Chapter 5 – Ultimatum[Part3]
971 Words
You live under my protection while I finish this dispute. At the end of that year, we revisited the terms. Annulment. Divorce. Renegotiation. Whatever you want, decided with clear eyes.”
“And if I say no?”
He doesn’t blink. “I withdraw everything I’ve used to shield you. The contracts go back on the table. The man who first bought you will take his papers and his money to a judge. Your label will pretend to be shocked, then cut you loose to save themselves. And the truth about what your ex‑manager tried to do to you will leak in whatever ugly, distorted form sells the most ads.”
“You’re blackmailing her,” Rafael says, disgusting thick in his voice.
“I’m stating facts,” Dante says. “She gets to choose which hell she prefers.”
His eyes return to mine.
“You have until tomorrow night,” he says. “Midnight. After that, I stop standing between you and the wolves.”
He turns away and gives a small nod. His men peel off the walls and flow around him like dark water. They disappear out the open door into the night toward the idling car.
He doesn’t look back.
The echo of his footsteps fuses with the distant thunder of the dispersing crowd.
I sag against the wall.
Rafael swears in Spanish, then English, then something that might be both.
“Luna, we’re not doing this,” he says. “We are not letting him dictate—”
“Can we get back to the hotel before I fall apart?” I say quietly. “Please.”
His shoulders drop. “Yeah,” he says, softer. “Yeah. Come on.”
—
The hotel suite on the top floor of the Palermo harbor hotel has floor‑to‑ceiling windows and a view of a thousand bobbing boat lights.
It might as well be a cell.
I sit on the edge of the king‑size bed, still in my stage bodysuit with a robe thrown over it. The marriage certificate and contract lie on the duvet like something poisonous. My boots are off. My hair is a tangle. My mascara has surrendered.
Rafael paces the room in restless circles, and the phone presses to his ear. Every few minutes, he switches languages, voice rising, then heaves a sigh and ends another call.
Finally, he tosses the phone onto the armchair.
“They’re all cowards,” he says.
“Who?” I ask dully.
“Lawyers, PR people, everyone I know.” He gestures wildly. “They hear ‘Moretti’ and suddenly it’s ‘complicated’ and ‘we need to see the documents’ and ‘maybe don’t poke that bear.’”
Mia sits cross‑legged at the foot of the bed in my hoodie, hugging her knees. She looks between us like she’s waiting for a bomb to go off.
“We can still leave,” Rafael insists. “My friend in Madrid, you remember her? She has a villa. Gated. Off every paparazzo’s radar. We get you out of Sicily, go dark for a while, figure this out from a distance.”
“And while I’m hiding, he tells his version to whoever will listen,” I say. “Or worse—he stops telling anyone anything and just… stops standing in the way.”
The image of some faceless man in Naples reading my name on a printed contract makes my skin crawl.
“We go public first,” Rafael says. “We control the story. ‘I was tricked into a marriage contract at nineteen. I didn’t know. I’m freeing myself now.’ People will rally around you.”
“For five minutes,” Mia mutters. “Then the other side drops their receipts, and everyone starts arguing about who’s lying.”
“Thanks for the comfort,” I say.
She winces. “Sorry.”
My phone buzzes on the bed between us.
For a second, my heart slams—Dante? Label? Press?
A notification preview slides up.
*Blind Item: Which Global Pop Star Is Hiding a Husband?*
The blood drains from my face.
Mia leans over my shoulder as I tap it open.
The post is short. Smug. Vague.
*Which chart‑topping “heartless siren” has been selling heartbreak and “single girl” anthems while secretly tied to a powerful European businessman? Our sources say a hush‑hush union years ago might explain her rocket‑fuel career and her refusal to name the man behind her most famous breakup hit…*
Posted six minutes ago.
He didn’t even give me an hour.
My vision prickles at the edges.
“s**t,” Rafael murmurs.
I dropped the phone onto the duvet like it burned me.
“He didn’t even wait,” I whisper.
“You don’t know it was him,” Mia says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
“Who else knows?” I ask. My eyes drift to the certificate, to the looping, stupidly hopeful eighteen‑year‑old version of my signature. “The courthouse clerk? Jimmy, if he’s still alive? The drummer who witnessed it and probably doesn’t remember?”
No one who cares that I bleed for a living.
I stare at my name next to Dante’s.
If I do nothing, the rumor will grow teeth and chew through my image, my contracts, my fans’ trust.
If I run, I disappear and let men with more money and guns decide my fate in absentia.
A year ago, my biggest problem was topping myself on the charts.
Now I have until tomorrow night to decide which devil owns me.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure if my next song will be a weapon.
Or a confession.
- Writer
