5. Building the Table #2
I slammed my hand against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. The horn let out a pathetic little bleat, and the guy in the sedan next to me glanced over, unimpressed.
My phone buzzed. Z again:
You close?
I didn't answer.
Another buzz. The shoot coordinator this time:
Hey babe! Just checking in—still good for 11:30? Let me know if you need to push!
The emoji made me want to chuck my phone out the window.
Traffic. Be there soon.
Hit send. Watched the message sit there, unread, mocking me with its own inadequacy.
The car in front of me inched forward. Half a car length. Then stopped again.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.
Niko, I could understand. That's the part that gets me.
I rode for her heavy. After the Dev Royale mess, when the whole industry gathered her up over a rumor, I'm the one who pulled up.
So when they wanted a big-sister co-sign on her single, I gave it.
Hopped on the remix, did what I do. Came out so clean she sounded like a feature on her own joint.
I told myself that was a gift. But that's the part nobody says out loud: the label had heat and an artist who couldn't hold it, so they made the call they always make—kept the song, swapped the girl.
Called it a co-sign. Sounds better than salvage.
A record gets shopped until somebody can do it justice, and they decided I was the one who could.
Maybe she heard it different. Maybe that's the day Big Sister became the bitch that stole her moment. And when Peachtree put her project on ice, well, that was my fault too, apparently.
The memory came without permission.
Miami. Two summers ago. Niko's first video shoot, the one that was supposed to "put her on.
" The label had rented some glass mansion in Coral Gables, all marble and infinity pools and windows that made you feel like you were floating.
Niko was terrified. I peeped it in the way she kept pulling at her outfit, checking her reflection in every surface, laughing too loud at shit that wasn't funny.
They'd hired this stylist—some New York transplant with a razor bob and an attitude—who kept trying to squeeze Niko into dresses two sizes too small. "It's fashion," she kept saying, as if that explained the visible discomfort on Niko's face.
I pulled the woman aside. Told her if she didn't let Niko wear what she wanted, I'd make sure she never styled another video in this city.
The stylist's face went white. She didn't argue.
Niko ended up in a chiffon skirt, a faded band tee, and her favorite Js. She looked perfect. Herself. And she killed every take.
Afterward, she'd grabbed my hand in the hallway, squeezed it so tight her nails dug in. "Thank you," she said. Voice small. Honest.
I told her, "Nobody gets to make you smaller. Not even for the look."
She'd nodded. Smiled. Hugged me so hard I had to laugh.
I wondered if she remembered that. Or if it was another story she'd rewritten in her head, turning me into the villain so she didn't have to be the one who walked away.
My phone was in my lap, screen dark. I picked it up. Unlocked it. Opened Pixogram.
Z's voice echoed in my head: Don't post. Don't do anything.
But sitting here, trapped in traffic, bleeding from the knife stuck in my back—that felt worse than any subliminal post could ever be.
My thumbs moved before my brain could stop them. Any bitch beefing with me at this point was beefing with their mirror. And I was about to make hoes mad speaking on it.
It's giving desperate, bookie butt. It's giving album flopped so now we need a villain arc. Some people really think I'm the reason they can't fill arenas. Cute theory though.
I wasn't deleting it and didn't give two fucks about it, neither. Unlike some people, I said what the fuck I said.
The notifications froze, then came through in a rush. Likes rolling in like thunder, retweets piling up, replies flooding the thread. My mentions exploded into a war zone within seconds—half my fans screaming "MOTHER ATE," the other half calling me bitter, washed, pressed.
I scrolled through the chaos—fan edits starting, think pieces being drafted in real time, at least three "Romi vs. Niko" threads climbing to the top of the timeline. My name was trending. So was Niko's. Exactly what she wanted.
Then I saw it.
A reply. Not from some random stan account or gossip blog. From her.
Cam Tha Wolfe @camwolfemusic
If it was about me, I'd be flattered. But I don't think I've flopped yet. She punctuated the post with a kiss emoji.
Posted ten minutes ago. Already at fifty thousand likes and climbing.
My vision tunneled. The traffic, the heat, the whole city—gone. Just me and those words glowing on my screen like a fucking taunt.
She really thought she ate with that.
I read it again. And again. Trying to find the angle, the weakness, the place where I could slip a knife in and twist. But it was clean. Simple. Confident in that infuriating way she always was, like she didn't have to try hard because she knew she was good.
I don't think I've flopped yet.
Yet.
Like it was inevitable. Like she was writing my obituary and waiting for the body to drop.
The comments under her post were worse than the post itself:
CAM SAID "NOT TODAY SATAN"
She really said "if the shoe fits" and kept walking
Cam Wolfe stays EATING these legends I fear
Legends. Past tense. As if I was already gone.
My hands were itching to fuck something up. Not nervous. It was the rush before you broke something expensive to feel better.
I wanted to reply. Wanted to rip her apart, line by line, remind her and everyone watching that I was the reason she had a career to defend. But that's what she wanted, wasn't it? That back-and-forth, the spectacle, the proof that I cared enough to engage.
I would see her soon enough. And if we had words, so be it.
A horn blared behind me.
I opened my eyes and saw the car ahead had moved. I hadn't.
I hit the gas. Crept forward the whole ten feet this person was bitching about. Stopped again.
The GPS recalculated: arrival time 12:17 p.m.
I was going to walk into that shoot nearly an hour late. Flustered. Sweating. Apologizing.
And Cam Wolfe was going to be there. Waiting.
Perfect.
Traffic eased up the closer we got to the studio. The GPS announced my arrival with a cheerful little chime that made me want to rip the whole dash and hurl it into oncoming traffic.
Forty-four minutes late.