Page 37 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

“Drugs are a bet with your mind.”

― Jim Morrison

Scarlett

“...?new leaked video that appeared last night on an anonymous website shows international superstar Scarlett Harper leaving her hotel room in tears, blood running from her nose, followed closely by her assistant and former bodyguard Kyle Smith, both visibly distressed. Harper, identified by her signature bright red hair, is seen pulling up her hoodie in an attempt to hide her face. The footage is reportedly dated two years ago—the same night young actor Luke Conrad was rumored to have been found dead in Harper’s hotel suite, a claim that was swiftly denied at the time by both her record label and the hotel.

With this new footage surfacing, Luke Conrad’s parents?. ..”

Angelo turned off the TV just as Luke’s face appeared. It was a home video from Christmas. He was smiling widely in front of a glowing tree, arms wrapped around his mother, father, and his boyfriend Travis. A massive Doberman sprawled at their feet, its tail thumping lazily on the carpet.

They looked happy.

Stupidly, wholesomely happy.

I pulled my knees in tighter, arms locking around them like I could hold myself together if I just stayed small enough. My face dropped between them. I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to remember.

But it was too late.

The burn was already there, right behind my eyes, sharp, swollen, and rising too fast. I tried to swallow it down, but failed. The tears came, hot and silent, slipping past before I could fight them.

I had woken up this morning tangled in Théo’s sheets, his arms snug around my waist, his face tucked into my neck. I’d slept better than I had in years.

When he’d gotten up to get dressed, I’d groaned, half asleep, as he smacked my ass on his way out. I must’ve drifted off again, because the next thing I remembered was him kissing me awake, hard, deeply, like he didn’t want to go.

He said he’d call. Then he’d left.

And the second the door closed, I’d felt it—that hollow weight in my stomach, the one that always showed up before something bad happened.

I felt like someone was watching me.

I grabbed one of his shirts and some yoga pants from my closet and made myself eat. Just a bowl of Reese’s cereal with old Housewives of Atlanta reruns humming in the background. I wasn’t really watching, just trying to feel normal.

Then the doorbell rang. Before I could even get up, it opened. My father walked in, Angelo and two other men in suits right behind him.

“What are you?—”

My father threw me his phone without a word, his face red from anger.

I took it, and bile rolled up my throat. I scrolled through the Twitter page he’d opened. Comments. DMs. Screen recordings. Clips edited in slow motion to make me look guilty. Drunk. Dangerous.

I knew this bitch murdered him! Poor Luke!

He was a shit actor, maybe she did us a favor.

Imagine overdosing near this bitch and getting blamed for ruining her career.

Scarlett Harper, the murderer who got away with it.

Rot in jail, whore.

Orange suits you better than Chanel, sweetheart.

How many bodies does it take to get a Grammy nomination, Scarlett?

Bury her career next to Luke. Both are dead, and only one mattered.

I kept reading, even after the phone burned in my hand and my throat had closed. I wasn’t sure what I wanted—just someone, anyone, who didn’t want me dead.

It all got too loud. My chest felt too tight.

“N-No,” I choked out, lips shaking so hard it barely came out.

I got up quickly, stumbling to the bathroom, and dropped to my knees. My stomach flipped inside out as I threw up into the toilet.

Angelo followed me and held my hair back with one hand, rubbing slow circles on my back with the other.

“Breathe, Scarlett,” he said.

That’s all he said.

By the time we came back to the living room, my legs barely worked. I could still feel them trembling under me. Angelo and I sat down without a word.

The two strangers from my label sat stiffly on the couch, both of them in suits, laptops open. Crisis PR.

The television was switched to the news. A blonde woman with a slick ponytail filled the screen, her voice crisp and rehearsed. The headline at the bottom read: Scarlett Harper: America’s Pop Princess, or Cold-Blooded Killer?

Behind me, my father let out a low, bitter laugh. “Luke’s family won’t take the money,” he said. “His parents. They say they want a fair trial.” His voice was calm, almost bored, but I knew that sound. He was trying not to crack his own teeth from the anger building under his tongue.

I didn’t move. I didn’t lift my head.

“Scarlett,” Angelo started, “are you sure you?—”

“If you ask me again,” I said, barely able to speak, “if you ask me one more time, Lazzio, I swear to God, I’ll scream.”

The tears kept falling. Quiet. Constant. My breaths came through clenched teeth, the taste of salt and metal thick in my mouth. I wanted to disappear. Shrink so far into myself I couldn’t be seen.

“This proves nothing,” I said. My voice was barely there. “The video proves nothing.”

The chair scraped back. Then came the sound. His fist hit the table so hard I jumped.

“Nothing?” he barked. “You were the only one with him in the room. We see him enter after you. You come out alone. That’s it. That’s the story. It’s your fucking word against the whole world.”

My throat closed.

“The autopsy said overdose,” he went on. “But people are saying it was you who gave him the drugs.”

“I didn’t,” I said, but it was useless. The words came out broken, almost soundless. “I didn’t give him anything.”

He stared at me like he didn’t know what to believe anymore.

And the worst part? I wasn’t sure I did either.

“We need something to shift the focus off you,” my father said, his voice sharper now. “Anything. A headline. A secret. Something people didn’t know about him. His past, his relationships, something that’ll grab attention. What was the biggest thing Luke Conrad was hiding, Scarlett?”

I shook my head, choking on the sob that broke out before I could stop it.

“No. There wasn’t anything. He was going to come out publicly, that’s all. He was sweet. Gentle. There was nothing dark about him.” My voice cracked. My hands were shaking. “He was my friend.”

My father scoffed. “A friend you left cold and dead on a hotel floor, Scarlett.”

Angelo’s phone buzzed. The two label rats next to him didn’t even look up, just kept tapping on their laptops like vultures recording the downfall.

He stood, took the call, and stepped out of my condo.

“Maybe we can—” I didn’t even finish the sentence.

His hand slammed into my face. My head whipped sideways, a burst of white light detonating behind my eyes. For a second, I didn’t even know where I was. Stars exploded across my vision. I staggered. The pain came fast and blinding. I winced and brought my hand to my cheek, fingers trembling.

“Get up,” he barked. “I’m fucking done with you.”

I shook my head, my crying turning to sobs. Not because I wanted sympathy. Because I was scared. Really scared.

He didn’t wait. He grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. His grip was tight enough to bruise. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like a child again.

Small. Stupid. Powerless.

I struggled in his arms, but it didn’t matter. My body moved, but there was no fight left in it. The two men at the table didn’t look up. Their fingers stayed busy on their keyboards, pretending I wasn’t there. Pretending this wasn’t happening.

My father didn’t let go.

“You’ll thank me later,” he said calmly, like none of it mattered. “Right now, I have to do what I can to save this family.”

I wiped at my face, my breath catching between sobs. “Save us from what?”

He looked at me without a flicker of doubt. “From you.”

I saw the front door of my condo swing open, and two of his men walked in. They grabbed me by the arms and dragged me out. Ten minutes later, I was sitting in his helicopter, the rotors screaming overhead, the roof of my building blurring beneath us.

I begged. I cried. I said I’d get better. That I hadn’t done anything. That I was still me .

No one answered. They shoved me in like I was nothing.

Still in Théo’s shirt. Yoga pants. No shoes. No clue what was coming.

Thirteen years of hell just to find heaven in you.

He had held me all night, then left me for the wolves.

He said I’d be safe. He’d told me nothing would happen to me. And I had believed him.

But maybe he’d lied.

Maybe he knew they were coming. Maybe he let it happen. Maybe he helped.

Maybe that was why he’d left this morning. He’d gotten what he wanted. He’d fucked me, kissed me, and walked out, knowing my father would come.

Maybe that had been the plan all along.

I didn’t know what was worse—the thought that he’d betrayed me, or that he hadn’t cared at all.

I guess monsters didn’t always wear masks. Sometimes they said your name like it meant something, then disappeared when it started to hurt.

No goodbye. No voice left to scream. No choice. Only one destination.

Jasper Rehabilitation Hospital, Minnesota.

The sky outside looked endless. But the doors of the helicopter locked.

This wasn’t help.

It was exile.