Page 13 of Sinful Desires
I got there first. “And before you ask, no, the screaming on track nine wasn’t fake. Yes, the bridge on track five was recorded in a bathtub at three in the morning. And no, I don’t plan on explaining whoheis.”
Which was a lie. There was nohe. There were onlythey—men I let into my bed, forgotten before sunrise. No names. No voices. Just enough to fill two things: me, and the silence.
That caught them.
I leaned back. “Oh, and yes, the moaning in the outro was me. Sorry to disappoint, Mom.”
A ripple of laughter. Then the flashes began. Click. Snap. Whir. Photographers swarmed just enough to keep it messy. Just enough chaos for the right kind of shot.
Alexandra Jasper from Fox News was already ready. Designer blazer. Red lips. Cold eyes that didn’t look at you so much as scan you. She leaned into the mic like it belonged to her.
“No, Miss Harper,” she said, calm and venomous. “Tell us aboutthatnight. The one when you sold out SoFi Stadium. Youngest artist in history. The president personally congratulated you. What did that feel like?”
Thatnight. The night the gates of hell had opened and swallowed me whole, and I still hadn’t climbed back out.
I blinked. The memories were a smear. Like a Polaroid left too long in the rain. Two years later, and I still couldn’t tell you what had been real and what I had hallucinated under thelights, high on whatever cocktail of drugs had been swirling in my veins.
Truth was, I didn’t remember a second of that show. Not the crowd. Not the screams. Not even the fireworks.
Apparently, I’d killed it. That’s what everyone said. That’s what the headlines had screamed. That was what my agent reminded me of every time I spiraled.
Even my father, Lucius Harper, king of contempt and cold stares, had hugged me backstage and told me he was proud.
First time in my life he’d ever said that, and I’d missed it. I’d been too high to even hear him.
I swallowed the knot rising in my throat and plastered on the kind of smile that looks glossy in photos but feels like it’s splitting at the corners. A bead of sweat traced down my neck, mapping every lie I was about to tell.
“It was one of the greatest nights of our lives,” I said smoothly, pretending her question hadn’t rattled me. “The fans were ecstatic. The energy was unreal. We were all buzzing. Felt like the whole stadium could lift off.”
More camera flashes exploded, paparazzi clicking like hungry birds.
“And when we sang ‘A Young Girl’s Dream’ a cappella, that’s when it hit me. I made it. All the pain was worth it.”
I let the words hang long enough to taste them. Long enough to hope no one had noticed the lie tucked beneath my ribs. “And the President was?—”
Alexandra Jasper didn’t let me finish.
“That’s also the same night your friend Luke Conrad was found dead in your hotel suite from an overdose. Cocaine, ecstasy, and?…” She flipped a page and raised a brow. “A blood alcohol level of point four. That’s five times the legal limit.”
Silence swallowed the room. My stomach dropped. The air thickened until I couldn’t breathe.
Luke.
Two years later, the name still sliced through me.
When I’d finally crashed from that chemical high, it had already been three days since the show. Three days of nausea, dread, and the worst comedown of my life. I couldn’t even name half the things I’d taken.
Back home in New York, I’d tried to rest before the final leg of the tour. It had been early afternoon. I was in the bath, warm water and bubbles up to my chin, eyes closed for the first real moment of peace I’d had in weeks.
Then the doorbell had rung.
Once. Twice.Again.
Relentlessly.
I’d dragged myself out of the tub, skin soaked and shivering. Wrapped in a robe, still damp, I padded barefoot through the condo, irritation building.
I checked the camera and frowned. “Lazzio, if this is another family intervention, tell my agent to book a meeting like everyone else?—”
