The Residency (eBook)

- Sapphic romance
- Celebrity romance
- Opposites attract
- Starting over

Chapter 1 — Zara
Peter's left eyebrow twitches when he's about to make us money. It's a tell I've observed over ten years of albums, tours, and deals—an involuntary facial tic that's become my personal fortune barometer. Right now, that eyebrow is practically dancing as he spreads glossy presentation folders across my kitchen island like a blackjack dealer with a winning hand.
"Vegas, Zara. The Olympus. Athena Stavros is offering exclusivity, creative control, and a number that makes your last tour look like a dive bar residency in comparison." He slides another page across the marble countertop, his finger tapping a figure that contains more zeros than seems reasonable.
I pull my silk kimono robe tighter around me. "Vegas," I repeat, trying to imagine myself there, planted in one spot instead of the perpetual motion that has defined my existence for the past decade. "For ten months?"
Peter brushes an invisible speck from his Paul Smith suit. At fifty-three, he still looks like he just stepped off a GQ cover shoot—salt and pepper stubble meticulously maintained, fitness-obsessed physique hidden beneath casually expensive clothing. His green tortoiseshell glasses have become his trademark.
"Ten months where you sleep in the same bed every night," he confirms, removing his glasses to clean them with a microfiber cloth he extracts from his breast pocket. "Where you can keep actual food in a refrigerator. Where you might—and I'm just spitballing here—possibly make a friend who isn't on your payroll."
The jab lands with pinpoint accuracy. Besides Peter I have exactly one friend I would classify as genuine, and she dates back to my college days.
"The money is impressive," I concede. "But I'm not exactly hurting for cash."
Peter resumes his pacing. "It's not just about the money. It's about positioning. Every A-lister is securing a Vegas residency these days. It's no longer where careers go to die—it's where they evolve. You perform four to five nights a week in a venue tailored to your show. The rest of the time? All yours." He spreads his hands in a gesture that encompasses the theoretical expanse of my potential free time. "Write. Create. Rest. Live like a normal human being for once."
I take a sip of water, aware that my kitchen, with its panoramic ocean views and designer appliances I rarely use, is about as far from normal as one can get. Sometimes I still catch myself thinking of the two-room apartment where I grew up, my mother stretching rice and beans for days, where luxury meant the electricity stayed on all month.
"Does this Athena person usually make these offers personally?" I ask.
"No." There's a hint of pride in Peter's voice. "She doesn't. The Olympus is rebranding as the premier arts venue on the Strip. I know the timeline feels tight, but we've been in preliminary talks with The Olympus for over a year. The Palestra, their theater, just completed renovations and she wants you for the grand reopening. She wants their first major residency to make a statement."
I stand and move to the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Pacific like a screen. Three seagulls hover on the updraft, suspended in perfect equilibrium with the wind. I envy them—existing purely in the moment, without past or future to complicate the present.
"What's her angle?" I ask without turning around. "Casino owners don't just hand out creative control and astronomical paychecks without wanting something in return."
Peter's reflection appears beside mine in the glass. "She's building something," he says. "A legacy. Having you, Zara Nova, as her inaugural resident artist makes a statement to the entire industry."
I turn to face him. "So I'm a statement?"
"You're an investment," he corrects. "One that will pay dividends for both of you. Think about it—when was the last time you weren't exhausted?" He doesn't wait for my answer. "When was the last time you wrote something that wasn't on the back of a tour bus napkin between cities? When was the last time you dated someone?"
I flinch at that last one. My love life—or rather, the manufactured public version of it—has been a series of strategic relationships with appropriate men in appropriate industries for appropriate lengths of time. Entertainment lawyers. Film producers. Artists.
None of these arrangements have ever progressed beyond public appearances and the occasional goodnight kiss for the benefit of eager paparazzi. My team calls it "image management." I call it exhausting.
"The residency gives you stability," Peter continues, his voice softening. "It gives you space to figure out what's next without the pressure of globe-trotting and constant reinvention. Your friends and family could actually visit you instead of trying to intercept you somewhere between Tokyo and Berlin."
He has a point there. Jess, my friend from college, had her baby a few months ago. I've only seen my godson twice, both times jet-lagged and counting the hours until I needed to be somewhere else.
"I'm just not sure Vegas is... me," I say, returning to the breakfast bar and the spreadsheet that outlines what my life could look like for the next year. I push a stray dark curl behind my ear. "I love the ocean. What if six months in, I'm climbing the walls of that suite?"
"Then you climb the walls in comfort until the contract ends," he says with a shrug. "But I don't think you will."
Peter has been with me since the beginning. He discovered me at a showcase in New York when I was twenty-one and too naive to realize how rare it was for someone of his caliber to take interest in an unknown. He's guided my career with a mixture of sharp business acumen and genuine care that transcends our professional relationship.
"The Olympus has a reputation for privacy and discretion," he continues. "They protect their VIP guests better than most venues."
"How soon would I need to decide?" I ask, reaching for the contract details Peter has brought.
"Stavros wants an answer within two weeks," he says. "She's got other artists interested, but you're her first choice." He hesitates, then adds, "I think this could be good for you, Zara. Not just professionally, but personally."
I flip through the pages, scanning the highlights—performance schedule, compensation structure, accommodations. The Olympus would provide a multi-room suite customized to my preferences, a dedicated staff, security, and enough perks to make a royal family blush.
"The creative control is real?" I ask, focusing on the clause that matters most to me. "Full autonomy over the show design, setlist, band selection?"
"Everything," Peter confirms. "Stavros was adamant about that. She doesn't want a watered-down version of Zara Nova. She wants the full experience. Her exact words were 'I'm not paying for a sanitized casino act. I want the artist in her element, creating something Vegas has never seen before.'"
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. "I like the sound of that."
"I thought you might." Peter drops the sales pitch persona. This is the Peter few people see—the one who sometimes remembers he's human before he's a manager. "Look, I know the idea of staying put is foreign territory for you. You've been running since we released your first single. But I'm watching you burn out, Z. The spark that made you special—it's still there, but it's flickering."
His honesty is painful. We don't usually do vulnerability, not like this.
"Tours are brutal," I admit. "Amazing but brutal. And the constant pressure to evolve, to stay relevant... sometimes I forget who I am beneath the Zara Nova everyone expects."
"Exactly," Peter says, leaning forward. "Vegas gives you something you haven't had in years—consistency. Same stage every night. Same bed. Same surroundings. Within that structure, you might find the space to remember."
"Remember what?"
"The girl who wrote songs because she couldn't not write them. The one who performed because it was like breathing, not because seventeen thousand people paid three hundred dollars a ticket to see her."
The ocean breeze shifts, sending a wind chime on my deck into a chaotic melody. I close my eyes and listen to it, thinking about structure and chaos, about consistency and freedom.
"Ten months," I murmur, opening my eyes to meet Peter's gaze. "I could do ten months."
"Is that a yes?" he asks, unable to hide his excitement.
"It's a 'I want to meet Athena Stavros in person before I commit,'" I clarify. "Let's go to Vegas. I need to look her in the eye before I sign anything."
"No problem." Peter already pulls out his phone. "I can arrange that. When are you thinking?"