Encore with the Devil의 모든 챕터: 챕터 181 - 챕터 186

The contraband ice cream is already melting on the kitchen island when I walk in. Mint chocolate chip. My favorite, and Kael’s go-to peace offering whenever he’s let the girls buy something that violates the house rules of “no processed sugar after six.”Mireya is mid-clamber onto a barstool, a spoon clutched in her hand like a scepter. Sofie is leaning against the fridge, scrolling on her phone, already half-ignoring her sister’s loud demands for “the big bowl.”Kael is at the sink, rinsing a stray spoon, looking entirely too innocent for a man who just smuggled three pints of dairy past a security gate. “You’re late,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. Kael freezes. He turns, the dishtowel in his hand, a small, sheepish curve to his lips. “Traffic.”“In the driveway?” I ask. Sofie doesn't look up from her screen. “He bought us out, Mom. I got a new set of guitar picks, and Mira got a light-up bubble gun. We’re compromised. Don’t trust any of his statements.”“Traitor,” Kael m

The second time Sofie signs with Lullaby House, it feels different.The first contract made her my artist.This one makes her *our* act.“This is excessive,” she mutters, cheeks pink, as Miriam hangs a framed copy of the signature page on the office wall.“It’s historic,” Miriam replies, utterly unfazed. “First in‑house legacy act. First fully second‑generation contract. First Riven‑Cruz child to demand a merch clause on page two.”Sofie squints at the frame.Under the glass, the language is short and blunt:- **Masters:** 100% owned by artist. **Creative control:** 100%, with label as advisory only. - **Touring:** Artist can refuse any date for mental/physical health, no penalties. - **Safety:** No partnerships with entities that conflict with Lullaby House ethics. - **Therapy:** biweekly sessions funded by label mandatory during touring cycles. “Looks good,” Sofie says. “We should start selling prints.”“Over my dead body,” I say.“That’s in bad taste,” Kael comments from

We could have ended the night there.Sofie at center, my harmony wrapped around her like a second skin, the crowd roaring, the tour officially “over.”But somewhere along the planning, between setlists and routing notes and late‑night texts with Luna about “how do you say goodbye to a whole era,” someone (probably Sofie, possibly Jace) had a bigger idea.“One last version,” they’d said. “All of it. Everyone. A generational remix.”So when the lights dim again and the crowd is still chanting—names, lyrics, nonsense syllables of joy—I don’t walk off.I walk back.To center stage.Sofie stays beside me.“Okay,” I say into the mic, a little breathless. “One more.”The roar lifts the hair on my arms.The band shifts.The lighting techs switch cues.On the big screens above us, the image changes from the live feed to a split shot: three panels.Left: a grainy, cleaned‑up clip of Kael’s mother, taken from some salvaged home video we found through an old cousin—a dark‑haired woman in a small