Page 25 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter twenty-two

Cali

S unday stretches quietly, the mansion wrapped in a stillness that feels louder than noise ever could.

It’s too big today, too vacant, like the empty spaces hold all the secrets we're both trying to bury. Boston’s heartbeat thrums faintly outside, a distant rhythm, but inside, it’s just me, Connor, and the heavy awareness that something’s shifted.

I can’t pinpoint what, or even when, but the air between us feels charged, dangerously alive.

I make the decision early: today is for staying home.

No errands, no distractions, nothing but me and this space.

But even as I settle into the silence, an uneasy feeling lingers, circling inevitably back to Connor.

He says he’s fine, but I felt it last night, his walls slammed down, harder and colder than before.

It left me restless, aching for some excuse to pull him closer, to make him spill whatever darkness he’s carrying.

But I hold back, for now. Some doors should only open when you’re ready for what lies behind them.

Lunch is served in the formal dining room, at the absurdly large table that emphasizes how alone we are.

Pale winter sunlight filters in through the massive windows, casting muted shadows across our plates.

Outside, barren branches scratch restlessly at the glass, as if even they sense the tension inside.

Connor sits across from me, half-focused, flicking aimlessly through his phone.

His fork hovers over the plate, untouched, forgotten, as he stares into whatever void he’s found.

Then, he stiffens. His grip tightens on his phone, knuckles whitening, the tendons in his neck pulling taut like wires ready to snap.

"What the fuck is this?" he growls, low and dangerous, breaking the quiet so suddenly that I jump.

Before I can ask, he flips the screen around, eyes dark with anger, holding it out to me like an accusation.

A TMZ-style headline screams from the screen, paired with a grainy snapshot of Dean and me from yesterday.

Athen Shipping me laughing. Innocent, harmless, completely misinterpreted.

Connor is silent for a beat, eyes darkening with something I can’t name. "Can’t resist the spotlight, huh?" he drawls, voice deceptively casual, but the tension threading through his tone makes it clear he’s anything but amused. "This is gonna create some serious waves at work."

I exhale sharply, irritation flaring. "Then I’ll handle it. It’s bullshit anyway. I already turned him down."

The silence that follows isn’t a relief; it’s a storm, heavy and charged, pulling the air tight between us. I expect him to let it go, to shrug it off, but when I glance up, Connor’s watching me intently, every muscle in his body drawn tight, like he's barely keeping himself in check.

"He asked you out?"

His voice is low, rough, edged with something dangerous, something raw enough to catch my breath and send a shiver down my spine.

I lift my chin, defensive before I can stop myself. "Yeah, he did. So what?"

Connor’s jaw tightens, the muscle in his cheek flexing beneath his skin as his gaze pins me in place. "Nothing," he mutters, dropping his fork roughly onto his plate. "Good. Dating someone from work is a fucking disaster waiting to happen."

A muscle flexes in his jaw, the tendons in his neck tightening as he swallows roughly.

His dismissive tone sends irritation sparking through me. I drop my fork with a clatter, suddenly losing my appetite. "Oh, really? Since when are you an expert on workplace romances?"

Connor leans back, arms folded tight across his chest, his expression shuttered. "Honestly, I don’t care who you date, little sis."

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 the CEO 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 watch the 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.

Guilt twists sharply in my chest. "And all this time, I’ve been dumping my work bullshit on you, acting like my problems are the end of the world."