Page 14 of Sinful Desires
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’tbe, 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 withhim.
“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 meexactlywhat 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.
