Page 20 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter seventeen

Cali

" Y ou actually slept last night," Anna notes casually, eyeing me with a quiet smirk. "Good. I was starting to worry about you."

"The embezzlement issue needed immediate attention," I reply, keeping my tone even. "But I think the board and I finally have it under control." I pause, glancing at her carefully. "You never made it for drinks last night, everything okay?"

Anna sinks into the chair across from me, crossing her legs with practiced ease.

"Yes, all good now. I'm sorry, I had a last-minute family thing.

" She waves it off lightly. "But like I said, you're a natural.

I bet you handled the board perfectly." Her eyes brighten a bit too much.

"I would've killed to be a fly on that wall, especially when Dean showed up. He’s something, isn’t he?

Word around the office is you two have been sneaking lunches together. "

I exhale slowly, shaking my head. "One lunch. And strictly professional. He's been briefing me, that’s all."

Anna hums quietly, gaze drifting somewhere beyond me like she’s picturing something more vivid than just business talk.

I lean forward, capturing her attention again. "You know, you should go for it."

Her eyes widen, startled. "Wait, really?"

"Dean would have to be blind not to notice you," I tell her honestly. "You’re incredible."

A flush creeps across her cheeks, excitement bubbling to the surface. "You really think so? Would you put in a good word?"

Before I can respond, Anna launches into a flurry of gushing descriptions, Dean’s smile, his voice, how he always holds doors open. I let her go on for a moment, the corners of my mouth lifting slightly, before I gently interrupt. "Okay, okay, Anna, my schedule?"

She blinks, coming back down to earth. "Oh, right! I sent it over earlier."

I turn to my screen, quickly scanning through the calendar. My heart drops into my stomach. "I had a press meeting scheduled for two."

Anna’s expression falls instantly. "Oh, shoot—let me just—"

"I’ll handle it," I say, firm but gentle.

Something flickers briefly across her face, embarrassment, maybe irritation, but she masks it quickly, offering a swift, apologetic smile instead. "Sorry, Cali. I promise I’ll be better."

"It’s fine," I say softly, watching as she ducks out of my office before I can add anything more .

A dull ache pulses at my temples, and I press my fingers there, breathing slowly to ease the tension. A knock interrupts, soft but firm.

"Come in," I call without lifting my head, expecting Anna.

But it’s Dean who steps through the door, shutting it quietly behind him. He sinks into the chair across from my desk, stretching his legs out comfortably, like he has nowhere else he needs to be.

"We’ve officially pressed charges against the accountant," he says, voice carefully neutral. "He’s denying everything. Blaming it on subordinates. Predictable excuses."

I don’t glance up from my screen. "Tell legal to turn over every stone. Audit the entire accounting department—every signature, every dime. I don’t want any surprises."

He waits, studying me until the silence feels too heavy, then leans forward slightly. "Something bothering you, boss?"

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck, trying to unknot the stress. "I don’t think I fully understood the scope of all this when I said yes to the job," I admit quietly. "Every decision feels like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff. One wrong step and…"

Dean watches me, expression unreadable. "Your father built this from nothing," he says gently. "He was a tough son of a bitch, from everything I’ve heard. Strategic, unbreakable."

"I never saw that," I say, frowning. "When he came home, it was like none of this ever touched him. He seemed… effortless."

Dean shakes his head slightly. "You were his daughter. You weren’t supposed to see the cracks. Home was probably the only place he didn’t have to be bulletproof."

I swallow, bitter laughter slipping out. "I can’t seem to figure out how to separate it. Everything follows me home. "

A faint smirk tugs at Dean’s lips. "Maybe that’s the trick. Leave the armor at the office. Don’t bring the battle home with you. Your father knew that."

"Easier said," I mutter dryly.

"Isn’t everything?"

I look up then, meeting his steady gaze. Dean doesn’t run headfirst into trouble. He calculates, measures his responses. He's dependable, safe.

He’s nothing like Connor, who confronts problems head-on without blinking, who fights battles without questioning if he can handle them.

Dean clears his throat, interrupting my thoughts. "What is it?"

I hesitate, then shrug lightly. "Anna has a bit of a crush on you."

His mouth quirks, amusement flickering through his eyes.

"Anna’s sweet. But I prefer women with more bite.

Someone who knows exactly what she wants—especially beyond just having someone by her side.

" His eyes lock onto mine, quiet but intense.

"I’m looking for an equal. Not someone who needs to be saved. "

My pulse quickens at the implication in his words, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, I nod slowly, considering.

He rises, smoothing down his tie. "I’ll get started on the internal investigation."

"Thanks," I say softly. "I appreciate it."

At the doorway, he pauses, looking back at me seriously. "One last thing. You’re not your father, Cali. Stop measuring yourself against a man who faced a completely different world. Lead the way you want, not the way you think he would’ve."

I hold his gaze, his words sinking deep. Something shifts in my chest, relief and clarity tangled together .

Then he’s gone, leaving me in the silence to finally hear myself think.

I exhale heavily, sinking back into my chair and yanking open the drawer to grab the bottle of Advil. Shaking two into my palm, I mutter, "Today is going to leave bruises."

After an exhausting press interview—every response carefully scripted and lawyer-approved—and back-to-back meetings that felt more like interrogations, my prediction had come true. The day was brutal, relentless.

I don't leave the office until after seven, but for once, I refuse to drag it home with me.

I crank the radio loud enough to drown out every thought, roll the windows down, and scream along to the songs until my voice is shredded raw.

Maybe I look crazy. Maybe I sound even worse.

But for the first time today, I don't care.

By the time I pull into the driveway, my hair’s a windblown disaster and my throat burns like hell, but I feel lighter—like I’ve finally shaken off some invisible chains.

It’s not a permanent fix. It doesn’t change reality.

But if I can’t control anything else, I can at least lose myself in music until I feel free.

I haven’t touched alcohol since beers with Connor, and for the first time since the accident, I don’t even crave it. I don’t need it to numb the edges, to soften the harsh reality. Tonight, music is enough.

A tiny rebellion. But a victory, nonetheless.

I kill the engine, sitting for a moment in the newfound silence, letting it wrap around me like a comforting blanket. But then my stomach growls sharply, shattering the brief peace. Instinctively, I place my palm over it, already half-hoping—damn it—that Connor made dinner again.

The thought is dangerously domestic, stupidly hopeful, and so utterly wrong.

I don’t know what bothers me more, the fact that he might have cooked, or how badly I want him to have done exactly that.

The realization leaves a sour twist in my stomach as I step into the house, and any expectation evaporates instantly. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

No movement, no warmth drifting from the kitchen.

Nothing.

My irritation flares as I jerk open the refrigerator with unnecessary force, scanning the shelves with growing frustration. There’s nothing quick. Nothing easy. And right now, I don’t have the patience or strength to put together something worth eating.

I want something hot. Instant. Effortless. Something I can consume without thinking or caring.

Yanking out my phone, I quickly order takeout and toss it onto the countertop.

Without another thought, I head for the stairs.

If dinner’s not going to give me the release I need, then a long, scorching shower will have to do.

I’ll scrub away today’s failures, this lingering ache, until it’s nothing but steam and water circling the drain.

The day’s burdens are still there, waiting, whispering.

But for tonight, just tonight, I choose not to listen.