Chapter 1

Zola

The Escalade whispers through the gates, the only sound a soft crunch of tires on pristine, white-packed snow. Outside, the world is a monochrome photograph of Aspen perfection: sentinel-like pine trees heavy with powder, a sky the color of faded denim. Inside, the room is charged with the scent of heated leather and the oppressive silence of being delivered. It’s a feeling I know well. I am precious cargo. A Faberge egg with a record deal.

“We’re on approach to the secure location, Ms. King,” the driver, a man whose name I’ve already forgotten, murmurs to the rearview mirror.

“Just Zola is fine,” I said a lie. I haven’t been ‘just Zola’ since I was seventeen.

The estate, when it comes into view, is less a house and more an architectural flex. It’s all sharp angles of dark wood, glass, and stone, a fortress designed to look like it belongs in a magazine. It’s gorgeous, sterile, and completely devoid of soul. Perfect.

The SUV glides to a halt. Before I can reach for the handle, the door is opened from the outside. The cold hits me first, a clean, sharp slap to the face. Then I see him.

He’s not on my immediate touring team, so he must be part of the on-site crew. He’s built like a redwood tree, broad and tall, and he moves with a deliberate economy that screams military. Close-cropped brown hair, a jaw that could cut glass, and a faint, silvery scar that slices through his left eyebrow. But it’s his stillness that sets my teeth on edge. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t smile a polite, professional smile. He just… watches. His eyes, a startlingly pale blue in the low light, don't scan the room; they inventory it. And me.

I swing my legs out, my worn-out Uggs sinking into the snow. I’m in my off-duty uniform: black cashmere sweats, an oversized hoodie with my alma mater’s logo, and my hair piled into a pineapple on top of my head, a few curls escaping to frame my face. It’s my attempt at feeling normal. It never works.

“Welcome to the estate, Ms. King,” he says. His voice is a low baritone, completely flat. No warmth, no welcome. Just a statement of fact.

“Zola, please,” I repeat, a little more firmly this time. I offer a small, testing smile. “Ms. King is my mother, and she hates the snow.”

Nothing. Not a twitch. He simply gives a curt, almost imperceptible nod. “This way. Mallory is waiting to give you the walkthrough.”

He turns, expecting me to follow. No offer to take my bag, no small talk. He’s a wall. A very large, uncooperative, and annoyingly handsome wall. I grab my duffel, the one with the worn strap and the coffee stain from 2018, and follow his broad back toward the ridiculously oversized front door.

Inside, the great room is a cathedral of white marble, gray cashmere, and glass. It’s so minimalist it feels less like a home and more like an advertisement for one, where the people are just props. A woman with a sleek, silver bob and a crisp pantsuit approaches, her hand extended. She has kind eyes, at least.

“Zola, it’s a pleasure. I’m Mallory, head of security for the property,” she says. Her handshake is firm. “This is Asher North, the lead on your personal detail.”

I glance at the wall, who is now apparently named Asher. He gives that same sharp nod.

“Right. The detail,” I say, letting a little of my weariness show. I can’t help it. “You guys planned a fun two weeks of staring at walls?”

A young, fresh-faced guard standing near the fireplace chuckles. He’s got a spray of freckles across his nose and an easy grin. “We could play charades, ma’am. I make a mean Rudolph.”

Mallory shoots him a look that isn’t exactly a glare, but it’s in the same zip code. “This is Leo. He’s also on your team.”

“Leo of the mean Rudolph. Noted,” I say, offering him a genuine smile. He seems… human. Normal. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Asher will show you to your wing,” Mallory continues, all business again. “Your bags are being brought up. We operate on a twenty-four-hour cycle, but you’ll have complete privacy in your designated areas. Any questions, come to me or Asher.”

I look at Asher. Asking him a question feels like it would require a written request submitted in triplicate. “Got it. Lead the way, North.”

I see a flicker in his eyes at my use of his last name. Good. A reaction. He turns without a word and leads me down a long, glass-walled hallway. The silence stretches, pulled taut between us. I start humming under my breath, a nervous habit. It’s a new melody, something bluesy and unfinished.

“Is the humming a requirement for your creative process?” he asks, not even turning his head.

The question is so unexpected, so… personal, that I stop dead. “Excuse me?”

He finally stops and faces me. The hallway is narrow, and his sheer size seems to shrink it even more. “The humming. It’s a consistent pattern. I need to know if it’s a baseline habit or an indicator of distress.”

I stare at him, my mouth slightly agape. “A baseline habit? Are you running diagnostics on me?”

“I’m establishing a behavioral baseline, yes. It’s my job to recognize any deviations from the norm.”

I can’t help the short, sharp laugh that escapes me. It’s bitter. “Right. The job. Well, you can add it to your little file. Zola King hums when she’s thinking. She taps her nails against things when she’s anxious. She drinks chicory coffee, which you won’t find anywhere in this godforsaken state, and she is one hundred percent not a damsel in distress.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze intensifies, as if he’s filing every word away. “Noted,” is all he says, before turning and continuing down the hall.

My suite is, of course, magnificent. It has its own fireplace, a balcony with a view of the mountains that probably costs more than my first apartment, and a bathtub deep enough to swim in. It’s another beautiful cage.

My phone buzzes on the marble countertop where I dropped it. The screen lights up with a name that makes my stomach clench: Brendan - WORK.

I let it go to voicemail. Two seconds later, it buzzes again. I sigh and answer, hitting the speakerphone button. “What, Brendan?”

“Don’t ‘what, Brendan’ me, Z! What the hell is this? ‘Citing personal exhaustion.’ You sound like a Victorian novelist. The label is losing their minds. We had the Jingle Ball! The London special!”

I walk over to the massive window and watch the snow begin to fall again, each flake a tiny, perfect piece of silence. “I was exhausted. So I’m taking a personal day. Or twelve.” An unsteady rhythm tapped out from my fingers, betraying the calm I was trying to project on the cold glass. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“This isn’t a personal day, Zola! This is a breach of contract! This is brand suicide! Christmas is your brand! You’re Miss Christmas! You have a holiday album, for Christ’s sake!”

“And I am sick of singing ‘Santa Baby’ like I’m actually trying to seduce a non-existent magical being. I’m tired, B. My voice is tired. My soul is tired.”

“Your soul doesn’t have a multi-million-dollar endorsement deal with Sparkle Soda!” he shrieks. I can picture him pacing his sterile L.A. office, tugging at his perfectly manicured hair. “Just release one statement. A photo of you by a cozy fire. We can say you have laryngitis. People love a tragic, silent songbird at Christmas.”

The rage that simmers just under my skin begins to boil. “No. No more statements. No more curated photos. I am here, you are there. I will be back for the New Year’s Eve gig in Times Square. Until then, the songbird is officially off the clock.”

“Zola, don’t you—”

I hang up. My breath fogs up the window. The silence that follows is deafening. This is what I wanted. Quiet. Peace. So why do I feel like screaming? I press my forehead against the cold glass, my humming forgotten, the nail-tapping the only sound in the room.

Later that evening, Mallory calls a mandatory team meeting in the main living area. It’s me, her, Asher, Leo, and two other guards who might as well be cardboard cutouts for all the personality they’ve shown.

I take a seat on one of the ridiculously uncomfortable gray sofas, curling my legs under me. Asher stands by the mantelpiece, hands clasped behind his back in that formal, at-ease stance. He’s like a statue. The Sentinel. It’s infuriating how much space he takes up without making a sound.

“Alright, team,” Mallory begins, her voice brisk. “Given the extended nature of this assignment and the… isolated conditions, we’re going to implement a small morale-boosting initiative.”

Oh, God. This is going to be bad. I can feel it. This has Brendan’s corporate-retreat energy all over it.

Leo perks up. “Are we getting a hot tub?”

“No, Leo,” Mallory says patiently. “We are going to do a Secret Santa.”

A collective, barely-audible groan ripples through the room. I can’t help the cynical smile that touches my lips. Of course. A forced, festive, fun-filled exercise in meaningless gift-giving. It’s the perfect metaphor for my entire career.

“Participation is mandatory,” she continues, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm. She holds up a small, velvet bag. “Names are in here. Spending limit is fifty dollars. Gifts will be exchanged on Christmas Eve. It will be a way to get to know one another on a more personal level.”

My eyes instinctively flick to Asher. His expression is unreadable, a mask of pure, professional indifference. Getting to know him on a personal level seems about as likely as me deciding to re-record my Christmas album with a death metal band.

Mallory passes the bag around. Leo draws a name and winks at me. The other guards pull their slips of paper with grim determination. She holds the bag out to Asher. He reaches in, his large, competent fingers disappearing into the velvet, and pulls out a single, folded square.

Then the bag is in front of me. I sigh, the sound louder than I intend, and reach inside. My fingers close around a small piece of paper. I pull it out, my desire to participate somewhere around zero.

“This is a fantastic idea, Mallory,” I say, my voice dripping with the fake sweetness I usually reserve for red-carpet interviews. “Nothing lifts the spirits like a mandatory, office-wide bonding exercise.”

Mallory’s lips thin, but she doesn’t call me on the sarcasm. She’s too professional for that.

Asher, however, is not. His pale blue eyes meet mine from across the room, and it’s a first, I see a flicker of something in their depths. It’s not annoyance or anger. It looks, bizarrely, like a challenge. As if he’s daring me to find a single shred of authenticity in this charade.

I drop my gaze to the slip of paper in my hand, my nails tapping a frantic, silent rhythm against it. A soulless house, a human wall for a bodyguard, and now, a mandatory game of pretend. This isn't an escape. It's just a prettier cage with a festive, corporate-approved bow on top.