Chapter 3 – Ultimatum[Part1]
1347 Words
The papers are still on the vanity when my legs give out.
I stumble back onto the stool, marriage certificate limp in my hands, the black letters of my name, and his burning like they’ve been branded into my retinas.
Wife.
The word looks wrong next to my face in the mirror. Wrong next to smeared lipstick and stage sweat and the girl who swore she would never belong to anyone again.
My chest tightens. The room feels too small.
I shove my feet back into my boots, not even bothering with the zippers and barreling for the door.
The hallway outside is a strip of harsh fluorescent light and scuffed concrete. The roar of the crowd is still a dull thunder through the walls, but in here, it sounds like it’s happening in another universe.
“Luna!”
Mia’s voice hits me from the side.
She sprints toward me from the catering room, tablet clutched to her chest, headset half off, messy bun threatening to fall apart. She skids to a stop when she sees my face.
“Whoa.” Her eyes go wide. “You look like you saw an actual demon.”
“Close enough,” I rasp. “He’s alive.”
“Who is?” she asks, then her brain catches up. “No. No way. Don’t tell me—”
“Dante,” I say.
The syllables feel like glass in my mouth.
Her fingers clamp around my forearms. “The Dante? Rooftop‑wine Dante? Slept‑on‑a‑mattress‑on‑the‑floor Dante?”
“The one who left a note and ‘died in a fire’ Dante,” I say. I almost laugh; it comes out like a choke. “Apparently rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’ve been awake for how many hours? Are you sure this isn’t your brain protecting you from burnout?”
“I’m not hallucinating.” My nails dig into her skin. “He was in my dressing room. He—” Heat floods my face. “He kissed me. And then he showed me a marriage certificate with our names on it and told me I’m his wife.”
Mia’s mouth drops open.
Then she snaps it shut. “Okay,” she says very calmly. “We’re going to march right back in there and prove this is just a very fancy psychotic break.”
She spins toward the dressing room door.
It opens before we reach it.
He fills the frame like a storm cloud in a suit. Jacket unbuttoned now, shirt still open at the throat, not a hair out of place. The blood is gone from his cuff; the only physical evidence of what just happened is a faint smear of my lipstick at the corner of his mouth and the red mark on his lower lip where I bit him.
His gaze slides from me to Mia and back again, taking us in with one slow sweep.
“Mia,” he says, like he’s checking an item off a list.
She goes very still. “You know my name,” she says flatly.
“I make a point of knowing the names of people closest to my assets,” he replies.
My stomach flips. “I’m not an asset.”
His eyes cut to me, dark and unreadable. “No,” he says. “You’re the balance sheet someone tried to cook.”
I don’t know what that means, but it makes Mia’s grip on my wrist tighten.
“Who let you back here?” she demands. “Security is—”
“Works for me tonight,” he says, not bothering to hide the impatience. “As does your primary sponsor. And the company that owns your jet.”
My throat goes dry.
Mia swears under her breath. “You’re Moretti Holdings,” she whispers. “Like… *that* Moretti Holdings.”
He tips his head slightly, like she’s finally catching up. “And you,” he says to her, “are currently blocking a hallway we need to walk down.”
“Luna’s not going anywhere with you,” Mia snaps.
“Mia.” My voice shakes. “It’s okay.”
She swivels on me. “No, it’s not. He shows up from the dead and starts throwing corporate names around, and suddenly we’re all just supposed to—”
“Go stall the label,” I cut in. “Please.”
Her jaw works. She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t trust it. But she knows that tone. It’s the one I use before I walk onstage and can’t be pulled back.
“I’ll be right outside that door,” she says, low. “Scream if you need me.”
She shoulders past Dante with a glare that could strip paint and disappear down the corridor.
We’re alone.
Not really—two suited men lurk just beyond Dante’s shoulders—but close enough. The air between us hums like a live wire.
“You came prepared,” I say. “Bodyguards. Corporate takeovers. Lipstick.”
He glances at my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You always did like an audience.”
“We’re backstage at my show,” I snap. “Sorry I didn’t clear your assault and battery scene with my tour manager.”
The corner of his mouth almost twitches. Almost. “We need to talk,” he says. “Preferably somewhere you’re not going to bolt from.”
“Try me.”
He turns and starts walking down the hall without checking if I follow.
He always did that. Assumed I’d be there when he turned around.
The worst part is that I do follow, boots thudding against the concrete, because wherever this conversation goes, I’m not letting him have the last word.
He leads us away from the main traffic of crew and sponsors, down a quieter service corridor that smells like bleach and old beer. In the end, a heavy side door stands propped open, letting in a cool slice of night.
Beyond it, under the jaundiced glow of a security lamp, a black car, and an SUV idle. More men in suits stand nearby, talking to stadium staff in low voices. Their posture is all deference to him, even when their backs are turned.
I’ve had security for years. They’re always trying to look invisible.
No one here is pretending.
Dante stops a few paces from the door and faces me. The men behind him subtly shift, placing themselves so he’s the most protected object in the room.
“You want to tell me what the hell this is?” I demand, holding up the papers like a weapon. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like fraud.”
“From where you’re standing,” he says, “it looks like the night before your first tour. Brooklyn. Cheap hotel room. A man you trusted telling you to sign a stack of papers so no one could take advantage of you.”
I flinch.
“Jimmy,” I say. “This is about Jimmy?”
“Your ex‑manager,” Dante confirms. “Yes.”
“He’s a greedy asshole, not a villain in a mob movie,” I snap. “He skimmed off the top, broke promises, sure, but he didn’t—”
“He did,” Dante cuts in sharply. “He took an advance against your future earnings from a man in Naples who doesn’t know the difference between an artist and a product.”
The nausea rises so fast that it makes my head swim. “What advance?”
“He bet on you,” Dante says. “He took money from someone who wanted the rights to your contracts, your image, your time. And when that wasn’t enough collateral, he sweetened the deal.”
My fingers go numb around the papers. “Sweetened how?”
Dante’s gaze doesn’t flinch. “He offered you
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