Dangerous Melodies - Chapter 54: Chapter 54

MARISOL
I lay on the bed in my Los Angeles studio apartment, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily overhead.
The blades moved in slow circles, mirroring the sluggish pace of my thoughts.
The silence pressed in, nothing like the hum of life at Dante’s estate.
Here, the only warmth came from memories, curling into the corners, filling the space with a loneliness that felt closer every hour.
I missed Mr. Buttons, his quiet little breaths steady beside me.
I missed Maria, who had felt like a mother to me, always ready with a soft word or that look that said she already knew what I needed.
But mostly, I missed Dante.
The weight of his arms around me.
The way everything chaotic in the world seemed to hush when he held me.
Now he was gone, and I was free.
No more expectations. No more rules.
I’d spent my life controlled, first by my father, then by Dante.
Now there was no one left pulling the strings.
And instead of feeling free, I felt untethered. Lost.
The apartment wasn’t much. A far cry from the lavish world I’d left behind.
Just a bed, a worn sofa, a scratched-up dining table shoved in a corner.
The walls were bare, the windows dull with fading light.
It was supposed to be a place to start over.
Why does it feel more like a cage?
I rolled onto my side, curled into myself, and blinked fast to keep the tears from falling.
I was so tired of crying.
But the sadness never really left.
It settled heavy, right on my chest, thick enough to steal the air from my lungs.
I missed that life, even with all its tangled pieces.
And I missed Dante, the man who saved me, and the one who shattered me.
Don’t think about him. Don’t do this again.
But the memory came anyway, soft and uninvited.
We were sitting at the kitchen island, plates of takeout between us, the overhead lights casting a warm, golden glow across the marble.
Dante had taken off his tie and was nursing a glass of wine while I picked at my noodles with a fork.
"What did you want to be before all this?" he asked, like it was nothing, like he wasn’t holding my whole world in that question.
I remember hesitating, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass.
"A songwriter," I said quietly. "Maybe a singer too, but the writing part... that’s where I feel most like myself."
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t brush it off. He just looked at me like he was seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.
"You still can."
"Not in this world."
But even then, in that quiet moment, I let myself believe it might be true.
That maybe I could create something that was mine.
Not for someone else’s image. Not just to survive.
Just because it made me feel alive.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to push back the memories that spun like broken film in my head.
But I couldn’t stay in bed all day.
I had to move. Do something. Anything to keep from drowning in this stillness.
With a sigh, I forced myself upright, legs dangling over the edge of the bed.
“You’ve got this,” I muttered.
A lie, maybe. But I had to move.
My eyes landed on the grocery list I’d scribbled earlier.
The fridge was nearly empty, and I hadn’t eaten much all day.
After pulling on my favorite jeans and a black t-shirt, I noticed how loose the fabric had become, too many skipped meals in the last few weeks.
My gaze flicked toward the space where my phone should’ve been.
I’d left it on the piano at Dante’s, along with my wedding ring, that glossy black credit card, and the signed divorce papers.
I’ll buy a new one tomorrow.
Before I left, I slipped my knife into my pocket.
Habit. One I wasn’t ready to break.
The ID I carried said Victoria Valencia.
At the time, it had been necessary. A way to disappear.
The name still felt foreign, like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
Now, I didn’t need to hide anymore.
It was time to update my ID.
Time to reclaim the name I was born with: Marisol Franco.
I wasn’t sure what I expected.
But somehow, just the thought of my name printed clearly, without disguise, made it easier to breathe.
Shoes on, I moved to the door and glanced at the clock on the wall.
The light outside was fading fast.
A chill skittered down my spine at the thought of walking alone after dark.
Don’t think. Just move.
The warm air met me as I stepped outside.
The city’s hum wrapped around me in low vibrations.
Streetlights blinked to life overhead as dusk gave way to night.
I picked up my pace, footsteps echoing against the sidewalk.
The market wasn’t far, but each shadow stretched longer.
Every sound felt sharper in the dark.
Los Angeles was a different world.
No gates. No guards. No one watching my every move.
Just me. Alone.
A face in the crowd.
Anonymous. Invisible.
This is what I wanted.
The freedom I’d once craved now felt like exposure.
Without the walls and the eyes that once watched me, I felt... vulnerable.
And I hated that.
I reached the market as the last of the daylight slipped away.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly, bright against the night pressing in from beyond the glass doors.
I moved through the aisles quickly, grabbing the basics: bread, milk, a few vegetables, canned soup.
Enough to get by.
I reached for a loaf of bread just as a man brushed past my cart, close enough that his shoulder grazed mine.
“Sorry,” he muttered, not looking back.
My hand froze mid-air.
My pulse quickened.
It was nothing.
Just a stranger. A man in a rush.
But my body didn’t understand that.
My fingers curled tightly around the handle of the cart.
My gaze flicked to the nearest exit.
I hated that I still did this.
That even now, after everything, I scanned rooms for threats, for shadows that moved too fast, or eyes that lingered too long.
Even here, in an ordinary market, I felt like prey.
As I placed a can into my basket, a sharp ache bloomed in my chest.
I wanted to hear Maria’s voice. Just once.
To feel something familiar.
But that would have to wait until tomorrow, until I had a phone again.
I paid in silence and stepped out into the fully darkened street.
The weight of the bags in my hands anchored me.
This was something.
A step.
Going out. Buying food. Surviving, even if it felt empty.
But it wasn’t enough.
I still needed to replace my phone.
I still needed my belongings.
I still needed a plan.
Now comes the hard part: figuring out who I am without anyone else deciding.
And this time, I decide alone.
But deciding who I wanted to be felt harder than I expected.
For so long, I had only existed in reaction to others.
My father told me who to be.
Dante shaped what he needed from me.
Survival had its own rules.
My choices were shaped by pressure, not by desire.
I remembered being sixteen, scribbling lyrics in the margins of math worksheets.
My voice was barely louder than a whisper.
My songs were kept secret, like contraband.
There had been dreams once.
A studio apartment filled with instruments.
A battered notebook full of half-finished songs.
Maybe a little open mic night downtown.
I could still feel the tug of it, that ache to create something that was mine and only mine.
Not polished. Not perfect. Just honest.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
Maybe reclaiming my name was the start of finally becoming who I was meant to be.