Chapter 1
“Let’s take it again from the top.” I stood in front of the soundstage with my back to the screen.
With my palms lifted and a baton between my fingers, I controlled the room with a swift command.
The orchestra waited for my instructions with their horns poised.
Percussionists were so still that it looked like they held their breaths.
“Feel it,” I said. “Don’t chase this scene. Let it chase you.”
With that, I gently whipped the baton in the air.
The first note rolled out, low and heavy.
Then the strings crept in behind it, subtly and softly.
On the screen, the actor crossed a dark hallway.
Light flickered in the background like electricity that filled the night sky during a thunderstorm.
I closed my eyes and tilted my head. That had always helped me listen deeply and feel the emotion that drifted through the sound.
“Cellos,” I said quietly, my eyes still closed. “Stay right there. Don’t lose it.”
They adjusted instinctively.
That was the thing I loved about this part of my life. Nobody questioned me anymore. They trusted the ear, trusted the vision.
The bows moved together then, tight and locked in like they wanted to pull the moment straight out of the wood.
The strings echoed through the room, smoothly and heavily, while the cellos held steady beneath them.
It lasted about two minutes, but the warmth felt like late-night thoughts you didn’t mean to deepen—like those nights I’d lie awake for hours, wondering why I didn’t feel fulfilled in my life, like something was missing, but I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.
When the final note faded, the room stayed quiet and waited for my eyes to open again.
“Yeah . . .” I said finally. “That’s that shit I’m talkin’ ’bout!” Laughter and soft murmurs spread across the orchestra. “That’s a wrap!” I continued between my own chuckles. “Good work, everybody.”
Sounds of relief were as loud as the chairs that scraped against the floor as they stood. I smiled as I watched them pack their instruments and grab their jackets.
A few musicians nodded at me on their way out.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped the screen as the last of them scurried out.
There were twelve missed notifications, mostly emails from studio execs.
They always felt their thing was urgent.
I saw Kam, my manager and best friend’s name, and tapped the message open immediately.
Kam: The label wants to meet around three tomorrow. If we push back the meeting for the headphone brand deal you can make it, but you will be on set for the movie’s final score until later tomorrow night. Let me know what you think.
I scoffed and moved my fingers to type a response.
Me: That’s cool. I ain’t gonna make it home til’ bout three in the morning anyway.
Kam texted back almost instantly.
Kam: I used to pray for times like this, to rhyme like this. Meek Mills ass nigga!
Me: Yeah. This what I been grinding for. Living the motherfucking dream.
Kam: Yeah, yeah, yeah. You doin’ your shit tho, I’m proud of ya! I was just reaching back out to see if you still got the artist from Detroit flying in tonight? You running behind?
I closed the message thread and checked the time.
“Shit,” I muttered.
I slid the phone into my pocket, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the parking garage.
The sun had begun its slow descent over L.A.
by the time I hit the 405. The sky was a goldish-pink that glowed like it was the main character.
Billboards whirred by and promised dreams they’d never keep.
Tall palm trees blurred past as I sped to my home studio.
Traffic was traffic. That was always expected.
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel to the song I’d made three nights ago.
I stayed up until five in the morning, layering and stacking vocals.
I felt the exhaustion settle into my bones, going on four days without proper sleep again.
That used to be normal. It used to feel like momentum. These days, it just felt heavy.
I never imagined that the day would come when I felt that.
Just one year ago, I’d been upset about scoring a film; I felt like my label was trying to push me into retirement.
They said I wasn’t making relatable music anymore, and it was time to find something new.
I remembered being offended and angry. Now, it was all I could think about doing.
Since then, I’d been looking into different lanes, ones where I could make my money and slow down.
My ass was pushing forty. My body felt it too.
I’d made a decision a few months back, quietly and deliberately. With no announcement to the label and no press, I put out a call online. I told artists to submit their work. I said I’d pick a few to mentor, to really work with, not just slap my name on something.
Out of love and respect for my city, I chose Detroit artists first.
I used to avoid home because it came with ghosts. It used to come with a version of myself I didn’t know how to reconcile. But growth always had a way of forcing you to circle back.
A young artist by the name of Malik was one of the first I chose.
I pulled up to my gate, pressed my code, and waited as the large gates slowly creaked open.
Security had already let Malik and his whole crew inside.
Security told me that they were on time and full of nervous energy.
I smirked when I heard this. Malik stood when I walked in, hand out as if meeting me meant something to him.
“Zay,” he spoke. “I don’t even know how to thank you for this.”
“You already did,” I said, and I took his hand. “You showed up.”
We got to work almost immediately and skipped the small talk. He had a talent that was raw, uneven, and hungry. I heard a lot of myself in him—the way he rushed certain bars and the way he overperformed like he was afraid the moment might disappear if he didn’t grab it fast enough.
“Slow down,” I told him once, stopping the track. “You sound like you tryna outrun your own thoughts.”
He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sometimes, I feel like I am.”
“You got so much time,” I replied. “Don’t feel like you don’t. You got this.”
We worked for about an hour, both so laser-focused that we hadn’t noticed the shift in the room. A burst of laughter erupted so loudly that it broke my chain of thought. My head jerked toward the noise.
Bottles of Hennessy sat open on the table with amber liquid in clear glasses.
Conversations with voices that overlapped each other damn near drowned out the song we’d just created as it faintly looped in the background.
A couple of people leaned back on the couch, loose from excitement and drinks, living in the moment without paying attention to the work that was still going on in front of them.
It was the kind of studio energy that most rappers loved.
Celebration before the job was even finished.
My eyes shifted as I continued to scan the scene when they locked on a woman who leaned on the tabletop. She didn’t look away when our eyes met, just held it confidently and intentionally.
Her long hair fell down her back and framed her curves that were soft and unapologetic.
Her fitted crop top cut off right under her breasts, and her belly ring shone in the light from her flat stomach.
She shifted her weight just enough to make me notice the shape of her hips.
The ease in her body posture made me realize that she knew exactly the effect she had.
That was a bad ass bitch.
She was the kind of fine that used to slow me down, the kind that could make my distractions feel well-earned and well-deserved. It used to make my nights blur into mornings. A long time ago, it used to make discipline feel optional.
That used to be my weakness, but not anymore.
I reached over the board and stopped the session. Turning back to Malik, who sat behind the glass in the booth, I pressed the button and spoke into the mic.
“Hold up. Tell them to bounce.”
He blinked. “You serious? What’s going on out there?”
“Dead serious.”
Confusion ripped through the room as everything quieted down. I pulled out my phone and texted security.
Me: Clear the room for me. Order some food or something, keep them out the other side of the house.
Malik exited the booth and walked out with his friends when security came. I leaned back in the chair and scrolled through emails as I waited for his return.
When he came back, he looked embarrassed.
“Zay, man, I apologize,” he started. “My bad. I don’t want to waste your time. I’m grateful for this opportunity—”
“Don’t.” I raised my hand and cut him off.
“You good, bro. I just seen too many careers die behind distractions. Niggas get caught up in the lifestyle quick. You can party later. Keep people around you that’s gon’ work as hard as you, though.
That’s how you know who is here for you and who is only down for the ride. ”
He nodded. “I appreciate this more than you know. You ever think about starting a mentorship program or your own label? You could just sit back and stack that money.”
He didn’t know that thought had sat in my chest every night. The money was already figured out. That part wasn’t the problem.
Working had always been my escape, my shield, the one place my mind went quiet when my thoughts were so loud.
Music gave me something to do with my hands, my thoughts, and my anger.
When I stayed busy, I didn’t have to sit with the things that I didn’t know how to fix. For a long time, that had been enough.
Then I thought about Yana’s face when she saw me in the back of that auditorium—the way her eyes scanned the room, searching for me, and how they lit up when she realized I was there.
Princess’s laugh popped into my mind right after. It was a squeaky chuckle she did when she forgot to put that guard up. Every time we were together, it felt the same: familiar, dangerous, and unfinished.
I wanted this life I had, but honestly, I wanted something else too.
A family. Stability. A version of myself that didn’t always run.
That was the part music never taught me. It taught me how to survive but not how to stay.
I turned to Malik and stared into his eyes as I responded.
“I think about it every day.”