By midafternoon, the house feels like it’s vibrating with someone else’s story.
Mia finally pries the laptop out of my hands and goes to chase coffee. I shut myself in the studio, trying to bury the fan edits under chords and half-finished lyrics.
It doesn’t work.
Every time I close my eyes, I see pastel text over Rafael’s face:
*she deserves better than the devil.*
I’m in the vocal booth, headphones on, mumbling through a melody when the door to the control room opens.
I know his footsteps now.
I stiffen.
Giovanni’s voice, low and deferential: “Signore, there’s something you should—”
A few clicks, the faint echo of a video starting.
I can’t hear it clearly through the glass and padding, but I recognize the tinny first notes of my leaked demo.
My pulse spikes.
“Where did you ge
