Page 16 of Sinful Desires
He had done exactly what he’d promised. The mess had vanished overnight, burned out of existence. A building had gone up in smoke. Witnesses fell silent. Headlines rewrote themselves. And the bodies? No one had asked.
But there was one thing he couldn’t erase—the wound in my chest. The kind no money, power, or rage could touch.
That scar was mine to carry. Etched deep. Permanent.
Two years gone, and all I could offer was a practiced, broken smile. But behind closed doors, I drank and smoked, whatever I could get my hands on. Anything to quiet my brain and stop the noise for five fucking minutes.
A few days ago, I’d found myself wandering the halls at my parents’ gala. I had thrown up somewhere, passed out completely, and woken the next morning in my bed with my clothes still on and my hair in a braid.
I don’t remember how I got there or what happened in between. All I knew was that I’d made it home somehow, and I thanked my drunk self for keeping me intact.
It should have been a wake-up call. But it wasn’t. It hadn’t dulled the need or tamed the addiction.
The clicking of cameras brought me back.
“Miss Jasper,” I began, my voice a perfect mask of composure. “Luke and I weren’t close. Just two people in the same industry. But let me make one thing clear. The grief his family, his loved ones, and his fans carry is not yours to exploit. It’s not some headline to squeeze for clicks.”
I let the silence hang before continuing.
“Two years later, I still can’t imagine the pain they must feel seeing his name dragged through the mud, over and over again, to sell your headlines. So, if you have even an ounce of decency left in you, maybe it’s time to stop.”
I paused again, my gaze hardening.
“May he rest in peace,” I added, my voice softer, “and may you understand that true empathy isn’t just about putting on a show for the cameras. It’s about humanity. A concept our society seems to have forgotten.”
Chapter
Six
“Live fast. Die young. Be wild. Have fun.”
?Lana Del Rey
Scarlett
“You should get them pierced.”
I scoffed, taking a slow drag of my cigarette. I slid my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, just enough to glare atPeople Magazine.
Front cover.Again.
There I was, half naked under the Mexican sun, lying on a beach in Tulum like a tragic Greek goddess mid-breakdown. Big straw hat, red hair spilling out, oversized shades, and the kind of pose that only looks effortless when you’re too numb to care.
A birthday trip for DJ Scott had turned into a national headline.
You could see my tattoos. Not loud or rebellious. Just small reminders of nights I probably shouldn’t have survived. A few inked during a haze. Others from my feel-something era.
Subtle cries for help dressed up as aesthetic choices.
But this morning, Angelo had texted me. “Paparazzo’s dead. Poisoned in his apartment. Apparently fate’s on your side today.”
It was the only news that made me smile all week. I didn’t know who had done it, but God, I wished I could kiss them for it.
I tossed the magazine onto the sand and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray.
Today was our last day of this three-day bender.New York’s cold misery was waiting, and I wasn’t about to waste sun, salt, or sin.
“These shots were taken yesterday. Yesterday, Vic. And now my nipples are trending. Do they time-travel? Is there a drone parked in my uterus?” I muttered, lying back down on my towel.
