Page 112 of Sinful Desires
I stared out at the water, the waves folding into the shore again and again.
Somewhere behind us, the party kept spilling across the sand, loud and curated and exactly what my father had paid for. Yet, the Hamptons had never felt this quiet.
My eyes lifted to the sky as a shooting star slipped through the darkness. It burned quietly, briefly beautiful, then vanished.
“No. But you know?…?I think I’m just like a shooting star. Forever alone. Bright for a second, maybe beautiful. Then gone. No one really misses it once it disappears.”
Nicholas didn’t answer right away. Just sat beside me, eyes on the stars above. “Have you ever heard of binary stars?”
I glanced at him, brow drawn, and shook my head.
“Two stars caught in the same pull. They orbit each other, not for a moment, but for a lifetime. If one fades, the other loses everything. They weren’t meant to survive alone.”
His voice was gentle, steady, certain in a way that made my chest ache.
“You’re not a shooting star, Scarlett. You’re one half of something rare. And somewhere out there, the other half is already looking for you.”
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
“Don’t play his game. Play yours.”
? Rachel Caine
Scarlett
I woregreyblue like silence wears the sky
Kept mymindheart locked, didn’t ask why
Rooms full of people but no onecamesaw
Whatlifeloneliness does when it learns to draw
With a groan, I tore the sad attempt at lyrics from my notebook and crushed it into a tight, angry ball. I lobbed it across the room, where it joined a scattered army of failures. Crumpled pages were everywhere: under the vanity, beneath the dresser, peeking out like the ghosts of songs that had never gotten the chance to breathe.
I collapsed into silk sheets and let the covers swallow me. I stared at the ceiling like it held the answer, like the cracks in the paint might rearrange themselves into lyrics worth bleeding for.
You’d think that kind of cosmic mercy, finally beingfree, would come with a lightning bolt of inspiration. Some divine slap across the face that would jolt me out of writer’s block and get me scribbling like Shakespeare with a vendetta.
But no. Just me, surrounded by crumpled paper and silence. Not even self-loathing could scare my muse into showing up.
I could hear them sometimes: fans, strangers, sweet little voices from across the world. Echoes of their shaky voices and trembling confessions.
Your music saved me, Scarlett.
You were there when no one else was.
I’m alive because of your songs.
Good for them.
Meanwhile, I was here, drowning in my own silence. And nothing I’d ever written had saved me. What a fucking joke.
I was mid-spiral, drowning in crumpled lyrics and mental rot, when my bedroom door slammed open. I physically jumped, hand to my heart. “Fuck?—”
“Does this dress screamwhore or wedding guest?” Victoria asked, already halfway into the room and spinning for effect. “Be honest. And why the hell aren’t you dressed? We’re leaving in twenty minutes, Scar. Angelo’s going to throw a fit if we’re late.”
