All Chapters of Encore with the Devil: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

If regret had a font, it would be the one wrapped around my wrist.*Sing for the world, little star. Forget me.*The thin black letters curve over my pulse like a dare. Stage makeup can cover dark circles, acne, and even hickeys. It can’t cover ink. It can’t cover the fact that I tattooed my first heartbreak onto my skin and then built a career screaming about it.“Mic check, Luna. Thirty seconds,” a voice buzzes in my ear.I drop my arm, hide the tattoo under the cuff of my glittering jacket, and step into the light.Sicily erupts.“LUNA! LUNA! LUNA!”Fifty thousand people chant my name as the opening notes of "Bleed for Me" thunder through the stadium. The LED wall behind me explodes with fire and smoke effects. I stalk to center stage in thigh‑high boots and a bodysuit made of more sequins than fabric, hair loose, eyeliner sharp enough to pierce skin.On stage, I’m God.I lift the mic and let the noise wash over me, a tidal wave of need.“You still with me, Sicily?” I shout.They a

If my life had a soundtrack, this part would be silence.No crowd noise. No drums. Just the soft hum of the air‑conditioner and my own pulse pounding in my ears as I stare at the hotel TV, where some late‑night talking head is laughing about my latest “heartless siren” meme, blissfully unaware that his punchline has just become a legal wife.I clicked the TV off.The silence roars.On the bed in front of me, the marriage certificate and the contract lie side by side on the white duvet like two open graves.Mia sits cross‑legged at the foot of the bed in my old hoodie and leggings, hair in a lopsided bun, bare face paler than I’ve seen it in years. Rafael prowls from window to minibar and back like a caged animal, phone clenched in his hand, muttering to himself as he scrolls.“This is bad,” Mia says for the tenth time. “Like… not even your usual bad. This is ‘lifetime documentary with ominous music’ bad.”“No kidding.” My laugh scrapes my throat on the way out. “They didn’t even bothe

By the time the jet’s stairs hit the tarmac, my spine feels like it’s been welded into a straight line.Dante descends first, of course. Luca follows. Then, with Mia at my elbow, I step out into air that tastes different—salt and stone and something older than my Spotify top ten.The sky is just turning that bruised indigo between night and dawn. A private terminal stretches around us, all glass and steel and quiet efficiency. No paparazzi, no fans, just a few workers in reflective vests who seem more interested in avoiding eye contact with Dante than anything else.A line of black SUVs waits beyond the security fence.“Ms. Vega.” A man in a dark suit steps forward, nods. “Welcome to Sicily.”He doesn’t look at my face for more than a second. His gaze slides past me to Dante, and that’s where it stays.“Car,” Dante says.The man opens the back door of the lead SUV without a word.I bristle. “You know, in some cultures, they say hello to the wife, too.”Dante’s mouth curves slightly. “

I wake up with someone else’s heartbeat under my ear.For a split second, before consciousness catches up, it’s seven years ago. Cheap sheets. Brooklyn traffic. Dante’s arm heavy around my waist, his hand splayed over my stomach like he’s afraid I’ll float away.Then the mattress shifts under me, firmer. The air smells like salt and expensive detergent, not city grime. The sound outside isn’t honking or sirens—it’s the sea, far below.And the chest under my cheek is a lot more defined than it used to .My eyes snap open.I’m in his bed.My brain explodes in a thousand alarms at once.I jerk back so fast that I almost roll off the edge. His arm tightens automatically, hauling me steady before I can fall.“Relax,” he says, voice gravel‑rough with sleep.Relax.I shove at him hard. His arm drops away; I scramble off the mattress, nearly tripping on the sheet tangled around my ankle.“What the hell,” I hiss, heart racing. “What the actual—”He props himself up on one elbow, blinking at me

I’ve been called a lot of things online.Heartless siren. Home‑wrecking muse. Autotune witch. “Privately owned star” is a new one.Mia paces my suite like a tiny, furious storm, phone in hand, bare feet thudding softly on the rug.“They’re everywhere,” she says. “Not just gossip sites. Industry blogs. Forums. Even some music journalists are ‘asking questions.’”“I told them not to rock the billionaire boat,” I mutter, flopping back on the bed. “They heard ‘billionaire’ and grabbed an oar.”She ignores me, scrolling. “Listen to this. *‘Sources suggest the label’s breakout talent has been quietly financed by a single ultra‑wealthy backer, leading some to speculate she might be less self‑made than her image suggests.’*”“Cute,” I say. “What else?”She swipes to another tab. “This one’s worse. *‘Whispers in the industry hint that the siren of heartbreak might be the kept woman of a European magnate, her career curated and bankrolled in exchange for…private performances.’*”My stomach tur