All Chapters of Encore with the Devil: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

“I ambushed you with that,” he says. “You were cornered. Bleeding. Trapped. This time is different.”He lifts my left hand.The new ring he gave me glints in the candlelight—simple, elegant, free of any weight but its own.“I promised you a real proposal,” he continues. “A real choice. And a real ceremony.”He pauses, thumb rubbing slow circles over my knuckles.“No guns,” he says quietly. “No blackmail. No cages.”My breath hitches.“Are you going to get down on one knee in the grass?” I ask, voice a little too high. “You’ll ruin your pants.”“Worth it,” he says.And then he does.The sight of Dante Moretti—devil in human skin, scourge of rival families, the man who once signed my name on a contract like a shield and a claim—kneeling in the dirt in front of me makes my throat close.Grass stains bloom on pressed linen. Candlelight catches on stubble he missed shaving. He kneels anyway.He looks up at me like I hung the moon.“Luna Vega,” he says quietly. “You were never meant to be b

The show is a blur of light and noise and sweat.The part I’ll remember most, though, is the moment after.The minute the last chord fades and the arena goes dark, the roar slams into me like a physical thing. I stand there in the blackout, chest heaving, soaking it in.Not because I need their approval anymore.Because I like knowing I survived long enough to hear it on my own terms.“Thank you!” I shout into the mic when the lights come back up, voice hoarse and happy. “You’ve been incredible. Get home safe!”The house explodes again.I blow a kiss, wave, and then duck offstage as the outro track rolls.Adrenaline leaves me buzzing.Sweat sticks my shirt to my spine.My legs are shaking just enough to make the walk down the backstage tunnel feel like floating.“Water,” Mia says the second I hit the wings, shoving a bottle into my hand with one, already yelling into her headset with the other. “Great show. You nearly gave me an aneurysm with that crowd surf, but it was a great show.”

He keeps his word and gets me alone.Sort of.We don’t make it far—just to my dressing room, door closed, security posted discreetly down the hall—but compared to twenty thousand people and a livestream, it feels like another universe.I sit on the edge of the couch, still in my stage clothes, hair damp at the nape of my neck. My pulse is finally inching down from “possible aneurysm” to “just did cardio.”Dante leans against the door for a second after he shuts it, watching me like he’s trying to memorize the exact configuration of my limbs, my breathing, the smear of glitter along my cheekbone“You’re staring,” I say.“Guilty,” he replies.He pushes off the door and crosses the room, slow and unhurried, the way a predator moves when it knows the prey is already very willing.He stops in front of me.Up this close, I can smell the faint mix of his cologne and venue air—clean, expensive, threaded with a hint of sweat and something darker that’s just him.“So,” I say, tipping my head ba

The bedtime book is upside down.I don’t point it out.Our daughter is curled against my side on her small bed, blanket pulled up to her chin, hair still damp from the bath. The night‑light throws soft moons on the ceiling. Somewhere down the hall, the dishwasher hums.I hold the book while she “reads” to me, her finger tracing the wrong words in a sing‑song voice.“…and then the princess said, ‘No thank you, dragon, I’m busy,’” she improvises. “And the dragon was sad but polite.”“Excellent boundaries,” I say. “Very healthy dragon.”She giggles.The door is cracked open.I can feel Dante more than see him—leaning on the doorframe, watching, and staying just out of the glow. He does that a lot. He says he doesn’t want to “intrude on girl time,” but I know he’s there.She finishes mangling the last page, closes the book, and pats my arm.“Your turn,” she says. “Tell a story.”I tuck the book onto the nightstand and shift, so I’m half‑lying beside her, cheek on my hand.“What kind of st

The fight starts over socks.Not metaphorical ones—actual, tiny, glitter‑covered socks that have somehow migrated from our daughter’s room into the middle of Dante’s office.“Why are there unicorns in my boardroom?” he demands, holding up the offending article between two fingers.I look up from the kitchen island, where I’m elbow‑deep in emails and half a song.“Because their natural habitat is chaos,” I say. “And you leave your door open.”He appears in the doorway, sock dangling accusingly.“We had a call with the London office,” he says. “There were unicorn socks on the camera, Luna.”I try very hard not to laugh.“And?” I ask. “Did the British crime syndicate lose respect for you?”He gives me a look.“We were talking about corporate restructuring,” he says. “Not…sparkly livestock.”I shrug.“Consider it a branding refresh,” I say. “More approachable. Friendly mobster chic.”He pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s recalibrating an entire personality.Behind him, our daughter