Dealing with the Devil [Yandere x Reader]

Chapter 62 - Event?

The email arrived early in the morning, an invitation that would have made my heart soar in another life, at another time. I stared at the screen, blinking as I processed the words.

Book signing event—guest author invitation.

The name stood out in bold:

Muse.

But as I reread the email, excitement warred with unease. This was everything I had worked for, everything I had ever wanted.

So why did it feel so... hollow?

I closed my eyes, feeling a pang in my chest as my thoughts drifted back to Christian.

What would he think of this?

Would he let me go? Or would he twist it, like he always did, into something else—another opportunity to close the walls around me tighter?

I sighed, feeling the weight of his constant presence pressing down on me, even when he wasn't physically near.

You'll go,

You have to.

This was a moment that had nothing to do with Christian. It was mine. I wouldn't let him steal this from me.

Well it was a weird anxiety, I told him and he just said "Ok".

But that didn't stop the creeping anxiety that whispered in the back of my mind.

Later that day, as I packed my things for the signing, I found myself opening my journal—a small notebook I kept hidden in my drawer, my last refuge.

I wrote when I couldn't speak, when the thoughts in my head became too tangled to say out loud. And today, those thoughts were as thick as tar.

I started writing, my pen moving almost of its own accord.

"Even while lying in a desert, you'll do anything for water, no matter how toxic the water is. After all, starving dogs eat anything."

The words felt heavy as they formed on the page, my hand shaking as I scribbled them down.

Is that what I had become?

A starving dog, willing to drink from any source, no matter how poisonous? Christian's control over me felt like that toxic water—necessary, inevitable, even if I knew it was killing me. I had been so thirsty for love, for safety, that I had drunk deeply from the well he offered, no matter how bitter it tasted.

My fingers tightened around the pen as I continued to write.

"You think you can survive on it, even when you know it's toxic. You tell yourself it's enough. But deep down, you know. You know it's not water at all. It's poison."

I paused, my breath hitching in my throat as the reality of my words hit me. Was this really what my life had become?

Was I slowly poisoning myself, telling myself that this was love?

Suddenly, I felt a presence over my shoulder, and I glanced up to see her—Muse. Her tall figure loomed over me, elegant and imposing, with a curious smile playing on her lips. She had a certain aura about her, something ethereal yet sharp, like she lived on the edge of something more profound than the rest of us could comprehend.

She peered down at my journal with a raised brow.

"Ah, going through a starving artist trope?" she asked, her voice calm and slightly amused.

I blinked, caught off guard by her casual intrusion.

"The what?" I asked, feeling self-conscious about my writing now that she had seen it.

"You know," she said, waving her hand vaguely, "the whole idea that suffering creates better art. That the more an artist suffers, the more profound their work becomes. But in reality, no blood is poetic and flows like a symphony. Blood is just blood."

Her words landed like a punch to the gut. I stared at her for a moment, trying to process what she was saying.

She wasn't wrong. I had always heard the romanticized idea of the "starving artist," how suffering led to genius, how pain gave birth to beauty. But in reality, suffering didn't create beauty. It just created more suffering.

I swallowed hard as she handed me a book, her name scrawled in beautiful, looping script across the title page.

"Don't romanticize the poison," she said with a wry smile. "It'll kill you faster than anything else."

I managed a small, tight smile in return.

"Thanks," I mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

Muse's words echoed in my mind long after she had left, lingering like a dark cloud over what should have been a moment of triumph.

Don't romanticize the poison.

Was that what I was doing? Trying to turn my suffering into something profound? Telling myself that all this pain would lead to something beautiful?

As the signing event wrapped up, I watched her from a distance, her presence still commanding the room as she moved through the crowd with ease.

She was an artist who seemed so sure of herself, so in control of her world. I couldn't help but wonder if she had ever been in a place like mine—trapped, suffocated, and confused. Or had she always been free?

We finished up, and I gathered my things, feeling strange and out of place. The event that should have been a moment of celebration now felt like an odd dream—something disconnected from my reality. I felt distant, like I was walking through a fog.

Was this how it was going to be now?

Every moment that should bring me joy tainted by the shadow of Christian's control?

As I stepped outside, the cool evening air hit my skin, and I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. I was leaving this event with more questions than answers, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was still drinking from that poisoned well—too afraid to stop, even though I knew it was killing me.

I glanced at my phone, half-expecting a message from Christian, but it was blank. For now. I shoved it back into my pocket and headed home, my thoughts spinning with everything Muse had said.

Maybe she was right. Maybe suffering didn't make better art. Maybe it just broke you, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.