บททั้งหมดของ Encore with the Devil: บทที่ 101 - บทที่ 110

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

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 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 the time the sun is high enough to stab through the blackout curtains, I’ve convinced myself that last night was at least thirty percent of a dream.Then I roll over, and my mouth aches faintly in the way lips do after being thoroughly, indecently kissed, and the memory hits all over again.It's not a dream.A terrible, wonderful, sanity‑eroding reality.Sofie is still starfished across the mattress. The wolf strangled in one fist and curls a halo across my pillow. I watch her breathe and tell myself, firmly, that Kael Riven’s mouth is not a priority.Survival is.Music is.Getting my name back is.The man attached to the mouth is…an unfortunate complication.I’m halfway through a cup of coffee in the kitchen when Bianca slides my phone across the island toward me with two fingers, like it’s contaminated.“What did it do?” I ask warily.“It screamed,” she says. “For the last twenty minutes.”Notifications clutter the screen—missed calls, texts, and emails. Rosa. Unknown numbers. My

His eyes flare, like he didn’t expect me to stab straight at the jugular.For a heartbeat, I think he’ll dodge. Wrap it in metaphor. Growl something non‑answer like he always does.He doesn’t.“Yes,” he says.Plain.Unvarnished.“I am.”The words land between us like a dropped gun.I blink.“Wow,” I say. “No lawyer present or anything.”He doesn’t smile.“I’m jealous,” he continues, voice low. “Of him. Of Victor. Of every man who thinks he gets to put his hands on your music and call it his. Of anyone who thinks they can look at you, at your daughter, and see a product instead of a person.”Heat crawls up my spine.“Logan didn’t touch my music,” I say. “He shot B‑roll.”“For Victor,” Kael bites out. “For a label that stuck your name in a spreadsheet and called you an asset. He’ll tweak his EQ, add a soft‑focus filter, and hand your face to men who see dollar signs where I see—”He cuts himself off.Jaw locked.“Where you see what?” I push.His throat works.“Something that shouldn’t b