Page 1 of Blue Moon

1

LUNA

I’d cried a thousand times in my life—most of them in the last two months—but never on stage in Las Vegas. Tonight, I sniffed back a tear as I took a final bow. This was the first show where I’d had any creative control, where I’d chosen the songs and choreographed most of the routines. Okay, so the costumes were a sore point—think Ancient Egypt meets Victoria’s Secret—but the audience loved the performance.

Especially the last number.

The ballad I’d written from the heart on a flight back from San Gallicano.

In a palace of wonder, by moonlight’s gleam

A tale of heartbreak, a sorrowful dream

An Insta princess, her trust did confide

In a man who guarded her, right by her side

He stood as her shield, through storms and strife

She thought him a friend, her guardian for life

But behind the facade, in shadows he’d hide

Betrayal’s cruel secret, like a serpent inside

Lies crushing her

Truth rushing her

The fantasy unwinds

But still the old ties bind

With whispered words and his tender embrace

He shattered her world, left no solace or grace

The lies were a poison, his deceit cut so deep

Leaving her broken, in the abyss she’d weep

She had given her all, her heart open wide

But his treacherous actions left every tear cried

In the ruins of trust, a soul torn apart

She’d rebuild her life, in lyrical art

I was known for peppy pop songs, for elaborate sets and big-budget productions, but for two minutes and forty seconds tonight, it had just been me, a spotlight, and a microphone as I gave the vocal finger to all the haters who accused me of lip-syncing. Okay, so I did lip-sync sometimes, but only on the high-energy dance numbers where I felt as if I were gasping my last breath otherwise.

The lights dimmed, and I trooped off stage with my dancers. There were only four of them—Venus, Aisha, Luis, and Paul—but I liked the more intimate feel of this show. I’d gone from having the world watching me to only three thousand people, which was practically like performing in my own living room. Tickets had sold out for the entire four-month run.

It wasn’t a booking anyone had expected to happen, not my pig of an agent, not Frank Serafini who owned the Nile Palace, not even me. But Kalinda de Leon, whose show had been in final rehearsals, had suddenly discovered that she was seven months pregnant—like, how had she not noticed earlier?—and since nobody wanted her to give birth on stage, Frank had needed to find a replacement quickly. He was willing to pay top dollar for a short run until Kalinda could fit into her costumes again.

And after my former record label cancelled my contract for bringing the company into disrepute—honestly, I hadn’t meant to show my boobs to the world, and it wasn’t my fault they marketed me to a teenage audience—I’d found myself at loose ends. And also quite poor, thanks to my ex-accountant running off with all my money while I was incarcerated at a turtle sanctuary. Long story. Anyhow, I had the time, and I needed the cash, so I’d had my new lawyer add a bunch of stipulations to the contract and then I’d signed it.

One show down, ninety-seven left to go.

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