Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Something about being in Atlanta on her own terms felt different.
No college. No stolen cars. Zena had bet entirely on herself, and for the first time in her life, she was riding on someone else’s dime, flying first class with a luxury hotel suite already secured.
The city blurred past the Uber window, culminating in the facade of a building half a block ahead.
The logo of RRR. Royal Reign Records, on full display.
She stared at the emblem, her chest tightening as a sudden wave of memory hit her.
She thought of her father. She remembered the exact scent of his old sedan, the way he used to play Supreme’s sophomore album on the drive home from school.
He would tap his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel, mouthing every word to Lucky Me.
She knew that album the way she knew her ABCs.
Her father would have completely lost his mind if he were standing here now, facing the monument to his idol’s empire.
She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over his name in her contacts. She almost texted him. Almost. Then she remembered the silence that had stretched between them since everything went down, and she locked the screen, slipping it back into her purse.
The receptionist confirmed their 2:00 PM appointment with a polished smile and led them down a wide, dimly lit hallway.
The walls were a gallery of black music history, lined with decades of gold and platinum plaques.
She kept her chin up, looking straight ahead, actively telling herself she was not impressed.
She was, in fact, impressed.
The conference room was a fishbowl of floor-to-ceiling glass, centered by an oak table.
The receptionist offered bottled water and a tray of snacks, but Zena politely declined.
Her stomach was a knot of pure adrenaline.
Tate, however, looked completely at ease, sinking into one of the leather chairs and throwing an arm over the back.
Supreme walked in exactly three minutes later.
Zena had seen his face on screens her entire life, in music videos, on magazine covers, and on the faded poster her father kept framed in his home office.
In person, he commanded the room effortlessly. He was taller than she expected, broader, with an immaculately groomed salt-and-pepper beard. His charcoal suit was tailored so perfectly it looked like he lived in the gym.
He walked straight up to her and extended a hand. “I’m Supreme. You must be Zena.”
My father’s favorite rapper just said my name
“I am,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Nice to meet you.”
Before they could sit, the glass door swung open again, revealing a beautiful Hispanic woman holding an iPad, followed by a light-skinned man with cornrows and an oversized diamond chain.
“I’m sure you already know J-Rock, our head of A&R,” Supreme said, gesturing toward the man. “And this is Camila, who handles PR and brand strategy.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Zena said, smoothing her shirt. “I’m Zena, and this is my boyfriend and manager, Tate.”
Tate stood and offered a firm handshake to the men and a nod to Camila.
Camila didn't waste time. She set her iPad face down on the wood and locked her eyes onto Zena. “So, Zena. What’s your story?”
Zena blinked. “What do you mean?”
Camila pursed her lips, a look of mild boredom crossing her features. “I mean, what drives you? Everybody who sits in that specific chair has a reason they think they belong here. What’s yours?”
Zena thought of the home in Richmond. “My mother. She always wanted to be a singer...Broadway. But she got too caught up in motherhood and domestic life to ever make her dream come true. I’m carrying it for her.”
“Right,” Camila said, a subtle, patronizing roll of her eyes accompanying the word. She picked up her iPad again and clearly dismissed her.
Zena’s chest tightened, a flash of anger flaring in her throat.
Supreme leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “That’s touching, but Camila’s point is valid. What sets you apart from every other girl on Instagram who can carry a tune and has a sad family story?”
Zena squared her shoulders, refusing to look away.
“Because I’m me. That’s something nobody else can replicate in a studio.
My voice isn’t just about hitting a note.
It’s how I tell stories. Mine, my mother's, and the stories of people who don’t have a voice to tell them.
I don’t just want listeners. I want to take people somewhere. ”
Supreme leaned back, his expression unreadable as he stroked his beard. He glanced over at J-Rock, a split-second look that communicated something Zena wasn’t supposed to catch. She caught it anyway.
“Favorite song,” J-Rock interjected, tilting his head. “Right now, what is it?”
“Shai. If I Ever Fall in Love.”
J-Rock’s face split into a grin. “A classic. Real R&B. I like it... Sing it.”
The room went dead silent. The glass walls felt like they were closing in. Camila didn't even look up from her screen, and Supreme picked up his phone, casually tapping it as if he were checking an email or playing a game. They were treating her like background noise before she’d even started.
I’m losing them. They think I'm a joke.
Zena took a breath and closed her eyes.
She forced the glass room, the expensive suits, and the platinum plaques out of her mind.
Instead, she traveled back to the feeling of the music, the way the melody used to vibrate through the floorboards of her childhood home.
She let the song find her, opening her mouth to let the first note bleed out.
“And if I ever... ever fall... in love again... again...”
Her voice, naturally raspy cutting through the air of the conference room. By the time she hit the soaring falsetto of the second chorus, she opened her eyes.
The shift was instantaneous.
Camila’s iPad was resting on her lap, her mouth slightly open.
Supreme had dropped his phone onto the table, his eyes locked entirely on Zena’s face.
Outside the glass walls, a small crowd of label employees had gathered in the hallway, drawn away from their desks by the sheer power of her acoustic vocals.
A few of them had quietly cracked the door open just to hear it more clearly.
“I fucking told you!” J-Rock yelled, jumping out of his chair and pointing a finger at Supreme. “I told you! This one right here. She a winner.”
Supreme held up a single hand to silence him, then a slow smile spread across face.
“I don’t beat around the bush,” Supreme said, looking directly at Zena. “J-Rock brought your tape to my desk, but I needed to hear it live before I believe the hype. Your gift is undeniable. If you accept what we’re prepared to offer you, Royal Reign will make you a star.”
Zena’s heart was pounding loudly, its vibrations echoing in her ears. She turned to Tate, searching his face for validation, needing to ensure she wasn't trapped in a dream.
Tate was already grinning, his chest puffed out, a look in his eyes that said he was excited.
She turned back to Supreme. “Just tell me where to sign.”
“Slow down,” Supreme rose from his seat, buttoning his jacket.
“We still have the details to iron out. I’ll have my legal team draw up the formal paperwork and email it over to you for review.
You’ll have a few days to look it over with your people.
” He gave her a final, respectful nod. “We’ll make sure all your expenses for the weekend are handled. Welcome to Atlanta.”
He exited the room just as coolly as he walked in, Camila trailing closely on his heels.
J-Rock lingered for a moment, his eyes darting between Zena and Tate. “Congratulations, Zena.” He turned his full attention to Tate, giving him a knowing nod. “Tate, I’ll hit your line later tonight so we can talk shop.”
“Bet,” Tate replied.
Once J-Rock disappeared down the hall.
Zena turned to Tate, her brows furrowing. “What was that about? What does he need to hit you up for?
“Nothing much, bae.” Tate stepped in close, grabbing her hands and kissing the backs of them tenderly. “How are you feeling right now?”
Words couldn’t properly map the terrain of her emotions. She looked past him toward the empty doorway, then out at the crowded hallway where staff members were still whispering and glancing at her.
“Like my life just changed,” she whispered. “Like I’m about to be a fucking star.”
The email from Royal Reign’s legal department was sent exactly two hours after the meeting. It was accompanied by a PDF document totaling exactly one hundred and fifty-two pages.
Zena sat propped against the plush headboard of the hotel bed, her reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. The glow from her laptop screen illuminated her face as she scrolled through the contract with laser focus.
The language was dense, full of jargon and cross-references that felt designed to make the reader dizzy. A clause would seem perfectly reasonable until she tried to trace its conditions to their logical conclusion, only to find herself lost.
She got through forty pages before her eyes began to blur from the strain.
“Tate,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet room. “I think we should have a lawyer look at this before I sign anything. Some of this wording looks crazy.”
Tate was sprawled out on his side of the king-sized bed, his phone held above his face as he scrolled through social media. He didn't even look up. “Nah, it’s straight, ma. Labels send those templates to everybody. It’s standard.”
“It’s over a hundred and fifty pages, Tate. There’s nothing standard about signing your life away in tiny print.”
“That’s just how the industry operates,” Tate countered, dropping his phone to his chest and looking at her.
“Supreme isn’t out here trying to offer you a shady deal.
The man is a cultural icon. He’s got a multi-million-dollar reputation to protect.
He’s not gonna risk his brand to fuck over a new artist.”
Zena looked back down at the glowing screen.
Section 4.2: Exclusive Recording Commitment and Options.
Section 4.3: Royalty Structure and Recoupment.
The word recoupment appeared eleven times in the first fifty pages alone. Every time she traced the math, it looked like she would be paying the label back tenfold for everything.
She opened her mouth to argue, to demand they hire a professional to read the fine print, but then she hesitated. She thought about the years she’d spent waiting. She thought about her mother’s bitter, unspoken regrets and the way her father had abandoned her.
This contract was a door. It was a terrifying door, but on the other side lay everything she had promised herself she would become.
If she pushed too hard, if she became "difficult" before the ink was even dry, Supreme could withdraw the offer and find another girl who wouldn't think too much into it.
Slowly, she closed the laptop screen.
She looked over at Tate. “You’re absolutely sure it’s fine?”
Tate smiled, reaching over to squeeze her knee. “I’m positive, baby. Trust your manager. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow, we celebrate the new queen of Royal Reign.”
She set the laptop on the nightstand and slipped beneath the duvet, staring up at the shadows dancing across the hotel ceiling. She told herself it was fine.