All Chapters of Encore with the Devil: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

The house feels different after Rosa leaves.Like her warning is still hanging in the rafters with the dust and the security cameras.*If you ever hurt them, remember I know your address.*I don’t know whether to feel safer or more exposed.By the time I’ve showered and changed into an old T‑shirt, the adrenaline has crashed, leaving a jittery ache in its wake.Sofie goes down easy for once—too much excitement, too much pizza, too many gummy bears “Auntie Ro definitely did not smuggle past Bianca.”I tuck her in, pull the wolf under her arm, hum a bar of the lullaby without thinking.She sighs, heavy and sweet.For ten whole minutes, everything is calm.Then she screams.It’s not a whimper‑yell, the kind she does when she wants water or one more story.It’s a ripped‑from‑the‑gut sound that blasts through the quiet like a siren.I’m through her door before I’m even fully awake.“Sofie.” I’m at the bed, hands already on her shoulders.She’s thrashing, eyes squeezed shut, little fists pu

The lullaby bleeds through the speakers for another eight bars before Jace kills the feed.The silence after is almost worse.“Glitch,” he says over the intercom a few minutes later, when Kael has already doubled security on the east wall and pulled two men in to sweep the studio. “Some interference hit the external mics. We’re scrubbing it.”“Find the source,” Kael says. “I don’t care if it’s some kid with a Bluetooth speaker, I want to know how it got that far in.”“We’re on it,” Jace replies. “And Victor’s team just dropped something special in your inbox. Might want to brace.”Of course they did.Apparently, I can’t have one category of threat without the others lining up to audition.By the time we’re in the office again, my phone is buzzing like it’s about to vibrate through the desk.Jace takes the armchair, laptop already open. Kael stands behind his chair, one hand on the back, the other a white‑knuckled fist at his side.He nods at my phone.“Let’s see it,” he says.I unlock

He waits.The question hangs between us, humming louder than the last chord still fading from the piano.*Your songs are yours. What about you?*I stare at my hands.At the callus on my ring finger from too many cheap guitars.At the faint ink, smear from contracts that might finally have my name on the right side of the page.“What do you want me to say?” I ask softly.“The truth,” he says.“The truth is,” I murmur, “I don’t know yet. I’ve belonged to other people’s plans for so long that I barely remember what it feels like not to.”He’s quite a beat.Too quiet.“How long since you felt like you were only yours?” he asks.I let out a short, humorless laugh.“Puberty, probably,” I say. “First time, some guy in a school hallway grabbed my ass and called it a compliment. First label showcase where they told me to ‘smile more’ or I’d tank the mood. The first time a manager said, ‘We own this recording now,’ and I pretended that was normal instead of horrifying.”His jaw tightens.“Elian

Victor’s lawyer and Mariah trade veiled threats and legalese for an hour the next day. I’m banned from the call—“too emotionally invested,” according to Ava, which is rich coming from a woman who once cried because I harmonized with a train whistle—but Jace streams the silent video feed in the corner of the kitchen while I assemble peanut butter sandwiches. From what I can see of the body language, it goes about how we expected. Mariah looks calm. Victor’s guy looks constipated. When the call ends, a group text dings. > **MARIAH:** He blinked. Not much, but enough. They’re “open to discussing” reversion “within certain parameters.” Translation: he’s scared. Give me 24 hrs. It’s not victory. It’s foothold. I’ll take it. I don’t realize how much other chaos is brewing until Bianca slaps my phone down on the counter like it’s personally offended her. “What,” I say, staring at it. “Did it do now?” “It exploded,” she says. “You might want to see which direction the shrapnel is

Jace disappeared with my phone and a string of profanity that would make Bianca cross herself if she weren’t too busy holding me upright.The minutes stretch.I sit at the table, eyes glued to the empty space where the image was, like staring hard enough at the wood grain might make the daycare vanish from my memory.It doesn’t.Fluorescent lights.Alphabet rug.Her tiny cubby.*They were there.*Before the hotel.Before Kael.Before the lullaby exploded.Before, I even knew the word “Corsini” meant anything more than a logo on a festival banner.Kael paces a tight line between the island and the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and lethal in a language I don’t understand but can feel in my bones.Orders.Names.More guards.More guns.The edges of my vision have stopped fuzzing, but there’s a hollow pit where my stomach should be.I thought I knew what “being watched” felt like.Paparazzi after the clip.Fans DMing “I saw you at Starbucks!!”This is different.This is som