Page 5 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Four

“There are different kinds of fathers.Those who love unconditionally, those who love on condition,and those who never love at all.”

― Tricia Levenseller

Scarlett

With tight shoulders, a clenched jaw, and a furrow so deep it looked like he was trying to carve a new fault line into his skull, Lucius Harper was pissed.

He sat on his throne by the office window, surrounded by dark wood and gold accents. The kind of decor that didn’t whisper wealth, it shoved it down your throat. Every inch of the room flexed his power, his success, and his unbearable ego.

A cigar clung to his mouth as his eyes tracked raindrops down the glass. And I, after years of dodging and decoding every twitch, knew exactly what this meant.

I was royally screwed.

I cleared my throat. My version of tapping the mic before announcing bad news. His gaze snapped to me, then slid back to the window.

As a kid, I’d never stopped to admire the grandeur. I had been too busy trying to survive. Too busy chasing perfection. Gold bars were still bars.

A gilded cage was still a cage.

They’d bought this mansion when I was five. Mom had been pregnant with Kiara, and our old house wasn’t good enough anymore. So, they’d upgraded. Seven bathrooms. Eight bedrooms. A tennis court. Home cinema. A pool big enough to drown a country. A forest that wrapped around the property.

So much space. So much excess. And yet, never enough air.

I crossed the room slowly, like I was approaching a wild animal. My heels barely made a sound on the wood, but the silence made every step feel like a gunshot.

His desk was a mahogany monster. Very little cluttered the surface: a crystal decanter, a few useless pens, and the infamous gold bust of Julius Caesar.

I picked it up, solid gold and heavy as hell, then ran my thumb along the face.

Caesar.

The dictator stabbed by his own friends.

My father puffed his cigar, eyes locked on the storm, probably dreaming up new ways to ruin someone’s week.

I spun the bust lazily. “What do you think he was thinking right before they shanked him? Maybe, ‘Oh look, my bestie Brutus. What a surprise. Oh no!’”

Still nothing. Just another drag of smoke. I tapped Caesar’s nose and set it down with a soft clink. Then came the sigh.

Not just any sigh.

The sigh.

The one that said, I hate that you’re my daughter , but unfortunately , you are .

The one that carried all the weight of a man who had everything yet still managed to be miserable.

He stood and took my wrist. Not hard. Not soft. Just enough to remind me of the rules.

A warning, dressed like affection.

“How much?”

I stared back, my face blank. Pulse steady. If he wanted a reaction, he could earn it.

I blinked. “What?”

I said it like I didn’t already know.

Drugs.

How much I’d bought. How much I’d used. How much I might still have in my system.

Unfortunately for him, and tragically for me, I hadn’t touched anything in a week.

A full, awful, clear-headed week.

And I felt fine. But now, standing here under his gaze, I wished I was high. Or unconscious.

He turned toward me, grip tightening. “How much, Scarlett?”

“Enough to pretend being a Harper is a privilege and not a curse.”

I should’ve seen it coming. Of course he hit me. It was a family tradition by now. But each time, it felt as though a part of me withered away.

His palm struck my cheek. My skin lit up, my eyes burned, and my hand flew to cover the sting. He sighed as though I’d ruined his day and let go.

He sat back down on his chair and took another puff from his cigar, lost in his delusion that he was some misunderstood titan instead of a tyrant with a trust fund.

I rolled my jaw side to side, checking if he’d dislocated anything. Spoiler: he hadn’t.

Shame.

Might’ve been the only interesting thing about this little tantrum.

“I got a demand for a hundred grand,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “From some nobody with photos of you near 149th. Care to enlighten me how exactly you ended up there, alone? Or have you gotten so reckless you can’t even find someone to score for you?”

My lungs tightened. Fucking stalkers. A girl can’t even fall apart in peace.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“It’s not about the money, Scarlett,” he exploded, loudly enough to make my eardrum file for divorce.

Next time, I’d bring noise-canceling headphones and holy water.

“And where was Kyle?” His voice dropped lower. Deadlier. “We pay him millions to keep you breathing, and you let him off duty while you play junkie in a back alley?”

Shit.

I swallowed. “He didn’t know.”

“He didn’t know?”

“I told him I was going to church. Said I’d be back in an hour. Gave him the night off.”

He laughed—old, hollow, poisoned.

“ Church ,” he repeated. “So, while your bodyguard is on vacation, you’re out acting like some second-rate whore with a coke budget?”

My jaw clenched. But I didn’t crack. Not in front of him.

“I needed air.”

“Oh, you needed air?” He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “You’re not some sad little girl with a daddy complex and a self-care routine. You’re an empire. If you want to break down, do it in Saint-Tropez.”

I stared at his mouth, wondering if I could punch it without ruining my manicure.

“Don’t do it in Harlem where every bottom-feeder with a burner phone wants to watch you crash.”

I crossed my arms, trying to ignore the lingering ache on my cheek. “I wasn’t thinking about headlines.”

“No. You weren’t thinking at all. That’s the fucking problem. A hundred grand. That’s what it took for some stranger to threaten your life. That’s what you’re worth now?”

I swallowed. “If this is about Page Six ?—”

Snap.

His cigar cracked in half, ash hitting the floor like falling glass as he pushed to his feet and rounded the desk.

“You think I care about Page Six ?” His voice dropped. “This isn’t about gossip. This is about you . The face of my fucking legacy. Running around like a spoiled little girl with my name stuck to her back.”

He stepped closer. “While I spend decades turning dirt into gold, you’re out there turning gold into filth.”

A pause.

“Forget Page Six . Try explaining to my board why my daughter’s on drugs, on her knees, or on breakdown number five this quarter.”

The silence that followed was ice cold.

“After all the shit with Luke Conrad, you still don’t know how to act?” he said, voice sharp. “Christ, Scarlett. If you want to die too, at least do it right. But leave my fucking empire out of your mess.”

“Some Tylenol and sleeping pills, please.”

The old woman pushed her glasses up, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied me. I could feel the shift, despite the sunglasses and hoodie, when she realized exactly who I was.

She nodded slowly, her white blouse hugging her body just a bit too tightly, and turned to move toward the back. As she walked away, my nails clicked against the counter.

The meeting with my father had gone exactly as expected.

Miserable .

His cold, disgusted gaze had never left me, his words digging into my chest like a thousand needles.

I was the biggest pop star on the planet with stadium tours, performances for the president, millions of fans, billions in the bank. Grammys, an Oscar. I had it all , yet somehow, he still managed to make me feel like the lowest piece of shit to ever walk the earth.

No matter what I did, no matter how high I climbed, I’d never be enough?…?because I was me . That was my curse.

Being born Scarlett Harper, and not someone else.

The second Luke’s name had left his mouth, I’d bolted from that mansion before he could say another word, the taste of his anger still sharp on my tongue.

My heart couldn’t take it. I couldn’t let myself think about Luke without wanting to throw myself off the nearest bridge.

I hadn’t stayed long enough for Mom to kill the silence with gossip—who was sleeping with who, or whatever New York’s latest scandal was. And my sister?

She’d be waiting to ask me for yet another boy bander’s number, her voice sweet as if I’d forgotten how many times she’d already asked.

No.

I couldn’t bear it. So, I’d left. Quietly, unnoticed, and without a single look back.

In the rearview mirror, I saw the cut on my cheek, a tiny trail of blood already staining the skin.

Now I found myself in some random pharmacy five minutes from home, searching for whatever would knock me out for twelve straight hours and numb the pain in my cheek?…?and my soul.

It wasn’t the first time my father’s hand had struck me, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The lady returned with two small boxes, slid them into a plastic bag, and handed it over. Her eyes burned into my cheek.

One. Tw ? —

“Would you mind taking a picture and signing an autograph, Miss Harper? My granddaughter is absolutely obsessed with you?…”

I let out a long breath, plastering on a smile that didn’t even come close to my eyes. It was muscle memory now: smile, sign, survive.

I took off my sunglasses and slaved away, hoping I could make it out of there before anyone else decided I was their chance to feel important while my own world fell apart.