Page 7 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter five

Cali

R eluctantly, I descended the grand staircase, my heels echoing sharply against the cold marble.

Dinner, Yiayia had insisted, was crucial for Connor’s reintegration—as if he’d been off exploring Europe and not trapped behind bars for three goddamn years.

I wanted distance. Space. But Yiayia always had a knack for backing me into corners.

And if I admitted why I wanted to skip this dinner, I’d have to confess everything—the way Connor’s words in the greenhouse this morning had left me breathless and unsettled.

Was he truly the monster everyone whispered about?

Even Yiayia, who shared no blood with him, stood unwavering at his side.

During his trial, she'd visited him regularly, always urging me to come along. I never once did .

I stepped into the dining room, the massive chandelier casting fragmented shadows across the familiar table. Papou sat at its head, shoulders straight, presence commanding despite the way age had softened his edges. He gestured silently toward my usual chair.

“I’m glad we’re all here tonight,” he began, the deep resonance of his voice blanketing the room, leaving no room for argument.

Yiayia handed Connor a plate of pastitsio, smiling at him like he’d returned from war a hero rather than tearing apart our family at the seams.

I took my seat beside Papou, the familiar chair feeling foreign beneath me.

Everything looked the same, yet nothing was.

Memories pressed at the edges of my mind—rare dinners with my father, his attention brief and carefully measured.

A curt nod. A terse “good job” tossed my way before he retreated back to his office.

My life had been spent away from this house—boarding schools, overseas trips—anything that could fill the hollow void he’d left in me.

Papou’s gaze settled on me, heavy and expectant. “Tomorrow is an important day for Cali,” he announced, pride lacing every syllable.

I managed a small, stiff smile.

“Her first official day as head of the company.” He raised his glass, eyes warm and approving. “She’ll accomplish great things, just as her father did.”

The mention of my father sent a chill sliding down my spine, but I raised my glass anyway—years of training overriding instinct. Connor’s glass, filled with water, stood out sharply among ours, all brimming with a rich, celebratory wine my grandparents no doubt selected for tonight.

“Yamas,” we echoed quietly, the word hanging between us as we drank .

The food smelled incredible—warm, comforting, the kind of meal that usually made everything feel normal again. But tonight, my appetite was nowhere to be found. Still, I turned toward Yiayia, her happiness so tangible it felt cruel to ignore.

“This looks amazing,” I said softly, offering her a small smile. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

Her eyes softened as she met mine, and then, just for an instant, her gaze shifted toward Connor. “This isn’t only for you, Cali. It’s for Connor, too.”

Her words landed like a slap—sharp and startling. Did she see something redeemable in him that I couldn’t? Maybe she'd convinced herself that whatever hell he’d caused or endured could be forgiven. But I wasn’t wired that way. I couldn’t forget.

He deserved his sentence. Probably deserved worse. How could Yiayia overlook that?

Connor didn’t say a word, his fork quietly scraping his plate as the silence thickened around us, heavy and oppressive. Yiayia’s smile grew warmer, almost wistful, her gaze traveling across the table, lingering on something invisible, something I couldn’t grasp.

“What’s going on?” I asked finally, narrowing my eyes at her, that uneasy feeling in my chest sharpening. This wasn’t just a dinner. This wasn’t casual or normal—this felt intentional .

Yiayia exchanged a careful glance with Papou, something passing between them before she spoke again, gentle but unyielding. “Don’t worry so much, Cali. It’s just a family dinner. It’s been too long since we’ve all sat together.”

My eyes darted between them, waiting for the punchline. Connor just kept eating, his expression infuriatingly calm. Unbothered, like always. Bastard .

“It’s a bit of a goodbye dinner,” Yiayia finally added, her voice gentle but firm, and my stomach instantly twisted.

“Goodbye?” I asked, the word coming out strained, barely audible.

Papou cleared his throat. “We’re going home,” he stated plainly, as if that explained anything.

I blinked, confusion gripping me. “We are home.”

“To Crete,” Yiayia clarified gently, holding my gaze. “There’s an issue with the land. Nothing serious, but it needs our attention. We’ll come back once it’s settled.”

My chest tightened painfully, the steady thrum of my heartbeat deafening. They were leaving. Leaving me here. Alone, with him .

I swallowed past the lump in my throat, the wineglass shaking slightly in my grasp.

“Okay,” I finally said, forcing the single word out.

The mask slipped into place effortlessly, the calm, composed image my father had always demanded.

Anything less wasn’t acceptable in his eyes, and I’d learned long ago to play my role perfectly.

I forced a smile, nodding slowly, ignoring the sting of tears threatening behind my eyes. Raising my glass, I drained the wine in one burning gulp, but it did nothing to ease the hollow ache spreading in my chest.

“I’ll take care of the greenhouse while you’re away,” Connor’s voice suddenly broke through the heavy silence.

My head snapped up sharply, just as my grandparents’ gazes shifted toward him.

Papou’s expression softened, a deep approval in his voice. “Thank you, son.”

Son.

I bit the inside of my cheek, fury mingling with the ache.

I lowered my gaze, shoveling food into my mouth without tasting anything, swallowing past the bitter resentment growing in my throat.

I refilled my wineglass again and again until the bottle stood empty, and the sharp pain in my chest dulled into a quiet, persistent throb.

I hate him.

Not the fleeting, irrational kind of hate that sneaks in late at night, whispering doubts and fears.

No, this hatred was deeper—raw, relentless, and etched beneath my skin.

Connor wasn’t just a person to me; he was a living symbol, a walking reminder of everything I never wanted but was forced to accept.

He might not have been directly responsible for my father’s death—at least not officially—but he was still the reason I stood here now, trapped in the life I'd never chosen. The heir to my father’s throne, the face of a business empire built on legacy, power, and sacrifice.

All of it was suffocating, a burden I despised.

But who else was there?

Papou was growing older, the weight of his age evident in every slowed step, every tired sigh.

Yiayia found happiness in simpler moments—her garden, quiet dinners, and stories of a life left behind in Crete.

And Connor? He might’ve been sharing our roof, but he was still an outsider.

My father would’ve never handed his legacy to someone without our blood.

My gaze flickered to the porcelain dolls lining the shelves, their cold, unblinking eyes fixed straight ahead. At twelve, I'd thought they were beautiful, the embodiment of grace and elegance. Now their lifeless stares unsettled me, reminding me of everything in this house that had gone cold .

I pushed off the covers, sliding to the edge of the bed. Sleep was pointless tonight; it wasn’t coming, not while my mind was still spinning.

The clock on the bedside table glowed softly in the dark: 3:00 AM.

Four hours.

That’s all the time I had left before I’d walk into that building I’d avoided for years, enter the boardroom that had once been forbidden territory, and take my place at the desk that represented my father’s pride and had always been my own private hell.

My throat burned, but water wouldn’t help—not tonight. I needed something stronger. Sliding out of bed, I padded barefoot across the cool floor, heading toward the study. Papou always kept the good stuff there.

I should've stopped after that one glass at dinner, but the bottle was empty now, and I needed more. This was a rabbit hole I swore I'd never fall into again. Dr. Anderson would be disappointed after all the progress we’d made these past few years.

After my father’s murder, alcohol had filled the void he left behind—helped me forget that I was suddenly alone.

Anxiety and grief dragged me down until I hit rock bottom.

A crash, my car wrapped around a tree back in London.

That had been my wake-up call. I refused to become another tragic headline like my parents, like my stepmother.

Walking into my father’s old study—my new office—sent a chill down my spine.

Shelves lined with antique books and heirlooms whispered stories of a life that wasn't mine.

Stretching onto my toes, I reached for the top shelf, fingertips grazing cool glass.

“Gotcha,” I murmured, pulling down the bottle of ouzo.

"Just one more glass," I promised quietly, more to myself than anyone else .

The kitchen felt different at night, quieter, heavier. Grabbing a glass, I set the bottle down on the marble counter—and froze. Sitting at the kitchen island was Connor.

He turned slowly to face me, the faint glow from the range hood catching the amber liquid swirling lazily in his glass. Whiskey, probably.

This house was massive, yet somehow we kept ending up in the same spaces.

His eyes locked on mine, unflinching. It felt like judgment. Like he'd caught me doing something reckless—but he was the last person entitled to judge.

Ignoring him, I poured myself a generous measure of ouzo, the burn sliding down my throat, grounding me.

"What are you staring at?" My voice was harsher than I intended.

I leaned against the counter, pretending his presence didn’t bother me. But it did. He wasn't supposed to be here—in this house, in my life.

The silence dragged until he finally spoke, voice low and rough.

“You're not wearing a bra,” he said, his tone casual, as if pointing out the weather.

My glass froze halfway to my lips. Heat flooded my cheeks, and my pulse quickened. Suddenly I was aware—painfully, frustratingly aware—of my body, of the thin tank top, of him.

“You’re such a—” I started, but the arrogant smirk on his lips stopped me dead.

Connor stood, movements deliberate, confident. He placed his empty glass on the counter between us. “Goodnight, Cali,” he murmured, voice quiet and teasing as he turned and disappeared down the hall .

I stared after him, my pulse still pounding. “Asshole,” I whispered, finishing off the rest of my drink in one burning gulp. The ouzo did nothing to ease the frustration coiled tight in my chest.

Refilling my glass, I leaned against the counter, staring into the shadows. Sleep wouldn’t come now—not with Connor haunting every corner of this house.

"Just two glasses," I whispered again, though it sounded like a lie even to my own ears.