Page 4 of Sinful Desires
And I had believed him.
Lucius Harper didn’t make promises. He made empires. Now, I was going to be one.
“We just need your signature here?…?and here, Miss Harper.” The woman’s voice was pure glass. Her hair was icy blonde and pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Her folder looked light, but it carried everything: my next five years.
Lazzio Entertainment and Harper Media, sealed and binding.
Lead singer of Little Angels.
A promise in ink.
My hand trembled as I picked up the pen. I hesitated, barely. Then I signed and sold myself to the devil.
My father shook hands with Thomas Jenkins. The applause started again, polite and triumphant. But beneath the noise, I could feel it creeping in. The chains tightening around my ribs.
This was my beginning.
My fall from grace. My inevitable rise.
And somewhere inside me, the girl who had just wanted to sing was already going quiet.
Chapter
Two
“What was it about being so close to danger that filled us with adrenaline?”
?Charlie Donlea
Scarlett
20 years old
Six years ago
“Thank you so much, Houston! You were electric tonight!” I blew a kiss, breathless and raw. “We were Little Angels, baby!” I bowed low, arms wide, soaking in the roar as the floor began to descend. “Get home safe, y’all! I love you!”
The stage swallowed me.
My purple-sequined mic caught one last flash of the strobe, throwing light like a disco ball in heaven’s hands. Above me, the crowd screamed, wild and endless. My in-ear monitors dangled around my neck like broken wings.
The final chords of “Rodeo Girl” rattled the stadium. Bubblegum cowgirl nonsense, but it sold millions. Fireworks ripped the sky open in red and silver.
Below, my team had already moved into formation. My stylist peeled the mic from my hand and removed the tape from my back. My assistant shoved a cold bottle of water into my grip and dabbed my temple. Stagehands gave me nods and grins, their boots muddy, their faces lit up from our shared high.
I ducked under scaffolding and blinking cables, careful not to smack my head. Everything pulsed—lights, static, adrenaline. The hallway backstage buzzed with movement.
My publicist spoke to someone I couldn’t see. My choreographer was mid-rant. My vocal coach mouthedproudas I passed.
My bandmates were already half out of costume, glitter smudged and sweat shining. They held up their hands for high fives I barely caught.
I collapsed into the makeup chair. Glam moved fast. Pins snapped from my hair. Lashes peeled off. Lipstick was wiped away like war paint after a battle I hadn’t agreed to fight.
With each tug, each smear, I felt myself return. Not the girl on stage, but the one underneath.
“You were amazing,” said Michael, my choreographer and personal tyrant. “Way better than Austin. That said, three things we need to tweak before LA.”
“Hold still,” my hairstylist said softly. “This pin’s caught.”
