Page 7 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Six

“Live fast. Die young. Be wild. Have fun.”

― Lana Del Rey

Scarlett

“You should get them pierced.”

I scoffed, taking a slow drag of my cigarette. I slid my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, just enough to glare at People Magazine .

Front cover. Again.

There I was, half naked under the Mexican sun, lying on a beach in Tulum like a tragic Greek goddess mid-breakdown. Big straw hat, red hair spilling out, oversized shades, and the kind of pose that only looks effortless when you’re too numb to care.

A birthday trip for DJ Scott had turned into a national headline.

You could see my tattoos. Not loud or rebellious. Just small reminders of nights I probably shouldn’t have survived. A few inked during a haze. Others from my feel-something era.

Subtle cries for help dressed up as aesthetic choices.

But this morning, Angelo had texted me. “ Paparazzo’s dead. Poisoned in his apartment. Apparently fate’s on your side today. ”

It was the only news that made me smile all week. I didn’t know who had done it, but God, I wished I could kiss them for it.

I tossed the magazine onto the sand and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray.

Today was our last day of this three-day bender.New York’s cold misery was waiting, and I wasn’t about to waste sun, salt, or sin.

“These shots were taken yesterday. Yesterday, Vic. And now my nipples are trending. Do they time-travel? Is there a drone parked in my uterus?” I muttered, lying back down on my towel.

The heat was unbearable.

Victoria laughed and flicked my side. “Picture this: ‘brEAKING NEWS: Superstar Scarlett Harper gets her tits pierced to match her tragic personality. World mourns. Sales rise.’”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I should livestream my next therapy session. Or pierce their hearts with a restraining order.”

Victoria Carter, my stylist and emotional support human, had been my friend for a year. In my world, that might as well have been a decade.

We met at a Dior show. She said she dreamed of styling me. I gave her a shot. She’d showed up the next week with mood boards and ideas that didn’t involve turning me into a billboard. She’d actually listened.

That same day, we went shopping. By nightfall, we were swapping secrets. Now, she lives three floors down.

I like to think of it as having fashion emergency services on call, though she also brings wine and cuts through my bullshit with designer scissors.

She was one of the very few people in my life who could look at my fake smile and call it out for what it was. No agenda, no kiss-ass flattery, just raw honesty.

It was terrifying?…?and exactly what I needed.

A waiter appeared beside us, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest that he worked out regularly in a gym. He set down two cocktails and winked.

I picked up the cocktail and twirled the umbrella. “I still can’t believe my father let those photos run.”

Victoria sipped hers. “I’ve stopped expecting decency from men in suits. Especially the ones who fathered us.”

Being the daughter of a media tycoon should come with protection, but no. Having the CEO of Harper Media as your father just meant the knives had engraved handles.

He once told me bad press is still press. That humiliation, well packaged, is profitable.

My topless bikini shots weren’t a scandal—they were revenue.

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

I shrugged. “Last week. My sister’s Gatsby party. He cornered me with spreadsheets. Said investor interest was up. Teenage daughters want my music. Their dads want to own a piece of me.”

That was my father. Everything was leverage. Everything was about control.

After that press conference nearly sent me into cardiac arrest, we hadn’t spoken for weeks. He said I hadn’t looked convincing enough. That I should’ve cried, and maybe then they’d believe me.

The silence that had followed was louder than the cameras had been.

Eventually, Mom begged me to attend a Sunday dinner. We played pretend. Smiled. Passed pasta, like he hadn’t tried to burn my entire world to the ground two years ago, the night everything collapsed.

“That’s it,” I said, raising my glass. “To being crucified, one headline at a time.”

We clinked.

“If I actually pierced my nipples, think they’d give me five minutes of peace?”

Victoria snorted. “They’d launch a countdown to when you’d show them.”

I sighed and let the sun soak in. “I swear to God, Vic, at this rate I could fart in a scented candle store and they’d sell it as Scarlett Harper’s signature fragrance.”

She nearly choked. “Limited edition. Comes with trauma and glitter.”

We laughed, loud and unfiltered.

Because when the world was always watching, sometimes the only privacy you had was the jokes you told loudly enough to remind them you were still human.

Angelo stood by the window, nursing his third espresso, talking like he was addressing a boardroom instead of his favorite cousin slouched across a velvet couch with a glass of overpriced wine.

His voice droned on, something about solo contracts and empires and the unbearable weight of being important.

We were in my New York condo, where the black tiles glowed and every corner was filled with deep red furniture. The place didn’t say home , it said come bleed here quietly .

Alexsei had walked in once and said it looked like Dracula’s Airbnb.

He wasn’t wrong.

“Alexsei will be your new manager from now on,” Angelo said, barely glancing at me. “I’m knee-deep in the Lazzio Exhibits. You just signed as a solo artist. That comes with creative freedom.”

“And creative migraines,” I muttered into my wine.

“And more responsibility,” he went on. “I’ll always protect you, cugina mia , but I can’t hold your leash and build an empire at the same time.”

“I don’t wear leashes,” I said flatly.

“That’s the problem,” Alexsei cut in from the velvet chair. “Someone should’ve started you on obedience training years ago.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And you think you’re qualified?”

He smirked, tossing a peanut into his mouth. “Sweetheart, I don’t think. I know. I’m fluent in chaos. You’re just a messy little storm that thinks it’s the whole apocalypse.”

I sipped my wine. “If you’re trying to impress me, start with an apology for existing.”

He leaned forward. “If I wanted to impress you, Scar, you’d already be impressed. And if I ever apologize, check if I’m bleeding out.”

“Maybe I’ll help with that,” I muttered.

Angelo sighed. “Can you two stop arguing?”

“We’re not arguing,” I said.

“We’re negotiating,” Alexsei said at the same time.

Alexsei Romaniev was charm personified in Prada, sarcasm sharpened to a weapon. Russian by birth, annoying by choice.

Officially, he was in the States for business. Really, he’d come to win back his wife.

She’d left after their son died, and he’d been chasing her ghost ever since. The problem? She didn’t even know he was in New York. He’d been lurking like a love-struck lunatic, watching her from a distance, too scared to actually face her.

It was getting old. Angelo and I were one awkward rooftop sighting away from stepping in and telling her ourselves, just to end this tragic little game of hide and don’t seek.

Alexsei and I bickered like it was a blood sport, but he’d been a breath of fresh air.

Just like Victoria—unfiltered, unapologetic, unshakably real.

“Hope you enjoyed your little Tulum escape,” Alexsei said. “Time to find a new bodyguard. One who actually protects you. Don’t think we haven’t noticed your little hobby of mentally breaking them.”

Angelo’s phone rang. He muttered something about an investor and vanished like smoke.

As for Kyle, he’d finally quit. After two years of being aggressively mediocre and painfully misogynistic, he’d cracked. Couldn’t say I hadn’t seen it coming.

I mean, how many pink dildos hidden in your carry-on can a man survive before breaking? Watching airport security ask a six-foot-three man in tactical gear why he has silicone toys? Iconic.

It wasn’t personal.

Fine , maybe a little.

Mostly, it was my protest against being babysat.

I flicked ash from my cigarette. “Go ahead. I’ve barely scratched the surface of my bodyguard torture repertoire.”

Whoever Alexsei stuck me with, I would figure out how to handle him. Soft, hard, military grade, it didn’t matter.

They would all crack eventually . . . until one didn’t.