Page 41 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Thirty-One

“A lot of you cared, just not enough.”

― Jay Asher

Scarlett

“Now, let’s hear some of the questions your fans are dying to know the answers to.”

The theme music jingled in the background while the camera panned to the audience, and I reached for the glass of water next to me, taking a huge gulp, and set it down gently so no one could see my hand shake.

Live interviews were my favorite. Said no one ever.

They were the perfect cocktail of panic, fake laughs, and knowing your publicist would have a stroke if you went off-script. Say the wrong thing and you’d watch it replay online for the rest of your life.

Lyndsay Peels, legendary for smiling while tearing people apart, held out her glittery pink microphone and passed it to a woman in the third row. The woman stood up slowly, probably mid-forties, with short electric-blue hair and oversized yellow glasses. She pressed a hand to her chest.

“Hi, Scarlett! I’m Gabby. I’m such a huge fan! Oh gosh,” she giggled nervously, “I’m actually shaking.”

The audience laughed and clapped.

“Go ahead, Gabby. I’m listening. But fair warning, some secrets are going to the grave with me, clutching a designer bag and an NDA.”

She giggled, nodding quickly. “I was wondering?…?would you ever dye your hair a different color? I love the red. It’s so you. It’s like your signature. But have you ever thought about changing it?”

I smiled, a little more real this time.

I had been born blonde, bright like the sun, but when I was sixteen, my father had said I needed something to stand out. Something bold. Something people wouldn’t forget.

So, I’d dyed it red.

And somewhere between the lights and the loneliness, I fell for her more than I ever had for myself.

“I don’t think so,” I said, brushing a strand off my shoulder. “It makes me feel powerful. Like?…?a weapon. You know?”

The crowd let out a soft ooh, and I shrugged lightly. “Some days, I don’t feel like myself. Or strong. Or anything. But the red? She shows up even when I can’t. So yeah, she’s staying.”

The audience clapped louder. I took a sip of water like I hadn’t just said something weirdly honest on live TV.

“And it truly suits you so well, Scarlett!” Lyndsay fake-screamed, her eyes glued to the camera like she was trying to seduce it. “Now, we’ve got time for one more question. Who wants to go?”

A sea of hands shot up. The audience stirred with excitement while Lyndsay made her way into the crowd.

I kept my smile fixed, even as my fingers curled into my palm.

Lyndsay stopped at the fifth row and handed her glittery pink mic to a man who stood up slowly. He looked like he was in his late twenties, bald, with a beard so thick and styled it could’ve had its own fan club.

“Hi, Scarlett. I’m Mike,” he said, adjusting the mic a little.

“I just wanted to say thank you for writing Hate the Way I Live . That song genuinely saved me when I was depressed and?…?thinking about doing something I couldn’t come back from.

” He gave a small, shaky smile and let out a quiet breath.

I felt my throat tighten.

“Thank you, Mike. That song means a lot to me too. I’m really glad it found you when you needed it.”

The crowd clapped, a few soft “awws” and sniffles echoing through the studio.

Mike cleared his throat, still holding the mic.

“Anyway?…?I wanted to ask you something.” He glanced down, then back up.

“Living in the spotlight, with all the fame, the millions of people who feel like they have access to you every day—how do you cope? How do you protect the parts of yourself that you want to keep just yours?”

The room went quiet. Even Lyndsay leaned in.

“That’s a really good question.” I paused, letting the words settle. “The truth is?…?I didn’t know what was mine until I didn’t have anything left to protect.”

A few murmurs in the audience. I kept my eyes on Mike.

“When I went away?…? rehab , or whatever pretty word we’re using to make it sound softer, I had nothing. No phone. No people. No noise. Just silence. And that kind of silence makes you ask who you are and what you’ve been giving away just because people expect it.”

Be you, Scarlett. Not the ghost they paint and sell.

As much as I hated admitting it, rehab had taught me one thing. I only had one life, and I’d been wasting too much of it trying to survive instead of actually living. The dream I used to chase—it didn’t fit me anymore. It wasn’t mine now, and maybe it never was.

I let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “So now? I keep some things just for me. Moments, people, memories?…?even pain. Especially pain. I don’t post it, I don’t perform it. I let it be mine. That’s how I cope.”

A beat passed.

I let the corner of my mouth lift, just enough. “Also, therapy. And Ben & Jerry’s. But mostly therapy.”

The crowd clapped and laughed as the theme music played again, filling the studio with its overly cheerful jingle.

Lyndsay made her way back down the steps from the audience, heels clicking, smile glued in place.

She settled into the chair across from mine, flipping her bright blonde hair as the camera zoomed in on her face.

“Now, if you’ve watched The Lyndsay Show , you know we don’t shy away from a little drama?…?or a little chaos.”

The crowd whooped.

“And it just so happens that it’s my turn to ask the juiciest question of the day,” she added, leaning in slightly. “To my favorite guest so far?…?Miss Scarlett Harper.”

The crowd broke into loud applause, some chanting “Lyndsay! Lyndsay!” as the jingle faded into a suspenseful quiz-show sting.

I smiled on cue. Inside, my stomach curled like it already knew this was the part where things stopped being cute.

She reached for the stack of cards on the coffee table, flipping through them with manicured fingers as the crowd giggled in anticipation. She paused on one, her brow lifting just enough to signal trouble.

“You recently went public about your relationship with Nicholas Preston—actor, Oscar nominee, and according to the New York Times , the next Leonardo DiCaprio.”

She glanced up, her smile teasing. “Would you say Nicholas is?…? the one ?”

I want you, Scarlett. Je te veux comme un fou .

The crowd let out a dramatic “ooh,” and the camera zoomed in on my face like I was about to propose or combust.

I reached for my glass of water, taking the kind of sip that screamed I was buying time. My eyes scanned the ceiling, the crowd, the exit sign.

“Well,” I said, with a blink, “as I mentioned earlier, I keep some things just for me now.” I leaned back, giving my best innocent smile.

The crowd clapped for what felt like the hundredth time, and Lyndsay laughed like we were best friends and not two women with publicists holding loaded phones backstage.

She turned to the camera, her voice bright. “I know that’s right! We’ll be right back after the break. And up next, my second guest of the night. Don’t go anywhere!”

She stood and I followed, rising with the same practiced grace I’d been taught since I was sixteen. She pulled me in for a quick hug, all glitter and stage perfume. A beat later, the producer called “cut,” the cameras stopped rolling, and the lights began to dim.

Grin still plastered on, I waved once more, then turned and made a beeline for my dressing room before anyone could stop me.

“You did amazing, babe,” Victoria said, already unzipping the back of my Victoria Beckham dress. “You only looked mildly hostage. Super chic.”

“Love that for me,” I muttered, kicking off my heels.

I slipped into yoga pants and threw on my favorite oversized Linkin Park shirt, the one that hit mid-thigh. “Talk shows are evil. I stand by that.”

“I know,” she said, tossing me my hoodie. “But the good news is, you’re officially free for the weekend. Which means?—”

“Nope,” I said, pulling the hoodie on and dragging the hood over my head.

She groaned. “Scarlett, come on! You’ve been back for almost two months, and we haven’t gone to the club once. Not even a tragic lounge bar with sad lighting.”

“No,” I repeated, flopping onto the couch. “I’m staying in. I’ve got plans. With my bed.”

“Please,” Victoria whined, digging through her bag for god knows what. “Nicholas wants to go too. Apparently, he and Matthew had a whole fight about their cats this morning.”

I blinked at her. “Their cats?”

“Yes. Something about one of them being emotionally manipulative and the other shedding on Matthew’s silk pillows.”

I stared. “Nicholas wants to go clubbing because his cat hurt Matthew’s feelings?”

“Yes,” she said without blinking. “And since we’re already dealing with one gay crisis and one fake relationship, why not kill two birds with one Chanel clutch?

Go out, party, get some cute paparazzi shots for the press.

It’ll help your image, and people will finally believe he’s actually the one . ”

I groaned, pulling a pillow over my face. “This is what I get for agreeing to a PR romance with a man who owns more skincare than I do.”

“Oh, and that’s not it,” Victoria said with a laugh, the kind that avoided eye contact. I’d known her for years. That fake little laugh, the way her lashes fluttered—it only meant one thing.

She knew something. And she was afraid I’d flip.

I lowered the pillow and narrowed my eyes. “What, Vic?”

She giggled nervously, busy pretending to fold my dress into its garment bag. “I think you need to see it yourself, but?…?just so you know, it was Angelo’s idea.”

“ Tu, figlio di puttana! ”

The space looked more like a luxury vault than a workplace—floor-to-ceiling glass cases lined the walls, displaying priceless Lazzio artifacts under soft spotlights. Ancient Roman coins. Handwritten opera scores. A gold-plated violin in a sealed case like it had just been rescued from God himself.

And dead center in all that cultured history? Angelo, behind his mahogany desk, with Jade straddling his lap. Her fingers were curled around his tie. His mouth was an inch from hers.

They both jumped, but Angelo’s surprise vanished fast, replaced by an eye roll.

Jade just smiled wider. “Scarlett! Oh my god?—”

“Sorry, Jadie. Let me kill your husband first, then we can catch up.”

She laughed and slid off his lap with a practiced little sway, while he held on to her hand.

“He’s all yours,” she said, brushing nonexistent lint from her dress.

Angelo leaned back in his chair. “Well, grazie , amore, ” he said dryly. “Didn’t realize my own wife would put a hit out on me, again .”

Jade giggled, grabbed his chin, and dropped a kiss on his mouth before sauntering out of the room.

“It better be fucking important if you’re making my wife leave, Scar.”

I smiled, slow and poisonous, arms crossing like I needed them to hold the rest of me back. “Oh, it is. I just came to check something. You’re not only a backstabbing piece of shit, Angelo—you’re a full-blown sadist now, too?”

He scratched the side of his face, unbothered. “Ah. You heard about LeRoy.”

I laughed once. No humor. Just teeth.

“Heard? I nearly threw a chair through a window, if that counts. Tell me—what the actual fuck were you thinking? Out of every security firm, every man on payroll, hell, every stranger off the damn street —you picked him ? Again?” I took a step forward, my voice dropping.

“Do you hate me that much? Or are you just trying to finish what my father started?”

Angelo let out a heavy sigh, the kind meant to sound tired and wise, but all I heard was guilt dressing itself up in patience. He got up from his chair, circled the desk and leaned against it, arms crossed.

“I didn’t know your father was going to fucking exile you, Scarlett,” he said, eyes locked on mine.

“I had an urgent call from China, took it, and when I came back, no one was there. I assumed he took you to the Hamptons. Or maybe his condo in Manhattan. Not?…” He looked away. “Not fucking Minnesota.”

I scoffed, folding my arms tighter so I didn’t reach for something to throw.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that version. You were clueless, shocked, heartbroken.

Save it.” I stepped in close. “What I care about is why LeRoy? Why him ? In my place? The man fucking knew what my father was planning. And now I’m supposed to let him waltz back into my life, onto my team, like none of it fucking happened? ”

Angelo went quiet, jaw clenched, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

He looked at me for a long second. “I’m indebted to him.”

“ Indebted ?”

“He saved my life.”

I laughed, low and humorless. “And what the fuck does that have to do with me?”

He lifted a shoulder. “He’s the best at what he does.”

“Go on then. Enlighten me, Lazzio. What is it exactly that the mute French psychopath excels at?”

Angelo didn’t look away. “Protecting you, Scarlett.”