Page 3 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Two

“What was it about being so close to danger that filled us with adrenaline?”

― Charlie Donlea

Scarlett

20 years old

Six years ago

“Thank you so much, Houston! You were electric tonight!” I blew a kiss, breathless and raw. “We were Little Angels, baby!” I bowed low, arms wide, soaking in the roar as the floor began to descend. “Get home safe, y’all! I love you!”

The stage swallowed me.

My purple-sequined mic caught one last flash of the strobe, throwing light like a disco ball in heaven’s hands. Above me, the crowd screamed, wild and endless. My in-ear monitors dangled around my neck like broken wings.

The final chords of “Rodeo Girl” rattled the stadium. Bubblegum cowgirl nonsense, but it sold millions. Fireworks ripped the sky open in red and silver.

Below, my team had already moved into formation. My stylist peeled the mic from my hand and removed the tape from my back. My assistant shoved a cold bottle of water into my grip and dabbed my temple. Stagehands gave me nods and grins, their boots muddy, their faces lit up from our shared high.

I ducked under scaffolding and blinking cables, careful not to smack my head. Everything pulsed—lights, static, adrenaline. The hallway backstage buzzed with movement.

My publicist spoke to someone I couldn’t see. My choreographer was mid-rant. My vocal coach mouthed proud as I passed.

My bandmates were already half out of costume, glitter smudged and sweat shining. They held up their hands for high fives I barely caught.

I collapsed into the makeup chair. Glam moved fast. Pins snapped from my hair. Lashes peeled off. Lipstick was wiped away like war paint after a battle I hadn’t agreed to fight.

With each tug, each smear, I felt myself return. Not the girl on stage, but the one underneath.

“You were amazing,” said Michael, my choreographer and personal tyrant. “Way better than Austin. That said, three things we need to tweak before LA.”

“Hold still,” my hairstylist said softly. “This pin’s caught.”

“Miss Harper?” My assistant hovered nearby. “Your father’s flying in early. Also, there’s a call from Harper Media?—”

“Snack tray, Miss Harper,” someone added, sliding a dish of almonds and fruit beside me.

“There was a slip-up in Act Two. ‘Barrel of My Heart.’ Tiny, but let’s review it before soundcheck,” said my coach, already pulling up the footage.

“Miss Harper?—”

“Scarlett—”

“Miss Harper?—”

There were too many voices. Too many hands. Phones in my face. Snacks in my lap. A mirror reflecting someone who looked like me but wasn’t.

I stood up so fast the chair slammed into the wall, my hands flying to my ears.

“Enough!” I shouted. “Everybody out! Please! Now!”

The room froze.

A half-eaten strawberry dropped back onto the tray. Someone’s phone beeped. Michael blinked mid-sentence. A cotton pad hovered in the air.

“I said get out. Please !”

Footsteps shuffled. Chairs scraped.

One by one, they backed out. Some looked at me with pity. Some looked relieved.

I didn’t care. I didn’t even look. I just stood there, fists clenched, eyes burning, chest shaking, silence finally mine.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

It had been two years. Two relentless, gold-dipped years of being Scarlett Harper, the superstar.

I had released two albums, the second a Grammy darling, and the world tour stretched endlessly. Shows ran every other night while hotels blurred together, cities folding into one another until it all felt the same. It had been one long stream of lights, cameras, interviews, and stage smoke.

There were fan meet-and-greets, talk show couches, magazine covers, and ten million fake smiles. Five number-one singles stayed glued to the top of the charts, with sold-out arenas, designer dresses, red carpets, and Paris Fashion Week layered in between.

Every minute had been poured into building the myth of Scarlett Harper. And tonight, for the first time, I felt it.

This emptiness. Bone deep. Soul deep.

The kind of exhaustion that makes your hands shake and your voice vanish.

All I wanted was one day. One night. Alone. No stage. No cameras. No lights. Just sleep.

But I couldn’t.

Tomorrow was SoFi Stadium. My first stadium show—the biggest night of the tour. The one that was supposed to make history.

I braced myself on the makeup table, fingers pressing into the edge until my knuckles turned pale. My head dropped low. My knees threatened to give.

There was nothing left. No fire. Not even smoke.

I let out a cracked breath and looked at my reflection. Sweat clung to my hair. Eyeliner was smudged like ash. My lips trembled. My eyes were glassy and hollow.

It was the face of a girl on the verge.

So, I did the only thing I knew would anchor me. I picked up my phone.

“Hi, Luke. It’s me.”

The suite was all marble and mirrors, screaming luxury.

A coffin for a queen overdosed on her own reflection.

Luke sprawled on the couch, shirt unbuttoned, cigarette already burning.

“I’m tellin’ you, babe, this is the best you’ll find in this goddamn city. You know what they say about LA.”

I pulled the hoodie over my head, stuffing every loose strand of red hair beneath the fabric. I couldn’t risk being seen.

Paparazzi were camped outside like wolves, and if one curl slipped free, just one glimpse of Scarlett Harper, they’d be on me. Flashbulbs. Dirt. Questions about my waist, my sex life, whether I looked bloated at dinner.

One mistake and the night would be shredded by their lenses.

“Let me guess,” I muttered, checking the mirror one last time. “Lip fillers, green juice, and soul-crushing loneliness?”

He laughed, already lighting another cigarette. “Coke, sex, and fairy tales that end in rehab.”

Coke. My chest went tight.

“I’ve never?…” The rest didn’t come out.

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I brought it.”

“I don’t know, Luke. Whatever the hell I smoked earlier was already too much. I just needed something to take the edge off. Two more hits and I’ll be fine.”

He dropped back onto the bed, shoes still on. Careless as always.

“You’re a superstar, Scarlett. Act like one. Weed’s for beginners. You want to give a show tonight? One people will talk about for years? The president’s coming. With his daughters. Just one night.”

Luke Conrad was America’s golden boy. Movie-poster smile, perfect dimples, a lullaby voice that made moms swoon and teenagers dream in glitter. We had sat next to each other at the Versace show in Milan last year.

Two borrowed lives in borrowed clothes.

We clicked between flashes and champagne. He said I looked like I hated everyone in the room. I told him he looked like he loved that about me. We’d been friends since.

Or something like it.

He’d sealed his legacy with The Afterlife —a quiet, aching film where he’d played a man unraveling from grief. His dead wife haunted him, flickering in mirrors and dreams until he couldn’t tell if she was real or just guilt in heels. In the end, he followed her off a cliff.

He’d won the Oscar for Best Actor. Fame turned feral.

But I knew better.

I saw the pills on his nightstand. The shadows beneath the charm. The makeup that couldn’t hide the damage.

Luke didn’t flirt with the edge. He lived there.

He wore a saint’s smile, chased demons for fun, and hated himself with a quiet devotion I tried not to look at too long.

“What does Travis think about this?” I asked, even though I already knew.

The British cameraman hated anything tied to drugs or alcohol, anything that made our world look as rotten as it really was. Even though he worked in it too.

Luke shrugged. “I told him I’d go to therapy.” He took a drag. “But he’s not like us. He doesn’t get it.”

They had met on the set of The Afterlife . He always called Travis his friend, but I saw the way he looked at him.

“I don’t want this,” I said.

And I couldn’t even lie to myself. I wanted to stop him. I really did.

But wanting was soft. And there was no space for soft in this life.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a little white bag like it was nothing. Like it didn’t hold everything I was trying not to feel.

He stepped closer, his hands resting on my shoulders. His eyes met mine in the mirror.

“Your dad’s gonna be there tonight,” he murmured. “And not even everything inside you is enough to face him without shaking. Hell, even I’m scared of Lucius Harper.”

He turned me toward him, his touch slipping away.

“You’re gonna walk out there and show him that you’re the best thing he ever invested in, and the one thing he’ll never fucking own. You’re gonna show him just how much of a superstar you are.”

Something inside me wilted.

Maybe it was the thought of my dad watching with that cold, disappointed look he always wore, waiting for me to fail. Maybe it was knowing that no matter how loudly they screamed my name, none of it would ever be loud enough to drown him out.

Maybe this was the only way to shut it all off.

He crossed the room and poured the bag onto the glass table. The way he did it, like routine, like muscle memory, made my stomach knot.

The card swiped across the surface, then he looked at me with a soft smile.

My voice barely came out. “Show me how, Luke.”