Page 2 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

One

“I dream. Sometimes I think that’s the only right thing to do.”

― Haruki Murakami

Scarlett

18 years old

Eight years ago

“We invested over thirty million dollars in brand development. Stylists, hair and makeup artists, producers, choreographers, fan servicing. All of it to ensure Miss Scarlett Harper would become the living, breathing legend of our century within five years.”

The applause hit like thunder, echoing off the sterile glass and steel of the boardroom. Suits lined the chairs, sipping espresso and nodding along like they hadn’t just dismantled a childhood and repackaged it for global consumption.

Thomas Jenkins, my father’s COO, clicked the remote with pride as the final slide disappeared from the screen.

I didn’t move. My chest felt tight, not from nerves or excitement, but from the familiar ache of watching another piece of myself get carved away.

They had decided everything.

Phase One: I would be the lead of a three-member group named Little Angels. A band, technically, but only in name. I would be the only face, the only voice. The others had been selected to blend in. Nothing more than set dressing.

Modern country would be our sound. All-American, polished, sweet enough to sell but just edgy enough to trend.

Red, white, and manufactured to bleed.

After three years of public adoration, Phase Two would begin: a solo career with a new sound and a new image. Scarlett Harper, reborn. I was the real act now, the real product, and they had already chosen the font for my debut album cover.

I wasn’t a person anymore; I was a pitch.

There was something almost religious about the whole thing, a gospel of profit. They rewrote my future like scripture, every detail planned in high-definition clarity. My clothes, my body, my smile, even my silence.

It had all been outlined.

This wasn’t just a career. It was a machine, a polished performance of life. And I was expected to shine through it like a diamond, cut and pressed beneath the weight of legacy.

That’s what came with the Harper name. My father didn’t just run the media, he engineered it. He didn’t follow trends. He created them.

And still, beneath the dread, there was a thrill. A curtain had lifted. A stage had opened. I could feel the electricity of it, even if the script had already been written for me.

It had started when I was sixteen.

On a cold Friday night in late October, the wind had beat at the windows, and the house smelled like cinnamon and microwaved popcorn. Kiara and I were buried under blankets, halfway through The Grinch even though Halloween had still been days away.

We had been arguing over costumes, witches or fallen angels, when our mother called us upstairs. She never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. When she used our full names, we moved.

The study was too bright, too perfect. The fireplace glowed like something from a catalog, and my father’s scotch was already half gone. He gestured for us to sit without a word.

That night, they told me it was time to choose. Not a dress. Not a major.

A future.

Two options, laid out with the elegance of a loaded gun.

Option One: an internship at Harper Media. Learn the empire, walk the path, inherit the throne.

Option Two: Lazzio Entertainment. My uncle’s world. Artistry, music, film. A branch of the tree I could call mine, not just another root in the ground he had watered.

They called it a choice, but the room was quiet in the wrong way. My mother’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. My father stared through me. Kiara wouldn’t even look up from her lap.

Legacy didn’t come from freedom. It came from sacrifice. But even in the most airtight cage, sometimes something slips through.

For me, that was singing.

It wasn’t curated. It wasn’t monitored. It wasn’t theirs.

I had been singing since I could form words, humming melodies in dark corners, whispering tunes into the quiet. Eventually, I asked for lessons. My mother had agreed, but only if piano came with it.

Discipline in exchange for desire.

From eight to sixteen, every afternoon had been split in two: one hour for vocal training, one for piano. And somewhere between the notes, I found something I didn’t know I needed.

A voice that was mine.

“I want to be a singer.”

The silence afterward was worse than a slap.

My father scoffed and tossed back the rest of his scotch like it could erase what I’d said. His glare cut toward my mother, blaming her with a look he’d perfected over decades. She hesitated, voice soft.

“ Dolcezza ?…”

But she didn’t say anything else. She was always half trapped too.

My father finally spoke. “It’s out of the question.”

Heat bloomed under my skin. My hands curled into fists, but I didn’t back down. Not after everything I had given up.

No friends beyond the security gate. No sleepovers, no dances. No freedom. I had been raised for one purpose—to be a Harper.

But this was mine.

So I looked him in the eye and gave him something he’d understand.

“Invest in me,” I said. “Let the Harper name echo in stadiums, not just boardrooms. Millions screaming the name you built. Your daughter. Your legacy. The voice of a generation.”

My mother stirred, her throat catching. “Scarlett?…”

“Just once,” I said, “invest in me, Dad.”

The room fell silent. My mother’s hands were clenched too tightly in her lap. My father didn’t answer. He poured another drink instead.

That was his yes.

Two weeks later, everything changed. The quiet afternoons were gone, replaced by a schedule so precise it could have been military.

Choreography that pushed me past the point of exhaustion. Vocal training that stripped me down and rebuilt me note by note. Songwriting lessons with ghostwriters who tore my journals apart and made me bleed honesty onto the page, even if it wasn’t my own.

Every hour was claimed. Every calorie counted. Every movement tracked.

By eighteen, I wasn’t a teenager anymore.

I was a product.

And at the center of it all stood Lucius Harper, cold and composed beneath the lights of his office. “I’ll make you a star that shines brighter than the moon,” he’d told me.

And I had believed him.

Lucius Harper didn’t make promises. He made empires. Now, I was going to be one.

“We just need your signature here?…?and here, Miss Harper.” The woman’s voice was pure glass. Her hair was icy blonde and pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Her folder looked light, but it carried everything: my next five years.

Lazzio Entertainment and Harper Media, sealed and binding.

Lead singer of Little Angels.

A promise in ink.

My hand trembled as I picked up the pen. I hesitated, barely. Then I signed and sold myself to the devil.

My father shook hands with Thomas Jenkins. The applause started again, polite and triumphant. But beneath the noise, I could feel it creeping in. The chains tightening around my ribs.

This was my beginning.

My fall from grace. My inevitable rise.

And somewhere inside me, the girl who had just wanted to sing was already going quiet.