“Shush. I won’t take no for an answer, artist. But first things first, you’d better tell me youractualname. I can’t keep calling you artist.”
I let out a bemused laugh. “Nate. My name is Nate.”
She smiles, and her eyes sparkle with kindness.
It takes my breath away and melts my heart at the same time.
“Well, Nate, it’s nice to meet you. Take out your cell. I’ll put my number in it, and we can meet up for private lessons. This is going to be great, I can tell.”
Pulling out my cell phone, I hand it to her.
To Zaria Shafir.
Oscar-winning A-list actress.
Who is not only being nice to me but is now my private tutor.
What the fuck?
Chapter Two
ZARIA
It feels good finally to be heading home after an evening with the Recoil team. They weren’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat—most of them, anyway. The snide comments and whispers behind my back were hard to ignore, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t irritate me. I expected it, sure, but it still stings.
Then there’s Nate.
What a surprise he’s turned out to be.
Just when I was ready to write the whole night off, there he was, quietly defending me. Hearing him stick up for me when he didn’t have to, especially in front of his own bandmates, threw me off. It’s like he’s as uncomfortable in this setting as I am, and somehow, that’s comforting.
Nate seems like the odd one out in the group, almost like an outsider who doesn’t entirely mesh with everyone else. There’s something in the way he holds himself—just a touch removed, maybe even slightly detached from the others. I’m not entirely sure what the story is there, but he stood apart from them, and I have to admit, I kind of liked that about him.
As I walk up to my front door, the white double doors with stained glass inserts stand proudly—architecturally flawless, just as you’d expect from a house in the Hollywood Hills. I swing open the door and take a deep breath, only to be greeted by a vast, empty silence. No dogs scampering to meet me, no comforting smells of home-cooked meals, no family voices calling out, “Welcome home.” Just the clean, crisp white walls and the stark, immaculate emptiness of my house.
Lonely, yes, but practical—a space that reflects my life as it is.
For a moment, the silence feels almost heavy, pressing around me, a reminder of how much time I spend away chasing ambitions that keep me moving, keep me busy. A woman who has spent her life working, making a name for herself, building her brand, rather than a life. Rather than a family.
Work has been my priority for so long that I haven’t had time to build anything outside my career.
I had a serious relationship once, and it failed miserably, but now I’m getting older, and that proverbial clock starts to tick, I can’t help but wonder if I have gone about it all wrong. If putting my career, the fame, the fortune ahead of everything was all for nothing if you have no one to share it with?
Stepping into the quiet, practically empty home, I can’t ignore the feeling that something essential is missing.
I exhale and walk in, my heels clicking on the marble floor as I close the door behind me. The thought has never entered my mind before, but you’d think that with all the money I’ve amassed, I could have decorated this place a little more chic. However, Mother always said that a clean, spacious home is the best. So I went minimalist, maybe too much, and now my home feels barren—a wasteland of self-indulgence and isolation. Even though I wish every time I walk in here that I had more artwork to spruce the place up a bit, I haven’t done anything about it.
Thinking about the blankness of my life—and my house—I wonder if Nate, the artist, could do anything to liven up this place. His arm was alive with intricate artwork, and it makes me wonder if he designed those tattoos himself. There was a kind of energy, a spark in the way the lines and shapes wrapped around his skin like his art was part of him, not just something he wore.
If he’s capable of creating that kind of work on his own body, I can only imagine what he might do with my blank, empty walls. Maybe he’d bring in a little of that life, that rawness that he carries, filling the space with something real and imperfect,something that might make this place feel a little less cold and lonely. And if he has the courage to bring that creativity here, maybe I could find a bit of the connection I keep chasing but never seem to reach.
The man is undeniably attractive—from his tousled brown hair and smooth jawline to those twinkling blue eyes. And let’s not ignore that god-like body. He really is a sight to behold. But there is more to him than the surface, and beneath all that lies a complexity that intrigues me. I noticed it when he struggled with the menu. His eyes shifted nervously over the words as if the letters refused to settle in place. He tried to cover it up, that hesitation, but I could see right through it—reading is not easy for him. And yet, he didn’t back down or let it break his composure completely. There is a quiet resilience there, a kind of strength that comes from pushing through challenges.
This man is not just a pretty face—he is someone with layers, with struggles and stories etched as deeply as the tattoos on his skin. That vulnerability, paired with his presence, makes him feel… real.
But I know better than to trust a rock star.
Look at what happened with Kade, the lead singer of Backlash, the man who swore I was hiseverything… until I wasn’t.
