5. Building the Table
Building the Table
Romi
If yoga was supposed to bring peace, then why did the world insist on shattering it before you made it to the car?
I floated out of the studio in a cloud of peace bordering on enlightenment—shoulders dropped, mind a full two degrees softer than usual, calves humming with that cooked-pasta feeling that only a perfect hot vinyasa could deliver.
Even my face, freshly steamed and exfoliated by proximity to six sweaty strangers, had that dangerous post-session glow: poreless, illuminated, almost innocent. I took a selfie to commemorate.
The LA morning air was sticky-sweet, heat gathering in the corners of the lot, but I walked slow, deliberate, like my limbs belonged to someone with nothing to prove.
At least until my phone started spasming in the side pocket of my gym bag.
I let it vibrate twice before fishing it out. Home screen: three missed calls from Zaniyah, two texts, and one cryptic group DM from an account I didn't recognize. I rolled my eyes. Yoga high officially over.
The most recent text was pure Zaniyah: I knew that hoe was a snake, with a snake emoji. Attached: a screenshot that loaded half-cropped, with the blue-and-white block font of a subtweet, and—of course—a watermark in the corner that read "MikkiLeaks EXCLUSIVE."
Of course it was Mikki. I should've placed a bet.
I kept walking, watching the screenshot resolve on my screen.
First line: some people build you up so they can own the crash.
Second line: remind me never to trust a 'big sister' who treats you like competition lol.
The original poster's name was blacked out, but you could read the handle if you tilted the screen, and it didn't take a genius to recognize the tone.
I opened the full image. Not a subtweet. Worse.
A Pixogram story. My old glam team—Deonte, the makeup artist who used to beat my face for every major event until I fired him last year for showing up two hours late to the Met—posted up in some boutique studio, ring light glowing, brushes fanned out like a bouquet.
The caption: "Blessed to work with REAL ONES" #NewEra #AuthenticEnergy"
Tagged: Niko Savage. Skye Bella.
I stopped walking. Froze in the middle of the parking lot, phone hot in my hand, the yoga glow evaporating like steam off asphalt.
Real ones? Nigga, please!
That's what he wrote. Real ones. Like I wasn't real. Like I hadn't paid his rent for six months when his client list dried up. Like I hadn't put him on with every editor and stylist in my contact list when he was styling mannequin heads in his kitchen.
But it was the tags that made my jaw clench.
Niko and Skye. Together. Besties now, apparently.
Six months ago, those two couldn't stand each other.
Skye had gone on some podcast and said Niko's bars sounded like Ash and her flow was "trying too hard to be New York.
" Niko clapped back on Pixogram, called Skye "mid" and said she needed to go back to being Cam's backup singer.
The blogs ate that shit up for a week. Trending topics. Fan wars. The usual circus.
The real fucked up part was that before any of it, Niko was nobody's enemy.
She was just a girl who thought she could fuck her way onto a Dev Royale track and got photographed leaving his hotel at six in the morning for her trouble.
Single didn't even come out. And Bardot—who'd been Niko's ride or die, who'd vouched for her in rooms Niko couldn't spell—got her name dragged into it and became collateral damage.
That was the version of Niko I met. Post-wreckage. Quiet for once. Sitting in the back of a release party with her phone face-down, looking sad as fuck.
I sat down next to her. Gave her my number. Played big sister because the look in her face reminded me of a version of me that nobody protected.
Remind me never to trust a "big sister."
I looked at the screenshot again. Let it sit in my chest like a coal.
Now these two birds were posted up together in matching fits, cheesing hard as if they'd been sisters since birth, hashtagging #NewEra like they'd invented collaboration. All three wearing the same bussdown units.
Please.
I wasn't buying it. This was a cash grab, plain and simple.
Two artists with mid streaming numbers figured out they could manufacture relevance by making up, posting some cute content, maybe dropping a collab single that would ride the "former enemies unite" wave straight to a couple million views.
I'd seen it a hundred times. Hell, I'd done it once, back when I was young and hungry enough to play those games.
But the fact that Deonte was in the middle of it? That he'd chosen them—the bargain-bin Mean Girls reunion tour—over me?
That part stung in a way I didn't want to admit.
I swiped to the next screenshot Z sent. Comments were already piling up:
NOT NIKO AND SKYE LINKING UP!
The collab we didn't know we needed
Romi Dulce is SICK rn lmaoooo
They really said fuck the old regime and I'm here for it
Old regime.
My thumb hovered over the screen, shaking slightly. I wanted to type something back, something cutting and clever that would remind everyone exactly who built the table they were all eating at. But Z's voice was in my head: Don't post. Don't do anything.
I locked my phone.
Started walking again, faster this time, as if I could outrun the feeling crawling up my spine.
My thumb hovered over the screen. I wanted to click through, see the full post, the comments, the damage.
But my chest was tight, that familiar pressure building behind my ribs of something trying to push its way out.
Swiped again to Deonte's grid. A carousel post this time: him setting up lights, Niko in the chair mid-beat, Skye cackling in the background.
Professional. Polished. Content that screamed collaboration instead of bag-chasing.
Last slide was a group shot—all three of them grinning like they'd just invented friendship.
The caption: When you find your people, you know. Can't wait for y'all to see what we cooked up.
Cooked up.
My jaw clenched so hard I heard the hinge pop.
I kept scrolling. Comments piled up like flowers tossed on a grave. Mine.
This collab about to EAT
He said I'm working with ARTISTS now, not dictators
The laughing emojis were little fists to the gut.
I looked up. The parking lot swam in my vision for a second, heat shimmering off the cars, everything too bright and too close. A woman walked past me, yoga mat tucked under her arm, and gave me a look—concern, maybe, or judgment. I couldn't tell. Didn't care.
I started walking again. Fast. My Escalade was three rows over, gleaming in sun bright enough to mock me. I reached it, unlocked it with shaking hands, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed the door so hard the whole frame rattled.
The leather was hot, burning through my leggings, but I didn't move. Sat there, gripping the wheel, staring at my phone.
Z's name lit up the screen. Incoming call.
I answered. Didn't say hello.
"I'm going to kill him."
"Get in line," Z said, voice tight. "I already looked up his address."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." A pause. Then, softer: "Ro. Breathe."
I tried. Got halfway through an inhale before it cracked into something sharper, angrier. "He was in my house, Z. He did my makeup for the XMAs. I tipped him three bands that night because he said his mom was in hospice. And now he's—he's—"
"I know."
"He's with them."
Saying it out loud made it real. Made it worse. Niko been waiting in the cut for her lick back. But Deonte? I held him up at the funeral. And now he was out here playing happy family with the same girl who tried to tank mine.
Z let the silence breathe for a second. Then: "When's your call time?"
I blinked. Glanced at the dashboard clock. 10:47 a.m.
"Shit."
"Yeah. Shit. You're supposed to be at that cover shoot in Silver Lake at eleven-thirty."
I ran a hand over my face. The photoshoot.
The Amplify cover. The one my publicist had been hyping for weeks as "a major moment" and "essential for the rebrand.
" The one I'd agreed to because the creative director promised it would be "elevated" and "iconic" and all the other words people use when they need you to show up on time and look expensive.
"I can't do this right now."
"You don't have a choice," Z said, and her voice had that edge it gets when she's doing the managing instead of the sister-ing. "You bail, they'll spin it. 'Romi Dulce too rattled to work.' 'Queen cracks under pressure.' You know how this goes."
She was right. She was always right. I hated it.
"Fine," I said. "I'm leaving now."
"Good. And Ro?"
"What."
"Don't check your mentions. Don't post. Don't do anything until we figure out how to handle this."
I hung up without answering.
Started the car. The engine purred to life, low and steady, the one thing in my world that made sense. I pulled out of the lot, merged onto the side street, and pointed myself toward the 101.
Traffic was light. For now.
I made it two miles before I opened Pixogram again.
Deonte's post was still there. Still smiling. Still tagged. The comments had doubled since I last looked, a whole Greek chorus of strangers weighing in on my life like they had any right.
She must've done something to him for him to switch up like that
Romi been messy, this is karma
Imagine being SO toxic your own glam team drops you
I scrolled. Kept scrolling. Watched my name get dragged through every iteration of slander until it stopped sounding like a name at all. Just noise. Static.
My exit came up—101 to the 110, quick shot north into Silver Lake—and I took it on autopilot, barely registering the merge. My hands gripped the wheel hard. My jaw ached from clenching.
And then the traffic hit.
Not slow. Stopped.
Brake lights stretched out ahead of me like a glowing red accusation, cars packed bumper-to-bumper as far as I could see. I checked the GPS. Twelve minutes to my exit. Arrival time: 12:03 PM.
I was going to be late.