Lahat ng Kabanata ng Encore with the Devil: Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

We don’t talk about the drawer the next day.Or the one after.The villa falls into a strange, brittle rhythm—me in the studio, him in his offices, our orbits close enough to feel the gravity, far enough not to collide.Mia clocks something is off, of course.“You’re doing that thing,” she says on day two, flopping onto the studio couch as I pick at a melody. “Where your eyes look like you haven’t slept in a week, but your eyeliner is flawless. That’s a bad combo.”“I’m just tired,” I say.“Of him? Of music? Of life?” she asks. “Circle all that applies.”I strum harder than necessary.“Drop it, Mia.”She does.For about five minutes.“You know you’re going to have to talk to him,” she says eventually. “Actually talk. Not just kiss‑fight, fight‑fight.”“Thank you, therapist,” I mutter. “That’ll be all.”Still, her words stick.By the third night, the knowledge of that closed drawer hums under everything like a low‑grade fever.It’s not just the existence of it.It’s what I saw inside.

The envelope sits on my nightstand all afternoon like a bomb.I try to write. Nothing comes.I try to nap. My brain just replays the same images: my name on that contract, the line of zeroes, his note in the margin.*Cheaper than a coffin.*By early evening, the silence in my room feels like pressure in my ears.He’s somewhere in the house.On a call, probably. Or in the gym, methodically beating a bag so he doesn’t beat a man.I can’t sit with this alone.Not when he chose it for me.I grab the envelope and head for his office.No sneaking.No half‑measures.I knock once hard, then push the door open before he finishes saying, “Come in.”He’s at his desk, in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled, jacket on the back of his chair. The lamplight throws clean lines across his face.He looks up.The moment he sees the envelope in my hand, his posture changes.Small things: his shoulders go a fraction stiffer, his grip on the pen loosens, then tightens again.“Where did you get that?” he as

I don’t wait for his non‑answer.If I stay another second in that office, I’ll start begging, or crying, or saying something even more pathetic than “divorce” with my hands shaking.So I turn.My fingers brush the envelope on his desk as I pass—contract, numbers, my name reduced to units of worth—and then I walk out.The door closes behind me with a soft click that feels nothing like the slammed doors of our past fights.It feels worse.Like something gently, finally breaking.—I make it halfway down the hall before I have to stop and press my palm against the cool plaster, breathing like I’ve just run a marathon.“You okay?” Mia’s voice comes from behind me.Of course she’s there. Leaning against the wall outside the studio, the laptop tucked under her arm, pretending she was just passing by and not hovering like a guardian gargoyle.“I’m fine,” I lie.Her brow lifts. “Your fine voice sounds like it’s about to audition for a horror movie.”I huff some air that wants to be a laugh.“

I don’t sleep.Every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice in the hallway—*She was always a bargaining chip, from the start*—and see my name under the word ASSET on a contract I never signed.By the time the sky outside my window turns from black to a tired blue, I’ve watched the same crack in the ceiling a hundred times and dissected every possible meaning behind one overheard sentence.*That’s how he saw her. I won’t let him play that card now.*Maybe he meant Marco.It doesn’t matter.He still said it.He still put me in the same sentence as a chip on a table.My chest feels bruised from the inside.My phone starts buzzing just as the first smear of sunlight touches the sea.It vibrates across the nightstand until it knocks over an empty glass.I grab it before it falls.Multiple notifications flood the lock screen.News alerts. Mentions. Tags.#WhoOwnsLuna trending harder.“Great,” I mutter. “What now.”I swipe open the first headline.> **LUNA VALENTINE NAMED IN MAFIA INVESTIGAT

By the time the house goes quiet, my decision has worn a rut in my skull.The clock on my wall glows 01:27.My flight out of Palermo is at 02:15.Rafael wasn’t exaggerating: I won’t get a second window like this.My bag is already packed.Just enough to pass a half‑interested security glance: a couple of T‑shirts, jeans, toothbrushes, and the beat‑up notebook I’ve carried out since the last tour. Nothing expensive. Nothing with labels screaming Moretti money.The important things—Rafael’s files, the fake passport, the boarding pass—live on my phone, and a slim USB tucked into my back pocket.All day I’ve told myself I’m just…preparing.Now it’s time to admit I’m leaving.I slip on sneakers, pull on black leggings, and have a dark hoodie. Cap. Sunglasses go into the bag; no one will see my eyes in the middle of the night, but habit is a hard vice to break.I pause at the door.If I look back now, I’ll get sentimental.I don’t look back.I unhook the chain, turn the handle slowly, easin