Page 8 of Sinful Desires
My last album? Finished. The world tour? Wrapped. Red carpets, award shows, interviews, press. All of it: check, check, check.
Even the fan meet-and-greets, duets, merch signoffs, and pretending I was fine while the world spun around me. Everything they’d expected from Scarlett Harper? Delivered. Now I should’ve been allowed to rest.
Apparently not if you’re a Harper.
I grabbed the shampoo, massaging it into my scalp as red dye bled down my arm and pooled near the drain. The foam looked too much like blood. The water swirled red and thick. It felt like something was bleeding out of me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it to stop.
This week, I’d rotted in bed, binged takeout and missed shows, and completely ignored the outside world. Kyle, my bodyguard, got the week off too. I promised I wouldn’t leave the condo. He’d practically sprinted out with a grin like he’d won the lottery.
I couldn’t blame him. I’d run too if I had anywhere to go.
After the shower, I towel dried and wandered into my closet. I pulled on a simple black linen set, shorts and a tank top, and let my hair air dry.
Alright. You can do this.
It was just my mother: the queen of drama herself.
I walked into the living room where she lounged on my black sofa, eyes fixed on the massive replica ofThe Execution of Lady Jane Greythat took up the wall.
“Who, besides you, hangs a painting of a girl about to be beheaded in their living room? Are you trying to terrify your guests?”
She’d said the same thing about the other one in my hallway. The painting depicted a naked redhead, meant to be me, sprinting through a lavender field. Wild and free.
Everything that I am not.
I loved it, but she called itobscene.
I opened the fridge, grabbing lemon water. “Yes. Sadly, it’s not working.”
She sighed. “And red furniture?Dio mio, Scarlett. Your home looks like an Airbnb in hell.”
I drained the bottle and tossed it in the trash. Hopping onto the counter, I crossed my arms. “Thanks, Mommy. Always a pleasure to have your judgmental energy in my home. So, to what do I owe this delightful intrusion on a random Saturday?”
She let out a dry chuckle and adjusted her Chanel dress. “It’s almost one in the afternoon,dolcezza. You’d know that if you checked your phone and answered your calls. No one’s heard from you in a week.Che sta succedendo?”
Francesca Harper didn’t give advice. She handed out verdicts. She didn’t raise daughters. She ran PR campaigns.
When I’d moved out at eighteen, I thought I was finally free. But there’s no such thing as freedom when you’re a Harper.
I exhaled. “Mom?—”
“And where’s Kyle?” she asked sweetly. Too sweetly.
Kyle—a.k.a.the asshole.
That’s what I called them. The bodyguards.Assholes.
You had to be a special kind of masochist to sign up to babysit me for a living.
I slid off the counter and sprawled onto the couch, grabbing the nearest magazine. “I gave him the week off.”
“Perché?”
“Because I needed a break,” I groaned, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. “In case you forgot, I just finished a one-hundred-twenty-one-day world tour. I’m exhausted. All I want is to sleep. Just sleep.”
“Sì, complimenti, dolcezza, you’ve been incredible,” she said, voice soaked in sugar, but I could feel the sharp turn coming. “But you should’ve lost a little weight. Your costumes looked a bit tight, and?—”
“Mama.”
