Page 56 of Sweet Sinners

Two Years Later

Glass walls surround me, the soft glow of string lights reflecting gently against their polished surfaces, casting fractured rainbows across the wooden floors.

Greenery spills from every corner—lush, wild vines and blooming flowers thriving beneath the glass ceilings, creating a sanctuary that's somehow both elegant and unruly. Exactly like the man who created it.

Exactly like us.

Connor's restaurant, The Glass House , is everything we've built together—an elegant, unapologetic blend of our past and the future we once thought impossible. At the center, beneath a vaulted ceiling of glass where the stars spill like diamonds across the night sky, stands a breathtaking Angel’s Trumpet, its soft, white blossoms spilling down delicately, beautiful and dangerous. A subtle, constant reminder of every scar, every secret we’ve conquered, every twisted path we walked to find our happiness.

My gaze sweeps over the intimate gathering, warm laughter filling the glass-enclosed space. Yiayia and Papou sit close, eyes bright and proud as they watch Connor move confidently through the restaurant, completely at ease in his dream finally fulfilled.

Across from them, Maya—officially retired but still a constant presence in our lives—lifts her glass toward me, a soft, affectionate smile on her lips.

My heart tightens at the simple gesture.

Even now, she's the grounding force I need, the woman who taught me family isn't just blood but love and loyalty, unwavering.

Dean sits a few tables over, his girlfriend nestled comfortably against him.

After countless awkward apologies and late-night conversations, we've rebuilt a friendship I genuinely value.

He catches my eye and gives a small nod, smiling warmly, the past finally settled between us.

Near the back, Mr. Sinclair laughs at something his wife whispers, completely relaxed for once, his sharp-edged seriousness softened tonight.

Warmth spreads through my chest as Connor glances back at me, his green eyes blazing, possessive yet tender. It still steals my breath away, how deeply he loves me. How fiercely I love him.

My husband.

The word still feels surreal—but perfect. Everything we've built feels like a dream. From the expansion of my father’s empire into sustainable shipping that I personally pushed for, to the haven Connor created from his passion, we've carved out happiness in places others insisted we didn't deserve.

And we've done it openly—together—refusing to hide from the whispers and judgments. There are still lingering glances, muted gossip, reminders that our story isn’t conventional. But every glance just makes me hold Connor’s hand tighter. Every whisper strengthens our resolve.

Connor approaches slowly, eyes bright, confident—so different from the man who first walked back into my life. His presence commands the room effortlessly, his smile drawing me forward until his hands cup my face, pulling me in for a gentle kiss.

“You look beautiful, Mrs. Mitchell,” Connor murmurs against my lips, his voice low and possessive, the words sending heat flooding through me.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Mitchell,” I tease softly, brushing my thumb gently along his jaw.

My father would never have approved of me taking Connor’s last name—legacy was everything to him.

But for me, legacy isn't about blood, or names, or empires. It’s Connor.

Always Connor. I want every piece of us to align, to fit perfectly, seamlessly together.

His eyes soften, roaming over my face with a tenderness that still steals my breath. “You okay?”

I nod gently, knowing exactly what he's asking.

We carry fewer visible scars now, but some wounds run deeper, lingering just beneath the surface.

Connor still wakes sometimes, gasping for breath, reaching for me in the dark after nightmares of blood, sirens, and the night he lost his mother.

Anxiety still coils tight in my chest, a constant, quiet reminder of trauma that therapy has eased but never completely erased.

But we manage it, together. Always together. We comfort, soothe, rebuild each other, day after day, breath after breath. It’s never been perfect, but it’s always been ours.

“I’m better than okay,” I promise softly, leaning into him, needing the steady comfort of his warmth. “I’m happy. ”

Connor pulls me even closer, his forehead gently resting against mine. “Happy looks good on you, Angel.”

My heart swells until it feels too big for my chest, warmth radiating through every nerve ending, filling every hollow place. I breathe him in, feeling the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against mine.

“I never knew what happy felt like,” I whisper, “until you showed me.”

His lips capture mine then, fierce and unrestrained, uncaring who watches. I melt into his arms, surrendering completely as he kisses slowly along my jaw, his lips brushing tenderly up to my ear. His voice dips, rough and achingly sweet.

“You were always too sweet for me, Calliope,” he murmurs softly, his breath warm against my skin, sending goosebumps racing down my spine. His fingertips trail gently over my neck, lingering possessively, like he still can’t quite believe I’m his.

I smile against his mouth, breathing him in, savoring every heartbeat, every soft exhale. “Or maybe,” I whisper gently, pulling back just enough to see the fierce, unguarded love in his eyes, “you were always exactly what I needed.”

Connor tightens his arms around me, holding me like he’ll never let go. I feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against my own, anchoring me to him in ways no one else ever could. I’ve survived enough storms to know when I’ve finally found home.

Because this man, this beautifully broken, reckless, incredible man is my home. Always.

And nothing could ever take that away.