfied. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

I roll my eyes, but there’s no real venom behind it.

"You have to lean on the board," he insists quietly. "Show them you trust them, even if you have to fake it at first. Trust isn’t given, Cali, it’s earned. Especially when everything’s falling apart. That’s when you find out who’s really on your side."

I hate that idea. I hate the thought of relying on those men, men who've done nothing to earn my trust and everything to make me doubt them. The thought of giving them even a sliver of vulnerability makes my skin crawl. But deep down, I know Connor’s right.

"I can’t exactly stand beside you and intimidate them into line," he says, his voice dipping lower, eyes growing darker. "But there’s something else I can do."

My brow arches. "And what’s that?"

He hesitates, his fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest, like he’s debating how much to share. "I have another friend. One of the few who didn’t turn his back on me before…" He trails off, something shadowed crossing his face before he masks it again. "He’s really good with computers. "

I don’t press for clarification. I have a feeling 'good' might be an understatement and that knowing more would only complicate things further.

"Thank you, Connor," I say quietly, the words tasting strange on my tongue.

He grins, smug. "How painful was that?"

"Excruciating," I deadpan. "But I mean it. If your advice and your friend come through, I might even trust you with my Amazon login so you can finally make this place look livable."

His head tilts, amused. "Is that my official welcome package?"

"Don’t be an asshole and ruin it," I say, fighting a smile. "Anyway, I need to get going. I’ve got plans to put into motion."

He holds my gaze, something complicated flickering behind his eyes. "Set your alarm early. Get there before everyone else tomorrow. Show them who’s in charge."

It sounds like an order, but there's an undercurrent of something else, protective, possessive even, that makes my pulse quicken.

But I don’t let myself linger on it. Not now.

Instead, I turn and walk away before I do something reckless, like admit how much I liked it.

At six sharp, I’m already at the office, the halls eerily quiet, shadows lingering in corners still untouched by sunrise.

The security guards at the front desk watch me pass with mild surprise, their nods careful but curious.

I ignore the knot of nerves twisting low in my stomach, pushing forward, my heels clicking with a certainty I’m forcing myself to feel.

I dive straight into work, pulling together notes, tactics, and contingency plans for the storm ahead.

Before the full board gathers, I draw Sinclair, Dean, and Jackson into a smaller conference room. I chose them intentionally, strong personalities, different perspectives. If I’m going to fight this battle, I need allies who’ll challenge me, test my reasoning, and sharpen my approach.

"We're tackling this from three angles," I say, voice firm and unwavering.

"First, we hold the accountant, well accountable , press charges publicly, swiftly, without hesitation. It’s the obvious move.

Second, we clearly outline our corrective actions and future safeguards to the press, taking full control of the narrative.

Finally, we restructure our bonus policy with research-backed incentives to ensure fairness and eliminate loopholes. "

I pause, meeting each of their eyes, allowing my words to settle.

"But that’s just damage control. The real question is, how do we make sure this never happens again?"

For once, the air feels charged with respect, not resistance. They’re listening, truly listening.

Sinclair nods slowly, gaze steady and sharp. "Increase internal audits. Tighten financial oversight. More frequent check-ins, and not just on paper, physically verify."

Dean leans forward, his eyes serious. "On the PR front, transparency but carefully controlled. We frame this as a single rogue individual, not a systemic breakdown. We highlight our swift response and emphasize our commitment to change."

My attention shifts to Jackson, bracing for his usual pushback. But he doesn’t smirk, doesn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he leans back, genuinely thoughtful .

"You need to speak to the employees directly," he says finally. His voice isn’t harsh, it’s measured, careful. "Right now, they're on edge. Nervous. If they start doubting leadership, loyalty frays. Make them believe you’re on their side, and they won’t look for weaknesses in the system."

The insight is unexpected but solid. I hold his gaze, letting him see my genuine approval.

"Good point," I acknowledge, giving him a nod. "Jackson, I want you to ensure this message reaches every manager personally. They need to understand the importance of unity here."

He leaves the room looking different, less guarded, less resistant. Maybe even a little proud. I realize that maybe this fight isn’t entirely mine alone anymore.

Dean's gaze slides to mine, a slow, amused smirk forming. "Damn, Stavros. Didn't think you had it in you,winning over the wolves already?"

I roll my eyes, feigning annoyance, but I can't quite suppress the slight lift at the corner of my mouth. "Just go brief legal before I decide to feed you to them instead."

Dean chuckles under his breath, tossing me a mock salute as he heads out.

Sinclair, though, lingers at the doorway. He doesn't smile, not fully. He just watches me with those cool, assessing eyes. After a moment, he lets out a low, thoughtful sound.

"You realize this is only round one, right?" he finally says, his voice quiet and calculated.

My chest tightens, but I hold his gaze steadily. "I know. But today, for the first time, it felt like I wasn't walking through the fire alone." I pause, studying him. "Unless you think I'm reading the room wrong. "

He shakes his head slowly, almost like he's considering something he hasn't decided to share. "You're sharp, I'll give you that. But plans are just words until you make them reality."

"I intend to," I reply, refusing to flinch.

He glances briefly toward the hallway, but I can't see what or who he is looking at from my chair, then he meets my gaze again, his voice dropping slightly.

"Be careful whose counsel you listen to, Cali.

The voices you trust now are the ones that'll guide you or mislead you later.

Don't let them drown out your instincts. "

My brows knit together. "What does that—"

But he's already moving, cutting off any chance at clarification. "Have a good day, Miss Stavros."

The way he uses my last name feels intentional, a challenge wrapped in respect. I watch him disappear, irritation and curiosity tangling beneath my skin.

Anna steps in immediately, practically buzzing as she reaches me. "Holy shit," she whispers excitedly. "You’re seriously killing it, Cali. I’ve never seen someone command the room like that."

I exhale slowly, letting her words sink in. For the first time in a long time, the belief she has in me feels real.

And damn if it isn't exactly what I needed.