LOGIN“I want you to keep singing,” he says. “In my house. In my studio. In my ear. I want you to stay long enough for us to rip your name off every page they stuck it on without asking. I want my enemies to hear your voice every time they close their eyes and know they failed to kill the only good thing that ever came out of what they did to my family.”It’s too much.Too honest.Too heavy.“And,” he adds, voice dropping, “I want to know what it feels like when you sing for me alone and not for a stage, or a contract, or a ghost.”The air between us crackles.My ribs feel too tight.“That’s a lot of wants,” I manage, my voice coming out rougher than I’d like.“Honesty,” he reminds me. “As requested.”He’s close now.One more breath, and we’ll be in each other’s air.I should step back.I don’t.“You,” he says softly, “what do you want, Eliana?”The way he says my name makes something low in my stomach clench.Freedom.Safety.Payback.All the big answers bottleneck in my throat.What comes
The next day is a strange mix of domestic and deadly.We spend the morning with Jace, combing through more emails and contracts, my anger given neat columns and color‑coded highlights. Victor postures. Rick squirms. Corsini’s shells keep circling like vultures in Armani.By lunch, my brain is mush.By early evening, Sofie has successfully convinced Bianca to let her “help” make pizza, which means there’s flour on every horizontal surface and at least one piece of pepperoni stuck to the ceiling.“You live in chaos,” I tell Bianca.She shrugs.“Chaos is better than silence,” she says. “Silence means someone is hiding.”I can’t argue with that.After dinner and a bath that involves more splashing than actual cleaning, Sofie finally collapses in a heap of damp curls and clean pajamas. I tuck her into bed, kiss her forehead, and stand there a little too long, watching her breathe.It’s become a ritual.Part prayer.Part reminder of why I haven’t tried to bolt over the fence again.When I f
By mid‑afternoon, the house feels like a pressure cooker.Thunder has rolled out to a low, distant grumble.The men in expensive jackets beyond the wall have, for the moment, decided honking their metaphorical horns is enough.Inside, we all pretend to be normal.Bianca bakes.Ava charts my blood pressure like it’s the stock market.Jace mutters to himself about IP addresses.Kael moves from room to room like a storm in a dark shirt, never raising his voice, somehow still making the air rearrange itself around him.And me?I’m back in the studio.Because if I don’t put this somewhere, it’s going to claw its way out of my throat sideways.I sit at the piano and stare at my hands.They hover over the keys.Hesitate.Every time I skirt too close to the lullaby’s progression, my shoulders tense.I told myself I wouldn’t give that song away again.Not for free.Not to an audience that doesn’t understand what it costs.But the melody is a splinter.Pressing under my skin.I exhale.“Rip it
Lockdown, as it turns out, is not quiet.It’s just…contained.I spend the next morning oscillating between wanting to punch walls and wanting to crawl out of my own skin.Breakfast tastes like cardboard.The coffee doesn’t help.Sofie is in rare form, ping‑ponging between the kitchen and the living room, demanding stories and songs, and “castle adventures.”Bianca keeps giving me looks like she can hear the buzzing under my skin.Ava corners me in the hallway after vitals.“How’s your breathing?” she asks.“Occurring,” I say.“In full sentences?” she presses.“Mostly,” I say.She hums, unconvinced.“You need an outlet that isn’t yelling at Kael or rearranging my pill schedule,” she says.I snort.“I have an outlet,” I say. “It’s called threatening to burn the music industry down.”“Verbal arson doesn’t count,” she says. “I meant something that burns adrenaline without burning you. Studio?”I hesitate.Then nod.“Yeah,” I say. “Studio.”She pats my arm.“Good girl,” she says, like I’m
The bullet in the wall becomes an invisible roommate.No one says its name.But everything shifts around it.The next few days blur into a series of small, quiet changes that all say the same thing:You’re not getting out of here anytime soon.The first one is the gate.It’s always been closed when I’ve looked at it from the windows, but now the hum of the motors is constant—opening, closing, testing, and recalibrating.New cameras appear along the perimeter, little black eyes tucked into eaves and tree branches.Talia’s team does more visible laps around the property.They nod at me when I pass.Polite.Professional.Unyielding.Inside, the house tightens without anyone pointing it out.Doors that used to be left ajar are kept closed.Certain windows don’t open anymore; their locks have been “temporarily reinforced.”Where there used to be one guard in the foyer, there are two.Sofie thinks it’s hilarious.She marches up to them one morning, hands on her hips.“You glary too,” she in
The peace lasts exactly twelve hours.Maybe less.Dinner is…almost normal.Sofie babbles about sauce and wolves and “Papa glary at ’puter.” Bianca pretends not to listen while actually listening to everything. Jace gives a dry rundown of “today’s external stupidity” in three sentences or less. Ava glares at everyone’s plates and makes me take a second helping of vegetables.Kael watches more than he talks.Every time thunder rumbles faintly in the distance, Sofie’s hand tightens on her fork, but she doesn’t flinch like before.He notices.I notice him noticing.We don’t talk about it.Afterward, when dishes are done and cartoons are over, Sofie falls asleep on the couch, head in my lap, wolf under her arm, one sock on and one sock mysteriously missing.Bianca shoos me to bed eventually.“Go,” she says. “Sleep. Or stare at a wall. Just not at a screen.”I carry Sofie back to the room, tuck her into the little bed this time instead of the crib, kiss her forehead, and lie down on top of
The gatehouse feels like a stage someone built out of stone and bad decisions.It’s a small building just inside the outer wall—thick door, thick windows, thick air. A table, a few chairs, a bank of monitors showing grainy camera feeds from around the property.I’m not supposed to be here.Which is
The next morning, I woke up with a sore throat and a smile I don’t want to examine too closely.Mia bursts into the room without knocking because boundaries are for people who don’t share tour buses.“Emergency,” she announces, waving my new phone like a baton.“If that’s about me being canceled, I
By the time I stagger back to my room from the studio, my mouth still tastes like him.I scrub my teeth. Twice. It doesn’t help.Mia is sitting cross‑legged in the middle of my bed with a bag of chips she definitely bribed someone for, watching some game show in rapid‑fire Italian.She looks up, fr
If you ever want to know how loud silence can be, disappear from the internet for three days.By day four, it’s deafening.I sit cross‑legged on my bed, Dante’s sanitized phone in hand, Mia perched beside me with her laptop open. We’re not supposed to be doom‑scrolling. Naturally, we’re doom‑scroll







