Encore with the Devil
Dante lies in the big bed alone, fully dressed, eyes on the ceiling, playing chess with ghosts—every move he could have made, didn’t make, or Marco might make now that the bargaining chip has stepped off his board.
He let her go. He tells himself that’s love.
The word feels like a lie.
—
By morning, the internet has done what it does best.
It’s eaten the scraps and regurgitated a narrative.
Mia bursts into Dante’s office without knocking—6:47 a.m., pre‑coffee feral—hair half‑braided, eyes wild, laptop clutched to her chest.
“You need to see this,” she says.
He looks up from the stack of reports he’s not really reading.
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