Page 39 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

“Don’t play his game. Play yours.”

― Rachel Caine

Scarlett

I wore grey blue like silence wears the sky

Kept my mind heart locked, didn’t ask why

Rooms full of people but no one came saw

What life loneliness does when it learns to draw

With a groan, I tore the sad attempt at lyrics from my notebook and crushed it into a tight, angry ball.

I lobbed it across the room, where it joined a scattered army of failures.

Crumpled pages were everywhere: under the vanity, beneath the dresser, peeking out like the ghosts of songs that had never gotten the chance to breathe.

I collapsed into silk sheets and let the covers swallow me. I stared at the ceiling like it held the answer, like the cracks in the paint might rearrange themselves into lyrics worth bleeding for.

You’d think that kind of cosmic mercy, finally being free , would come with a lightning bolt of inspiration. Some divine slap across the face that would jolt me out of writer’s block and get me scribbling like Shakespeare with a vendetta.

But no. Just me, surrounded by crumpled paper and silence. Not even self-loathing could scare my muse into showing up.

I could hear them sometimes: fans, strangers, sweet little voices from across the world. Echoes of their shaky voices and trembling confessions.

Your music saved me, Scarlett.

You were there when no one else was.

I’m alive because of your songs.

Good for them.

Meanwhile, I was here, drowning in my own silence. And nothing I’d ever written had saved me. What a fucking joke.

I was mid-spiral, drowning in crumpled lyrics and mental rot, when my bedroom door slammed open. I physically jumped, hand to my heart. “Fuck?—”

“Does this dress scream whore or wedding guest?” Victoria asked, already halfway into the room and spinning for effect. “Be honest. And why the hell aren’t you dressed? We’re leaving in twenty minutes, Scar. Angelo’s going to throw a fit if we’re late.”

“Vic, knock. Jesus . I nearly had a heart attack.”

I sank back into the pillows. “What if I was doing something important? Like actually writing. God forbid.”

Victoria ignored me and started rifling through my closet.

I sighed. “I don’t want to go.”

“Too bad. You’re going.”

“I don’t want to see Angelo.”

That made her pause.

I sat up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. “I’m serious. I don’t want to fake smile for that traitor and pretend we’re still all one big happy dysfunctional creative family team.”

“Scarlett?…”

“No. He sold me out, Vic. He let my father make me disappear .”

Victoria sat beside me, legs tucked up, and reached for my hands.

“He came every week,” she said quietly. “With Jade. To see you in rehab, babe.”

I looked away.

“He apologized a thousand times.”

Angelo, Jade, Victoria, Alexsei, and his wife, Caia, were the only ones to visit me with any regularity. My mom and Kiara had come too, but just three times that entire year, sneaking in like strangers so my dad wouldn’t know.

In the beginning, I’d refused to see anyone. I was too sedated, too shell-shocked to do anything but stare at the ceiling and pretend I wasn’t falling apart.

They’d kept coming anyway. Week after week. Fresh bouquets of lavender had appeared in my room, always on the same day. A silent peace offering.

Still, I refused.

Eventually, the silence had started to drive me insane, and I’d given in. Let them in. But not without conditions.

If they hadn’t brought sweets or chocolate, I sent them right back out. I’d made sure they knew I was pissed, and blamed them for everything I could.

But the truth?

Deep down, I knew I’d needed it.

I was an addict. An alcoholic.

“Your father did everything behind everyone’s back. By the time you were in that helicopter, it was too fucking late.” Her voice cracked at the end, and when I glanced back, her eyes were glassy.

I yanked my hands away. “If you’re about to cry, I swear I’ll slap you so hard you won’t be able to smile for a week.”

She blinked, then laughed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “No worries. I’m practicing my resting bitch face anyway.”

“Good,” I muttered, leaning against her shoulder. “You’ll need it. That party’s going to be a nightmare.”

She let out a laugh, grabbed my arm, and tugged me up with zero patience for my whining. “Up. Now.”

Before I could protest, she was dragging me across the room and gently shoving me into the bathroom like I was a stubborn toddler.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Everyone clapped. The Lazzios, the Harpers, distant cousins in pastel suits, people I didn’t even recognize. Some distant aunt actually wiped a tear. Someone whistled.

Angelo took Jade by the waist, dipped her like they were on Dancing with the Stars , and kissed her with so much passion I almost needed a censor warning.

The church bells started ringing right on cue, and soft piano floated through hidden speakers like we were inside a rom-com.

It was beautiful. Sickeningly so.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and crossed my arms. “God, I hate weddings.”

Nicholas leaned in, sunglasses perched halfway down his nose. “You’re just jealous of happiness, matching florals, and legally binding commitment, Scarlett.”

“Keep talking and I’ll drag you into the bouquet toss.”

“Gladly. I’ve got better aim than half these bridesmaids.”

Victoria clapped softly beside us, eyes glassy, lips pressed together like she was watching a Nicholas Sparks movie.

“Let her have her moment,” I muttered. “She’s been dreaming about a ring since she hooked up again with Charles Williams four days ago.”

Nicholas raised a brow. “The investment banker with the veneers?”

Victoria sniffled. “He has kind eyes.”

“He has a kind income,” I shot back.

She laughed but didn’t argue.

We stepped out of the main room and followed the crowd toward the reception hall tucked behind the church.

The dining room was cathedral-sized, draped in white linen and gold ribbon, the buffet tables lit from underneath like a jewelry display. Waiters glided past in matching tuxes, balancing trays of lobster bites and champagne.

Above us, the mosaic ceiling glittered in shades of gold and deep blue, angels and stars and stained-glass saints watching over everyone’s expensive joy.

Victoria let out a soft gasp beside me. “It’s perfect. I want to get married right here. Right under that ceiling.”

Nicholas took a flute of champagne from a tray. “You also said you hated men a week ago.”

She ignored him, too busy twirling in slow circles, taking in the candlelight and the flowers and the pianist softly playing in the corner.

I just nodded and walked past another towering cake.

Victoria looped her arm through mine again, sighing happily. “Tell me this doesn’t make you believe in love just a little .”

I exhaled through my nose. “No. But it makes me believe in the open bar.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my aunt Monica waving like she was on a lifeboat and trying to bulldoze through a sea of guests to get to me.

The panic was immediate. I quickly yanked my arm free from Victoria.

“I need my daily apple juice, sweet and served in a glass the size of my unresolved issues. I’ll be hiding in the kitchen before anyone asks me if I’m still mentally fragile. ”

Victoria shot me a look. “Your dentist is going to kill you with all that sugar.”

I shrugged. “Juice gives me a sugar high, alcohol wrecked my entire twenties. Easy choice.”

She laughed. “Same. I’d need a twelve-step program for my online cart, not my liver.”

Nicholas raised his glass, completely unbothered. “You’re both exhausting.”

Victoria tossed her hair and followed him. “By the way, I don’t hate all men, for the record. Just the ones who flirt like it’s their job and then disappear for three to five business days.”

He raised a brow. “So basically, every straight man with a pulse?”

I didn’t stay to hear them argue over the fate of romance.

I slipped behind a waiter balancing a stack of empty trays and ducked through the swinging kitchen doors like I had urgent business to do, which I did: escaping.

He gave me a look like I’d just wandered off a red carpet and into food service by mistake.

Inside, the kitchen screeched to a halt. Chefs, servers, dishwashers—everyone froze mid-motion. One guy was mid-pour. A girl dropped a spoon. All of them just staring.

“Oh my god, that’s Scarlett Har?—”

I snatched a fancy bottle of sparkling apple juice off the nearest counter—it honestly looked like champagne—and popped the cork after double-checking the label.

“Hi. Yes. It’s me. No, I’m not lost. And yes, I know you all signed NDAs, so let’s not ruin the moment. Pretend I’m a ghost. A really hot, weird, emotionally unavailable ghost.”

A few nodded. Someone cleared their throat. The pastry chef fake-coughed into a meringue. I gave them my best red-carpet smile, heels clicking dramatically as I made my way across the kitchen, then pushed open the back door and stepped into the alley behind the church.

Quiet. Cool. Blessedly people-free. Heaven.

I set the bottle down and fished a cigarette and my lighter out of my clutch.

Slipping it between my lips, I lit it and took a long, unbothered drag. The smoke curled around me as I leaned against the brick wall and finally exhaled.

I closed my eyes. Let the stress bleed out, one overpriced puff at a time.

Then a voice ruined it.

“Still a little brat and an addict. Guess even rehab can’t fix what’s permanently broken.”

My pulse didn’t spike. My breath didn’t hitch. I just stood there, cigarette between my fingers, eyes still closed. I didn’t need to see him to know. His voice was a scar I could still feel.

And the second it hit the air, my body reacted before my mind could keep up. A slow crawl at the back of my neck. A pull deep in my stomach, messy and warm. And I hated how good it still sounded. How much I felt it anyway.

I took a long drag, letting the smoke fill me. Bought myself a second.

Of course it was him . Of course he’d show up now . Of course he’d still know exactly where to cut.

Then I exhaled, lips barely parted.

We hadn’t even touched, yet my body was already betraying me. Clenched thighs. Shallow breath. Like muscle memory could still get drunk off his voice.

I kept my eyes closed. “Still obsessed with stalking me, I see. Guess some things don’t change.”

“Not stalking, sweetheart, merely observing.” His voice was closer now, smooth, bored, and just cruel enough to sting.

I heard the sound of his shoes on stone. “Can’t help it,” he added, his tone sliding straight into my spine. “You’re finally becoming what I always suspected you were.”

I exhaled a stream of grey smoke, cigarette shaking just slightly between my fingers. “Which is?”

“Pretty ruined.”

I opened my eyes. The bottle was still near my foot. For a second, I imagined picking it up, cracking it against his jaw, and watching the blood drip down the collar of whatever overpriced shirt he was wearing.

But then I looked at him. And fuck .

Grey eyes, same as I remembered, only colder. Lips I wanted to bite just so I could make him bleed. His hair was longer now, brushing his ears, a little messier, a little meaner.

He wasn’t in uniform. No badge. No bulletproof vest. No gun strapped to his chest. Just a suit made for sin, two buttons undone like a dare, and eyes that made me forget every lie I’d rehearsed.

He stood there, black on black, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just crawled out of my past to wreck me all over again.

Worst of all?

It was the first time I’d seen him in a suit—and I was so turned on I nearly forgot I wanted him dead. God, I couldn’t even blink. My skin felt too tight. My mouth dry. My pride flaked off with every second I let him look at me like that.

“Shouldn’t you be in France? Baguettes, bored models, drowning in red wine and self-pity?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he erased it quickly, like it didn’t belong there. “Just came to see if half-Italian, half-American girls were still desperate enough to fall for me.”

I hummed, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under my heel.

“You’re a year too late, soldier. Turns out desperation’s good for something. Landed me a man who’s sweet, stable, and doesn’t throw me to the wolves.”

His jaw twitched. It was quick, but I saw it.

“Ah yes, Nicholas Preston. Never figured you for the actor type. But then again, liars do tend to stick together.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Liar? He was calling me a liar now?

I crossed my arms, nails digging into my skin. Took one step closer before stopping myself, because that was the line. Any closer, and I wasn’t sure what my body might give away.

“What can I say? Lying suits me. Makes everything prettier.” I smiled like I hadn’t just imagined punching him in the throat. I leaned in just enough. Let the venom drip. “But that makes two of us, doesn’t it, Mister LeRoy?

Promise you’ll come back to me.

I promise, Scarlett.

His jaw clenched.

“Anyway, I’d hate to keep my boyfriend waiting. Be a doll and crawl back to France. Or whatever hole you came out of.”

His eyes flicked over my face. Slow, unreadable. “Lazzio requested me for the day.” He tilted his head, just a little. “Security detail. I’m not going anywhere.”

My heart pulled tight in my chest, sharp and stupid. One word from Lazzio, and he showed up like he’d never left. But for a whole year, he couldn’t bring himself to visit. Not once. No call. Not even a fucking scrap of paper with his name on it.

I’d waited. I’d hoped. I’d begged the universe. Nothing. I would’ve crawled on glass just to hear him say my name.

But he’d let the silence answer for him.

He is just not that into you, Scarlett.

I looked at him. The air felt thick, like breathing him in was the mistake I kept making. “So, you do know how to take orders. Good to know.” I tilted my head, my smile like a blade. “You forgot my birthday present, soldier. You’re a few days late.”

I let the silence bite.

“Per usual. Never here when it matters.”

He barely looked at me. “I don’t celebrate birthdays.”

I laughed once. “Why? Too joyful for a dead soul like yours?”

His eyes darkened. “Something like that, beauté .”

Heat crept on my cheeks as memories flooded in. His hands on my hips, him deep inside of me.

Merde, beauté. You sore?

I turned and quickly walked back through the kitchen. Two waitresses stopped me, wide-eyed and holding their phones. My heart was clawing up my throat, but I smiled anyway. I posed, said thank you, and nodded when they said they loved me.

I slipped back out and found Victoria and Nicholas, pretending I wasn’t unraveling by the second. I smiled. I clinked glasses. I stayed pretty.

But inside, I burned like a girl too stupid to stop wanting the man who had left her to rot.