Page 6 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Five

“Never throughout history has a man who lived a life of ease left a name worth remembering.”

― Theodore Roosevelt

Scarlett

24 years old

Two years ago

“Tell us about that night, Miss Harper.”

The lights in the press room were hotter than they had any right to be. It felt like I was being slowly roasted. Sweat made a quiet appearance down my spine. Dozens of journalists sat in rows, pens ready, recorders blinking red like tiny bombs.

And once again, I was the flavor of the month. I adjusted the mic with one hand. Let the other rest on the table like I was calm.

I wasn’t. But the trick was making sure they never knew that.

“You’ll have to narrow it down, sweetheart,” I said with a practiced smile. “I’ve had a lot of nights people like to ask about.”

A few laughed. Most didn’t.

This was for River Island Girl , album three. The one I’d nearly choked on before I let it live.

They didn’t want music. They wanted ruin. Something jagged to headline.

I crossed one leg over the other. “If you want to know if the album came from pain, yes. If you’re hoping I’ll lay it out for you, no.”

Click. Tap. Someone raised a hand.

I got there first. “And before you ask, no, the screaming on track nine wasn’t fake. Yes, the bridge on track five was recorded in a bathtub at three in the morning. And no, I don’t plan on explaining who he is.”

Which was a lie. There was no he . There were only they —men I let into my bed, forgotten before sunrise. No names. No voices. Just enough to fill two things: me, and the silence.

That caught them.

I leaned back. “Oh, and yes, the moaning in the outro was me. Sorry to disappoint, Mom.”

A ripple of laughter. Then the flashes began. Click. Snap. Whir. Photographers swarmed just enough to keep it messy. Just enough chaos for the right kind of shot.

Alexandra Jasper from Fox News was already ready. Designer blazer. Red lips. Cold eyes that didn’t look at you so much as scan you. She leaned into the mic like it belonged to her.

“No, Miss Harper,” she said, calm and venomous. “Tell us about that night. The one when you sold out SoFi Stadium. Youngest artist in history. The president personally congratulated you. What did that feel like?”

That night. The night the gates of hell had opened and swallowed me whole, and I still hadn’t climbed back out.

I blinked. The memories were a smear. Like a Polaroid left too long in the rain. Two years later, and I still couldn’t tell you what had been real and what I had hallucinated under the lights, high on whatever cocktail of drugs had been swirling in my veins.

Truth was, I didn’t remember a second of that show. Not the crowd. Not the screams. Not even the fireworks.

Apparently, I’d killed it. That’s what everyone said. That’s what the headlines had screamed. That was what my agent reminded me of every time I spiraled.

Even my father, Lucius Harper, king of contempt and cold stares, had hugged me backstage and told me he was proud.

First time in my life he’d ever said that, and I’d missed it. I’d been too high to even hear him.

I swallowed the knot rising in my throat and plastered on the kind of smile that looks glossy in photos but feels like it’s splitting at the corners. A bead of sweat traced down my neck, mapping every lie I was about to tell.

“It was one of the greatest nights of our lives,” I said smoothly, pretending her question hadn’t rattled me. “The fans were ecstatic. The energy was unreal. We were all buzzing. Felt like the whole stadium could lift off.”

More camera flashes exploded, paparazzi clicking like hungry birds.

“And when we sang ‘A Young Girl’s Dream’ a cappella, that’s when it hit me. I made it. All the pain was worth it.”

I let the words hang long enough to taste them. Long enough to hope no one had noticed the lie tucked beneath my ribs. “And the President was?—”

Alexandra Jasper didn’t let me finish.

“That’s also the same night your friend Luke Conrad was found dead in your hotel suite from an overdose. Cocaine, ecstasy, and?…” She flipped a page and raised a brow. “A blood alcohol level of point four. That’s five times the legal limit.”

Silence swallowed the room. My stomach dropped. The air thickened until I couldn’t breathe.

Luke.

Two years later, the name still sliced through me.

When I’d finally crashed from that chemical high, it had already been three days since the show. Three days of nausea, dread, and the worst comedown of my life. I couldn’t even name half the things I’d taken.

Back home in New York, I’d tried to rest before the final leg of the tour. It had been early afternoon. I was in the bath, warm water and bubbles up to my chin, eyes closed for the first real moment of peace I’d had in weeks.

Then the doorbell had rung.

Once. Twice. Again.

Relentlessly.

I’d dragged myself out of the tub, skin soaked and shivering. Wrapped in a robe, still damp, I padded barefoot through the condo, irritation building.

I checked the camera and frowned. “Lazzio, if this is another family intervention, tell my agent to book a meeting like everyone else?—”

Angelo burst through the door, shoes dirtying my floors, not bothering with hello.

The door slammed behind him. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. Went straight for the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV.

“Angelo! Your shoes,” I snapped.

“What the fuck did you do, Scarlett?”

I froze. Something in the room cracked.

He turned up the volume.

“ ... ? Oscar-winning actor Luke Conrad has been found dead in a Beverly Hills Hotel suite early Saturday morning. The cause is suspected to be a drug overdose. Authorities were alerted by an anonymous 911 call. The actor was discovered unresponsive on the bathroom floor, unclothed. Multiple substances were found on-site, including cocaine, ecstasy, MDMA, and prescription pills, as well as empty bottles of alcohol. Toxicology reports indicate a blood alcohol concentration of point four percent, significantly above legal levels ? ... ”

The voice from the TV kept talking, but I couldn’t hear anything anymore.

All I could see was Angelo’s face, and the look in his eyes when he said, “Scarlett?…?they said it was in your room.”

What followed was a blur of voices and ringing phones, bodies pacing around my condo like it was a crime scene: my publicist, my crisis PR team, my agent yelling into three phones at once, trying to bribe the hotel, its staff, anyone who might’ve seen too much.

My assistant kept shoving tea into my hands like warm liquid could patch the cracks spiderwebbing through my sanity.

I was crying, hysterically. The kind of crying that doesn’t sound human. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t be , while the people around me treated my grief like a PR leak.

Angelo stood by the window, silent but burning. And then?…? Of course.

My father had walked in. Perfect timing, as always.

“Everybody out.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the room like a guillotine. Every phone call stopped mid-sentence. Papers were gathered. Chairs screeched. Someone whispered my name like an apology, but no one dared argue. Not with him .

“Let my daughter breathe for a second,” he added, calm and final. “She needs to rest.”

No one replied. They just?…?left. In a slow, awkward current of guilt and fear and PR panic. I felt all their eyes on me as they passed. Curious. Pitying. Judging.

I didn’t look back at any of them.

Then the front door shut. And just like that, my condo was quiet again. No more phones ringing. No more frantic whispers. No more taste of blood in my mouth from clenching my jaw so hard.

Just me, Angelo standing in the corner, and my father. His hands were in his pockets, staring at the city.

I could still hear the echo of the news anchor’s voice playing in my head. I could still smell Luke’s cologne. My mouth tasted like metal. I wiped my tears with the sleeve of my robe, still trying to believe I wasn’t dreaming.

“You’re going to tell me exactly what happened that night, Scarlett.”

I nodded. What else could I do? My heart wasn’t just sinking. It had already been buried.

And deep down, I knew lying wouldn’t save me. Staying silent wouldn’t either. All it would do was bury me deeper in the grave I was already halfway into.

So, I told them the truth.

That it had been my first time doing cocaine. That Luke had shown me how, right there on the desk. That I’d been nervous. Stupid. I hadn’t wanted to seem like a child, not in front of him.

I remembered how it felt, like my whole chest was filled with bees. My heart was too fast, my skin too tight, and everything around me spun like a carousel I couldn’t get off.

I thought I was going to pass out. Or drop dead. Or both.

I told them I had to sit down, just to breathe. Just to stop the world from falling sideways.

Luke had been drinking half a bottle of something I didn’t recognize, maybe whiskey. Or tequila. He was laughing about something, but the words were already fuzzy, like they came from underwater.

I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t keep up.

Then came the knock. My bodyguard, Kyle.

Who I should’ve fired already because he’d nearly gotten me killed a few weeks prior when he’d “forgotten” to lock the back door at our so-called private concert in Miami. Fans had poured in, and one of them had brought a gun. Cute, right?

I’d almost gotten shot on stage, but plot twist: the guy’s weapon was empty.

Just like my security team’s heads.

He was followed by my assistant, eyes wide and panicked. I was late for the show.

So I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and stared at myself in the mirror like maybe I could fake my way back into being real.

I told Luke I’d see him after the show. He smiled.

God, I think he smiled, and mumbled something about showering first.

Then I’d left.

And that had been the last time I saw him alive. I hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Cocaine.” The word burned like acid on my father’s tongue.

“Of course it was cocaine.” He scoffed, the disgust dripping off each syllable, like the very idea of it made him sick. “Why not make your grand fall from grace just a little more poetic?”

A sob tore from my throat. “I was exhausted. I—I just needed?—”

He cut me off with an exhale, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding as if he were holding something far uglier behind them. I could see the storm brewing in his eyes, and I knew it was only going to get worse.

“My daughter, the shining star,” he spat, his voice like gravel. “Sold-out stadiums, screaming fans, and a bag of blow backstage. Beautiful. You’re fucking perfect.”

I was choking on the guilt, on the humiliation, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I promise it was just this one time! I won’t ever?—”

“So, this is it, huh?” His voice rose. “This is the grand return of the prodigal daughter? My girl was lost, and now she’s found, halle- fucking -lujah?”

His eyes were burning holes into me. Every second felt like a countdown, tense and breathless, ready to break me open.

And then the bomb exploded.

“Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve done?” he roared.

In a blind, raging fury, he reached for one of my vintage, pure-gold candlesticks, the ones that had been passed down for generations, the ones that meant more to me than anything.

He wrenched it from the table and threw it with all the force he had. It smashed against the glass coffee table, the impact sending it shattering into a thousand jagged pieces, the sound deafening as the delicate gold cracked and split.

But that wasn’t enough.

He made his way to the dining table, and with one sweeping motion, he shoved every single vase of flowers to the floor. The vases shattered upon impact, water spilling everywhere, soaking the rugs as petals fluttered down like falling confetti. Glass and broken flowers littered the floor.

Angelo, sensing the danger, quickly stepped in front of me, his body blocking the fury that radiated from my father. He knew all too well the consequences of my father’s wrath, as he’d witnessed it all before.

“Dad, please?…” I choked out, my voice barely above a whisper.

He whirled around, his breath heavy. “Don’t fucking Dad me!” he snarled, his voice jagged. “I’m going to fix this mess, but from this moment forward, I don’t ever want to hear the sound of my fucking name and dead body in the same sentence again! Do you hear me?”

With one last look, he’d turned and stormed out of my condo without a glance back.

He had done exactly what he’d promised. The mess had vanished overnight, burned out of existence. A building had gone up in smoke. Witnesses fell silent. Headlines rewrote themselves. And the bodies? No one had asked.

But there was one thing he couldn’t erase—the wound in my chest. The kind no money, power, or rage could touch.

That scar was mine to carry. Etched deep. Permanent.

Two years gone, and all I could offer was a practiced, broken smile. But behind closed doors, I drank and smoked, whatever I could get my hands on. Anything to quiet my brain and stop the noise for five fucking minutes.

A few days ago, I’d found myself wandering the halls at my parents’ gala. I had thrown up somewhere, passed out completely, and woken the next morning in my bed with my clothes still on and my hair in a braid.

I don’t remember how I got there or what happened in between. All I knew was that I’d made it home somehow, and I thanked my drunk self for keeping me intact.

It should have been a wake-up call. But it wasn’t. It hadn’t dulled the need or tamed the addiction.

The clicking of cameras brought me back.

“Miss Jasper,” I began, my voice a perfect mask of composure. “Luke and I weren’t close. Just two people in the same industry. But let me make one thing clear. The grief his family, his loved ones, and his fans carry is not yours to exploit. It’s not some headline to squeeze for clicks.”

I let the silence hang before continuing.

“Two years later, I still can’t imagine the pain they must feel seeing his name dragged through the mud, over and over again, to sell your headlines. So, if you have even an ounce of decency left in you, maybe it’s time to stop.”

I paused again, my gaze hardening.

“May he rest in peace,” I added, my voice softer, “and may you understand that true empathy isn’t just about putting on a show for the cameras. It’s about humanity. A concept our society seems to have forgotten.”