Page 106 of Sinful Desires
And she’d have no idea what it would turn me into.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
“Drugs are a bet with your mind.”
? Jim Morrison
Scarlett
“...?new leaked video that appeared last night on an anonymous website shows international superstar Scarlett Harper leaving her hotel room in tears, blood running from her nose, followed closely by her assistant and former bodyguard Kyle Smith, both visibly distressed. Harper, identified by her signature bright red hair, is seen pulling up her hoodie in an attempt to hide her face. The footage is reportedly dated two years ago—the same night young actor Luke Conrad was rumored to have been found dead in Harper’s hotel suite, a claim that was swiftly denied at the time by both her record label and the hotel. With this new footage surfacing, Luke Conrad’s parents?...”
Angelo turned off the TV just as Luke’s face appeared. It was a home video from Christmas. He was smiling widely in front of a glowing tree, arms wrapped around his mother, father, and hisboyfriend Travis. A massive Doberman sprawled at their feet, its tail thumping lazily on the carpet.
They looked happy.
Stupidly, wholesomely happy.
I pulled my knees in tighter, arms locking around them like I could hold myself together if I just stayed small enough. My face dropped between them. I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to remember.
But it was too late.
The burn was already there, right behind my eyes, sharp, swollen, and rising too fast. I tried to swallow it down, but failed. The tears came, hot and silent, slipping past before I could fight them.
I had woken up this morning tangled in Théo’s sheets, his arms snug around my waist, his face tucked into my neck. I’d slept better than I had in years.
When he’d gotten up to get dressed, I’d groaned, half asleep, as he smacked my ass on his way out. I must’ve drifted off again, because the next thing I remembered was him kissing me awake, hard, deeply, like he didn’t want to go.
He said he’d call. Then he’d left.
And the second the door closed, I’d felt it—that hollow weight in my stomach, the one that always showed up before something bad happened.
I felt like someone was watching me.
I grabbed one of his shirts and some yoga pants from my closet and made myself eat. Just a bowl of Reese’s cereal with oldHousewives of Atlantareruns humming in the background. I wasn’t really watching, just trying to feel normal.
Then the doorbell rang. Before I could even get up, it opened. My father walked in, Angelo and two other men in suits right behind him.
“What are you?—”
My father threw me his phone without a word, his face red from anger.
I took it, and bile rolled up my throat. I scrolled through the Twitter page he’d opened. Comments. DMs. Screen recordings. Clips edited in slow motion to make me look guilty. Drunk. Dangerous.
I knew this bitch murdered him! Poor Luke!
He was a shit actor, maybe she did us a favor.
Imagine overdosing near this bitch and getting blamed for ruining her career.
Scarlett Harper, the murderer who got away with it.
Rot in jail, whore.
Orange suits you better than Chanel, sweetheart.
How many bodies does it take to get a Grammy nomination, Scarlett?
