Encore with the Devil のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 151 - チャプター 160

The leak changes our timeline.The clip won’t go back in the bottle, and honestly, I don’t want it to.But it forces the rest of the plan to catch up.Luna’s doc team works like they’ve done this before—which they have.Maris and her crew live in and out of the estate for two weeks: cameras on shoulders, sound packs clipped to belts, eyes tuned to catch the in‑between moments.Me making oatmeal while Sofie tries to sneak marshmallows into the pot.Kael pacing in his office, fingers hovering over old ledgers he’s finally shredding.The three of us on the couch watching a cartoon where the villain is too simple and both of us roll our eyes for different reasons.They interview Ava in her office.Jace is in the garden because he refuses to be anywhere near an official‑looking room.Rosa at her kitchen table, chin set, eyes bright.They sit me down in three different spots over the days: the studio, the living room, a neutral hotel room downtown.“Consistency is for fiction,” Maris says.

We stare at the photo like it might blink.It doesn’t.It just sits there on his screen, a frozen moment from a life I’ve only heard in pieces.Kael and Mateo, younger, shirts spattered dark.A woman half in frame, limp on a tiled floor.I can’t tell if she’s dead.The graininess makes it worse—like my imagination has to fill in the missing pixels.“Where was this?” I ask, voice low.His jaw flexes.“Warehouse on the river,” he says. “Fifteen years ago. Before Mateo put his name on the top line and made me his favorite dog.”I glance at him.“You remember it that clearly?” I ask.“I remember all of it that clearly,” he says. “That’s the problem.”Another bubble appears.> cute, right? > Press loves a before/afterMy stomach knots.“They’re not just threatening,” I say. “They’re ready. They wouldn’t drop this if they didn’t already have a folder.”He inhales slowly through his nose.“Probably,” he says. “Dima always liked insurance. Never could resist keeping a file on everyone. I ju

The next few days are oddly bifurcated.On one side: the ghosts.Dima’s texts.The knowledge that somewhere there’s a folder of photos and stories sharp enough to slice through any PR spin.On the other side: paper.Clean paper.The kind you get to write your own name on, not sign under someone else’s.Sana keeps us focused on the second one.“Guardrails and growth at the same time,” she says, clicking through slides in a conference room that smells like coffee and printer ink. “We don’t freeze because someone’s rattling an old cage.”The deal on the table is with a distribution company, not a traditional label.They handle logistics; I keep control.We’ve already shelved three offers: one that tried to “share” my masters “for flexibility,” one that wanted a 360 slice of the Foundation, and one from an indie that meant well but didn’t have the infrastructure.This one is…close.The exec across from me is a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and no patience for bullshit. The term she

I don’t buy the test the next day.Or the day after that.There’s always a reason.Sofie’s school form to fill out.A call from Sana about a particularly nasty clause in an intake.A meeting with Marta to go over rollout options for the single.By day three, the reasons are thinner, and the nausea is not.It’s not constant.These are strange, swooping waves at odd times.The smell of coffee.I'm looking at a screen too long.Sofie’s bubble bath, of all things—the artificial strawberry scent punching me right in the gut.“This is ridiculous,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror.It doesn’t argue.It just reflects back a face that looks a little more tired than last month, a little paler, eyes a little too wide.You know what this is, a small, traitorous voice whispers.You just don’t want to.That afternoon, on the way back from a foundation meeting downtown, I told the driver to stop two blocks early.Jace, in the front passenger seat, twists around to look at me.“What’s wron

The headline follows me home.Not literally—Kael didn’t let me buy a copy—but in the way it lingers on the back of my eyes, ghost text overlaying everything I look at.MAFIA BABY.I stand in the kitchen later, slicing strawberries for Sofie’s snack, and see it printed across the cutting board.INSIDE ELIANA CRUZ’S TOXIC LOVE STORY.I lie awake that night, one hand on my stomach, and hear the word *toxic* whispered in my own voice, even though I never said it.The last time I lay awake like this, I was counting what I had left in my bank account.This time, I'm counting reasons not to be afraid.The next morning, Ava corners me in the upstairs hallway.She has a stethoscope around her neck and a coffee in one hand.Doctor and disaster response team, all in one.“You’re doing that thing,” she says.“What thing?” I ask.“The distant hover,” she says. “Where your body is here and your brain is replaying old nightmares on a loop.”I open my mouth to deny it.Close it again.“You saw the co