Page 206 of Sinful Desires
The video wasn’t an accident. It was the beginning. He had more. Labeled. Dated. Organized. He wanted to leak them one by one. Break her down piece by piece. Until her name turned to ash and the world forgot she was human.
He wanted her humiliated. Erased.
I saw red.
He hadn’t even gotten a word out before I’d torn the car door open, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed my fist into his face so hard he dropped unconscious.
I’d dragged his limp body across the pavement, shoved him into my backseat, and drove straight to the Beverly Hills Hotel, tires screaming.
Volkov had already been waiting in the private lot.
With a breath that cleared the static in my head, I reached for the gun tucked into the back of my waistband and pulled it out without a word.
He went pale in an instant.
“Did Lucius Harper tell you to leak the videos?”
He froze, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. Sweat streamed down his face, soaking the tape across his mouth.
He hesitated.
Then he nodded. Just once. Quietly. Cowardly.
After the party, one sentence wouldn’t stop grinding through my skull. Lazzio had said he saw Kensley walking out of Harper’s office, and they’d shaken hands.
That alone made my jaw lock.
Scarlett had once told me, almost offhandedly, that her father used to invite paparazzi to catch her at her worst. Photos she begged him not to allow. He called it strategy. Said any press was good press.
If he was willing to sell her humiliation for a headline, then leaking that video wasn’t a stretch.
It was fucking likely.
And if he had done it, if he’d sold her out for a pile of dirty bills, then he wouldn’t just lose his hands. I’d carve them off slowly, knuckle by fucking knuckle, and shove the bones down his throat so he choked on the deal he’d made.
I took the tape off his mouth roughly.
He winced.
“Talk.”
A wet, broken sob tore from his throat, thick with snot and spit. Blood bubbled on his lip, mixing with the sweat pouring down his face.
He was tied to the chair, ropes cutting deeply into his skin, his body jerking weakly against them.
“I couldn’t fucking grieve,” he coughed, voice cracking. “Not after Luke. He died alone. And everywhere I turned—TV, newspapers, every damn YouTube ad—it was her face. Smiling. Laughing. Fucking living. She was everywhere. It made me sick.”
He choked on the last word, spit flying.
“So, I made it my mission to ruin her. I wanted her to bleed like I did. I paid some homeless man all my savings to hide under her bed and kill her. But the bitch killed him.”
He laughed bitterly.
“I was fucking pissed, but decided to do everything myself. I stalked her. Followed you both into the Diamond Club. I saw you kiss her in the VIP room. Thought I’d caught something big. But it wasn’t enough. So, I followed you again. Different places. Always hiding. Waiting.”
His head lolled back, then forward again with a bitter, guttural laugh.
“Then the trial. The fucking?…?the bitch walked free. Not guilty. I lost it. Decided if the law wouldn’t touch her, I would. I went to her rehab. Forged records. Said I was visiting another patient. But I was hunting her. And you were there.” His gaze twitched to mine. “Always fucking there.”
