Page 17 of Sinful Desires
The heat was unbearable.
Victoria laughed and flicked my side. “Picture this: ‘BREAKING NEWS: Superstar Scarlett Harper gets her tits pierced to match her tragic personality. World mourns. Sales rise.’”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I should livestream my next therapy session. Or pierce their hearts with a restraining order.”
Victoria Carter, my stylist and emotional support human, had been my friend for a year. In my world, that might as well have been a decade.
We met at a Dior show. She said she dreamed of styling me. I gave her a shot. She’d showed up the next week with mood boards and ideas that didn’t involve turning me into a billboard. She’d actually listened.
That same day, we went shopping. By nightfall, we were swapping secrets. Now, she lives three floors down.
I like to think of it as having fashion emergency services on call, though she also brings wine and cuts through my bullshit with designer scissors.
She was one of the very few people in my life who could look at my fake smile and call it out for what it was. No agenda, no kiss-ass flattery, just raw honesty.
It was terrifying?…?and exactly what I needed.
A waiter appeared beside us, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest that he worked out regularly in a gym. He set down two cocktails and winked.
I picked up the cocktail and twirled the umbrella. “I still can’t believe my father let those photos run.”
Victoria sipped hers. “I’ve stopped expecting decency from men in suits. Especially the ones who fathered us.”
Being the daughter of a media tycoon should come with protection, but no. Having the CEO of Harper Media as your father just meant the knives had engraved handles.
He once told me bad press is still press. That humiliation, well packaged, is profitable.
My topless bikini shots weren’t a scandal—they were revenue.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
I shrugged. “Last week. My sister’s Gatsby party. He cornered me with spreadsheets. Said investor interest was up. Teenage daughters want my music. Their dads want to own a piece of me.”
That was my father. Everything was leverage. Everything was about control.
After that press conference nearly sent me into cardiac arrest, we hadn’t spoken for weeks. He said I hadn’t looked convincing enough. That I should’ve cried, and maybe then they’d believe me.
The silence that had followed was louder than the cameras had been.
Eventually, Mom begged me to attend a Sunday dinner. We played pretend. Smiled. Passed pasta, like he hadn’t tried toburn my entire world to the ground two years ago, the night everything collapsed.
“That’s it,” I said, raising my glass. “To being crucified, one headline at a time.”
We clinked.
“If I actually pierced my nipples, think they’d give me five minutes of peace?”
Victoria snorted. “They’d launch a countdown to when you’d show them.”
I sighed and let the sun soak in. “I swear to God, Vic, at this rate I could fart in a scented candle store and they’d sell it as Scarlett Harper’s signature fragrance.”
She nearly choked. “Limited edition. Comes with trauma and glitter.”
We laughed, loud and unfiltered.
Because when the world was always watching, sometimes the only privacy you had was the jokes you told loudly enough to remind them you were still human.
Angelo stood by the window, nursing his third espresso, talking like he was addressing a boardroom instead of his favorite cousin slouched across a velvet couch with a glass of overpriced wine. His voice droned on, something about solo contracts and empires and the unbearable weight of being important.
