Page 5 of Sinful Desires
“Miss Harper?” My assistant hovered nearby. “Your father’s flying in early. Also, there’s a call from Harper Media?—”
“Snack tray, Miss Harper,” someone added, sliding a dish of almonds and fruit beside me.
“There was a slip-up in Act Two.‘Barrel of My Heart.’ Tiny, but let’s review it before soundcheck,” said my coach, already pulling up the footage.
“Miss Harper?—”
“Scarlett—”
“Miss Harper?—”
There were too many voices. Too many hands. Phones in my face. Snacks in my lap. A mirror reflecting someone who looked like me but wasn’t.
I stood up so fast the chair slammed into the wall, my hands flying to my ears.
“Enough!” I shouted. “Everybody out! Please! Now!”
The room froze.
A half-eaten strawberry dropped back onto the tray. Someone’s phone beeped. Michael blinked mid-sentence. A cotton pad hovered in the air.
“I said get out.Please!”
Footsteps shuffled. Chairs scraped.
One by one, they backed out. Some looked at me with pity. Some looked relieved.
I didn’t care. I didn’t even look. I just stood there, fists clenched, eyes burning, chest shaking, silence finally mine.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
It had been two years. Two relentless, gold-dipped years of being Scarlett Harper, the superstar.
I had released two albums, the second a Grammy darling, and the world tour stretched endlessly. Shows ran every other night while hotels blurred together, cities folding into one another until it all felt the same. It had been one long stream of lights, cameras, interviews, and stage smoke.
There were fan meet-and-greets, talk show couches, magazine covers, and ten million fake smiles. Five number-one singles stayed glued to the top of the charts, with sold-out arenas, designer dresses, red carpets, and Paris Fashion Week layered in between.
Every minute had been poured into building the myth of Scarlett Harper. And tonight, for the first time, I felt it.
This emptiness. Bone deep. Soul deep.
The kind of exhaustion that makes your hands shake and your voice vanish.
All I wanted was one day. One night. Alone. No stage. No cameras. No lights. Just sleep.
But I couldn’t.
Tomorrow was SoFi Stadium. My first stadium show—the biggest night of the tour. The one that was supposed to make history.
I braced myself on the makeup table, fingers pressing into the edge until my knuckles turned pale. My head dropped low. My knees threatened to give.
There was nothing left. No fire. Not even smoke.
I let out a cracked breath and looked at my reflection. Sweat clung to my hair. Eyeliner was smudged like ash. My lips trembled. My eyes were glassy and hollow.
It was the face of a girl on the verge.
So, I did the only thing I knew would anchor me. I picked up my phone.
