Encore with the Devil のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 161 - チャプター 170

Labor starts at three in the morning because, of course, it does.I wake to a deep, twisting cramp that feels different from the practice ones Ava has been reassuring me about for weeks.More…purposeful.I lie there for a second, hand on my stomach, counting breaths.Another one hits.“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”Beside me, Kael is dead asleep, mouth slightly open, one arm flung over his head.I nudge his shoulder.“Kael,” I say.He makes a noise that sounds like “mmph.”“Kael,” I say again, sharper this time.His eyes snap open.He goes from horizontal to fully upright in half a second.“What—who—where?” he demands, already reaching for the nightstand like he expects a gun to be there instead of a water glass and my prenatal vitamins.“My water didn’t break,” I say. “But something’s…starting.”He freezes.Then, it launches into motion in a way that would be funny if I wasn’t busy breathing.“Ava,” he says, already grabbing his phone. “We call Ava. We call the driver. We wake Sofie. We—

The venue isn’t big.That’s the first thing I notice when we step out of the car—no red carpet, no step‑and‑repeat wall, no screaming fans pressed against barricades. Just a modest brick community arts center with a hand‑painted banner over the door:**LULLABY HOUSE FOUNDATION – FIRST YEAR IMPACT NIGHT**The second thing I noticed is that they spelled my name right on the sandwich board sign by the entrance.Eliana Cruz, it says. Not Elaina. Not Aliana. Not *E. Cruz, controversial mafia muse*.Just my name.“That’s new,” I murmur.Beside me, Kael’s mouth twitches.“I threatened them,” he says.“I’m choosing to believe that’s a joke,” I reply.He doesn’t confirm or deny.Sofie bounces between us, wolf plush tucked under one arm, the other hand tangled in his fingers.“Is this like a concert?” she asks. “Do I get to clap? Are there snacks?”“Yes, yes, and absolutely yes,” I say. “But it’s not my concert. It’s…more of a show‑and‑tell.”She considers this.“Do I have to be quiet?” she ask

It takes me a few days to bring it up.Not because I’m afraid.Because I want the moment to feel…intentional. It's not like tripping over a ghost in a laundry pile again.On a quiet Sunday afternoon, the house is unusually still.The baby is napping.Sofie is at Rosa’s, allegedly doing homework, and actually—if the last three visits are a pattern—teaching her aunt the choreography to some viral dance.Kael is in the living room, half‑watching a soccer game with the sound off, a book open facedown beside him like he can’t decide which kind of distraction he wants.I go to the bedroom.Open the drawer.The note is right where I left it.Silent.Small.No longer a ghost, just part of the story.I take it out and smooth the fold gently.Then I grab a pen from my nightstand and tuck both into my palm as I head back down the hall.He looks up when I step into the room.His gaze flicks immediately to my hand.His body goes still.“Is that…?” he asks.I nod.“It fell out of your shirt the oth

Post‑show quiet always feels a little unreal.The roar fades, the lights go down, and what’s left is the hum of the generators outside, the faint rattle of cases being loaded, and the soft slap of my sneakers on concrete as I head down a service hallway that smells faintly of popcorn and disinfectant.Someone already taped a hastily printed sign to the door at the end:**ELIANA – DRESSING ROOM**The star they drew under my name is lopsided.I love it.Inside, the room is small and functional. Couch. Folding table with fruit that nobody touched. A mirror ringed with bare bulbs. Two bottles of water sweat on the counter.Kael is already there.Of course he is.He’s sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, forearms braced, still in his dark T‑shirt and jeans, a towel looped around his neck like he’s the one who just sprinted around under hot lights.He looks up when the door clicks shut behind me.Slow smile.“Hi,” he says.“Hi,” I echo.For a second, we just look at each other.Then I

I’m fifteen, my family is insane, and yes, I know everyone says that, but I can prove it.Exhibit A: Curfew.Do you know anyone else whose parents negotiate a curfew like it’s a nuclear treaty?“Eleven,” Dad said this morning, arms folded like a final boss.“Eleven thirty,” I said, because I am not a coward.“Eleven,” Mom repeated, in her soft‑voice‑that‑means‑no voice.I had charts. I had statistical evidence. I had screenshots of other tour kids’ curfews. They still made me present my case like I was in front of HR.I got eleven thirty, but only because I agreed to “self‑directed warm‑ups” and “no belting in the parking lot after midnight," Sofie, we talked about this.”Exhibit B: Security.There is a man outside our house whose entire job is to read a book in a car and occasionally glare at joggers.I am not kidding.He pretends he’s “monitoring the perimeter,” but I have seen that copy of *Dune* in his hands for like three months, and I’m pretty sure he’s still on page forty‑somet