5. Building the Table #3
I pulled into the lot behind the studio—some converted warehouse in Silver Lake with exposed brick and too many succulents—and killed the engine.
Sat there for five seconds. Ten. Trying to pull myself together, to find the version of me that could walk into that building like I meant to be late, a power move instead of my bad.
My phone was a graveyard of notifications. The shoot coordinator. My publicist. Z, three times. I ignored all of them and checked my face in the rearview instead.
Flawless. Of course it was. Post-yoga glow holding strong—dewy skin, enough flush in my cheeks to look alive, brows sharp from yesterday's threading.
Fresh braids were slicked into a high bun, not twenty-four hours old.
No makeup. Didn't need it. The black Balenciaga tracksuit I'd chosen was casual in that very expensive, very intentional way.
I looked like money. Like control. Like I woke up like this.
The lie was almost convincing.
I grabbed my phone, my keys, and stepped out into the heat.
My team was already there—pulled up five minutes before me, per my text.
Publicist, assistant, security, and Lonnie, whose entire job was to carry things and look busy doing it.
They fell into formation around me without a word, efficient, a human shield between me and whatever fresh hell waited inside.
"Traffic was a nightmare," my publicist, Simone, said as we walked. "We'll lead with that. Keep it light."
"I don't need a script, Simone."
"I know. I'm just saying."
The studio door was heavy, industrial. I pushed it open and stepped into controlled chaos: lights, equipment, a craft services table no one was touching, and too many people standing around trying to look busy.
The producer—some white guy with a tablet and an enthusiasm that read as desperate—practically jogged over. "Romi! Hi! No worries about the time, we totally get it."
"Sorry we're running late," Simone said smoothly. "Traffic was awful."
He waved it off. "Seriously, no problem. We just wrapped Cam's individual shots, so we'll get you set up and then we can do the group stuff."
Cam.
Of course she was here. Of course she'd been on time, probably early, sitting around looking eager and grateful while I fought my way through gridlock and my own spiraling thoughts.
I let my eyes sweep the room, assessing. A skill I'd honed into reflex.
Stacks Monroe, lounging on a stool near the backdrop, scrolling her phone like she had nowhere better to be.
Some pink-haired girl I didn't recognize, probably a stylist or an assistant.
Skye Bella—Niko's little friend—leaning against the wall with that same smug energy she always carried, like she knew something you didn't.
And then, Cam Wolfe.
Standing near the wardrobe rack, mid-motion, peeling out of a jacket. Black sports bra underneath. She looked up when I walked in, and our eyes met for exactly one second.
Her face was unreadable. Not hostile and not friendly, either. Watching me the way I was watching her, both of us taking temperature, measuring distance.
I looked away first. Not because I was intimidated. Because I didn't have the energy for whatever this was about to become.
"Let's get you into wardrobe," the producer said, gesturing toward the back. "We've got a few looks ready for you."
I nodded. My team formed a protective wall and headed toward the rack. Didn't look at Cam again. Didn't acknowledge Stacks, or Skye, or anyone else in the room. I moved with the type of focus that said I had somewhere to be and they weren't part of the itinerary.
But I felt it. The weight of their eyes. The shift in the room's energy. The way everyone was suddenly paying attention, waiting to see what would happen when you put two divas in the same space and told them to smile for the camera.
I reached the wardrobe area, let the stylist start pulling options, and finally—finally—let myself exhale.
That's when I heard movement behind me. Footsteps heading toward the exit.
I glanced over my shoulder. Cam, grabbing her bag, her phone, making a beeline for the door like she couldn't get out fast enough.
Good. Let her run.
But something in me—some petty, vindictive part that was still bleeding out from Deonte's post and Niko's betrayal and the forty-four minutes I'd spent trapped in my own failure—wouldn't let it go.
I turned slightly, and my voice carried across the room. Casual. Conversational. Loud enough.
"Wasn't that the chick who thinks my posts are about her?"
The room went still.
I didn't look at Cam. Didn't need to. The hit landed from across the studio, the way the air shifted, the way everyone stopped pretending they weren't listening.
Simone's hand touched my elbow. A warning.
I ignored it.
Let Cam leave. Let her stew. Let her feel even a fraction of what I'd been carrying all morning.
I turned back to the wardrobe rack, pulled a hanger off with more force than necessary, and kept my face perfectly, poisonously blank.
If she wanted to make this a war, fine.
Bet she wouldn't fuck with me again after this.