Page 52 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

― Sarah Williams

Scarlett

Four years ago

“You are the shame of this family,” my father said coldly. “I can’t believe you made such a spectacle of yourself.”

He said it like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting to say it for years.

Blood dripped from my nose onto the tile, but I didn’t move. The ringing in my ears was louder than him. Louder than everything. His shoes appeared in front of me. Polished leather, black as ink.

Always spotless, unlike me .

The sitting room smelled of old cigars and scotch. Everything was gold and marble and dark wood with heavy furniture, stiff curtains, and velvet chairs no one actually sat in.

But my shame hung thicker than the smoke curling up from the fireplace.

I kept my eyes down until they hurt. When I finally looked up, my vision blurred.

His face swam into focus, red with anger.

“Christopher Dawson is a close friend,” he sneered. “And I won’t let your pathetic little circus ruin his final night on American soil. That performance was already humiliating. But vomiting in the hallway? Are you that desperate to be a disgrace?”

He let out a sharp laugh, stepping back to wipe his beard with the back of his hand. “Get up. Clean yourself. And act like someone worth our name. If you embarrass me again, you won’t like what happens next.”

He didn’t look at me when he left. He never did. The door closed behind him like he was erasing me.

Kiara ran to me. She dropped to her knees, hands shaky as she tried to help me up. Her eyes were glossy, red at the edges.

Our mother was crying in the corner, quiet, useless tears. She always cried after he hit me.

“God, Scar, what is wrong with you?” Kiara’s voice broke.

She wouldn’t understand. My father had never laid a finger on her. Not once.

I used to thank God for that .

I was glad for that. Even if a sick, buried part of me hated her for it.

Now I wasn’t sure if it was mercy or favoritism. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

I wore the bruises so she wouldn’t have to, and it had wrecked us both in different ways.

She got to be the version of a daughter he could show off.

I got to be the lesson he taught by example.

“I’m fine,” I muttered, wiping the warm blood off my lips with the back of my hand. “Drunk, that’s all.”

“ And high,” Kiara sighed.

My mother stepped closer, her silk dress rustling. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and began cleaning my face like I was still her little girl.

“You should’ve behaved, dolcezza ,” she whispered. “You know how he gets when he’s angry. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just?…?overwhelmed. He’s doing this because he loves you.”

We both knew that line by heart. I was tired of pretending it ever made it easier.

I didn’t know which part left the deeper bruise: the slap, or the way no one ever stopped him from raising his hand.

I didn’t say anything. Not because I didn’t have words, but because I’d already said them all to myself. A thousand times. In the dark. In mirrors. In bathtubs with the faucet running to drown out the sound. And none of them ever made a difference.

He loves you .

That’s what they’d said.

That sentence had been used so many times in our house it had lost all meaning.

Every slap, every bruise, every time he looked at me like I was something rotting in the corner—all of it wrapped in that word like it made it holy.

And maybe it would’ve hurt less if they’d just said the truth out loud.

That he was mean. That he was cruel. That sometimes I thought he only remembered I was alive when he was yelling or throwing something or calling me a fucking disappointment.

But no. It was always love .

It was love when he yanked me by the arm hard enough to leave fingerprints. Love when I couldn’t hear out of one ear because he had screamed too close. Love when I’d woken up with dried blood on my lips and wondered if he was still mad at me.

But for some reason?…?I kept coming back.

I kept waiting for his voice to sound different, for his eyes to soften, for one damn moment where I didn’t have to earn being looked at like I wasn’t worth the floor I was bleeding on.

And I knew it was fucked up .

I knew it made me disgusting, the way I craved his attention even when it came wrapped in violence.

But that’s what happened when you were raised on fear and silence—you started thinking the bruises meant you belonged to somebody. You started mistaking pain for proof. You started believing that if it didn’t hurt, it couldn’t be real.

That was the curse of a daughter .

You took whatever scraps he threw at you and tried to shape them into love.

You twisted yourself into something smaller, something quieter, something that wouldn’t make him angry. And when that didn’t work, you bled a little louder, hoping this time your father might actually see you.

I didn’t want to admit it. Not even to myself.

But there was a part of me that was grateful when he exploded.

Because at least then I wasn’t invisible.

At least then, for five seconds, I wasn’t some useless daughter taking up space in his perfect life.

I was the reason he felt something. Even if it was rage.

“Come on,” my mother said, drying my cheeks. “Go to the bathroom, freshen up, and join us for dinner.”

I nodded as they left, but I stayed behind, piecing myself back together with what little was left.

A heavy sigh left my lips.

Between Luke’s death, the cameras breathing down my neck, the fans who wanted more than I could give, and my father’s never-ending wrath, I felt like I was splitting.

I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know what I wanted. Most days, I didn’t even know if I cared.

So, I drank and did lines.

Lately, that had been the only thing that quieted it.

A butler passed carrying a gold champagne bottle just as I stepped out of the room. I took it from his hands and walked through the hallways, heels clicking against the stone, the bottle already cold against my palm.

Outside, I drew in a breath as winter’s air bit at my skin. I was wearing a sleeveless black Schiaparelli dress, tight at the corset and flowing down my legs with a slit.

I was already freezing.

My eyes darted around before the maze called to me. The garden. The hedges. The silence between things.

I kept walking, drinking, the sweetness sinking down my throat and softening everything that hurt.

I didn’t stop until I reached the fountain at the center. Angels and devils carved into marble, staring down at me. Like they knew how far gone I already was.

And maybe they did.

Maybe they’d seen every version of me I was trying to drown.

I drank the last of the champagne and tossed the bottle without thinking. My heels clacked against the stone as I stepped into the fountain, freezing water rushing up my legs. It stole my breath.

I started crying. The kind you couldn’t stop. The kind that came from somewhere deep.

I cried for him.

For my dad.

The one who used to braid my hair, even if it was messy.

Who had made me pancakes shaped like stars and let me eat whipped cream straight from the can.

Who had sat through my tea parties with glitter on his tie and let me win every board game.

Who had run beside me when I’d learned to ride a bike.

Who used to hold my hand when I was scared of the dark.

The one who had called me his precious flower and told me the moon followed me because I was special.

I didn’t know where he’d gone. I didn’t know when I’d become someone he couldn’t even look at.

Something in me cracked.

I sank deeper and threw my head back, letting the water swallow everything .

The world went quiet, and I let go.

I didn’t fight the breath leaving my lungs. I let it slip out, as my heart thudded softer and softer in my chest.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe that was how I’d finally die.

And for a moment?…?that felt like peace.

Strong arms pulled me out of the water before I could finish sinking. My back hit something solid, maybe stone, but I was too drunk to care.

My head lolled to the side, and my lips moved on their own, cursing whoever it was that hadn’t let me die in peace.

The voice that answered was rough and warm in a way that felt unfamiliar.

I felt those same arms carry me through the fog of the maze. The cold stung my skin, my soaked dress sticking to me as I shivered harder with each step.

The moon lit the path.

My vision blurred, but then I saw him. Grey eyes, a gorgeous face, shadows caught along his jaw. I reached out and touched the back of his neck, just to make sure he was real.

He looked like something the sky had sent down to punish girls like me.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice soft and dizzy.

His reply was flat. “No one.”

I brushed his cheek with my hand.

“You feel like an angel,” I whispered.

“You’re drunk.”

I was.

I pressed two fingers against his lips. “You look like one too.”

Then he bit down on my finger. Hard. I flinched.

“Ouch. Asshole,” I muttered. “Guess you’re not an angel after all.”

He asked me things I don’t fully remember. About the drugs. About whether I still wanted to be alive. About my age, my name, maybe more.

But his questions spilled through me like water through broken glass.

My eyes landed on the tattoo inked on his neck. Even with my vision swimming, I could still read the words: à la vie, à la mort .

To life, to death.

He carried me out of the maze like I weighed nothing, my soaked dress clinging to both of us, my body cold and shivering against his warmth.

My lips brushed the side of his throat, more by accident than anything else. But once I was that close, I couldn’t stop myself.

So, I kissed him. Because I was drunk. Because I was hurting. Because he felt like something safe in a world that wasn’t.

My star in the darkness .

Later, I felt a bed under me. Clean sheets, warm air, the quiet hum of safety. His fingers traced my cheek, then my neck, rough but careful. Gentle, like he didn’t want to wake me. And then they disappeared.

I reached for them, but there was only air.

When I opened my eyes again, hours had passed. My head pounded like the world was trying to punish me for being still alive.

I called my driver and went home, still half asleep, my body heavy with regret and self-loathing.

I’d slept for two days after that, but his face stayed with me.

Blurry. Half-lit.

Like a dream I wasn’t meant to remember.

à dieu, mon étoile filante .

He had called me his shooting star.

And he was mine too.

Mon étoile dans l’obscurité .

Two fallen angels who had begged for death, but found each other instead.