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Cam
Red carpets look fun in a vacuum. Like, if you'd never been on one, or if you only saw the photos after, airbrushed and curated to a high gleam, you might think it was a party.
Maybe the party. But when your Uber turns onto the curb and the entire front line of media surges as one, it's less "Oscars" and more "feeding time at SeaWorld. " And you're the main course.
The moment my car door opened, a grid of flashes went off, strobing through tinted glass and rendering everything white. The press surged three deep at the velvet rope.
"CAM! CAM! OVER HERE—"
"IS IT TRUE YOU CALLED ROMI A BULLY—WERE YOU INJURED IN THE INCIDENT—"
Incident?!
"CAM, WHAT'S YOUR RESPONSE TO THE MIKKILEAKS POST—"
There it was. The first real punch.
I kept my face calm, eyes flicking to the questioner. "I don't read blogs during album season. Makes my skin break out." Beat. "But if someone's leaking, maybe get a plumber."
A few nervous laughs. My handler whispered, "Keep moving," and guided me with a palm at my back—the only thing keeping me from bolting into traffic.
Inside, the noise cut to nothing. My heart jackhammered under the dress, vision white from the barrage of flashlights. I let my posture collapse for just a second before my handler released me.
"Did they get what they needed?" I asked.
He straightened his jacket. "Stay off socials until we've read them all."
I gave him a look. "You know I'll do the opposite."
He sighed, exhausted. "Just don't fight anyone until after the main event."
I didn't promise.
The main floor opened up like a fever dream—bass so loud it rearranged your teeth, mirror installations straining toward the fire marshal's limit.
The usual hierarchy: industry lifers, influencers with ring lights, and the artist class, each of us trying to look like we hated being here more than the next girl.
I let myself drift into the crush, scanning without meaning to.
She stood near the bar, flanked by label executives in a dress that was architectural and dark red. Every eye in the room kept darting back to her. There was something gravitational about the way she held a glass, like the party orbited her, not the other way around.
I was about to shift away when something in her face changed. She'd spotted someone.
She didn't even blink. She just lifted her chin, caught the eye of security, and pointed once into the crowd. Subtle. Decisive.
Two of them peeled off the wall and started cutting toward my corner, unhurried, the way people move when the outcome is already decided. My mouth went dry. I did the math on the exits and came up short. I thought about the cameras and then I stopped thinking about the cameras.
They didn't slow. They passed close enough that I felt the air move, and kept going.
To Niko Savage, holding court near the DJ booth—still mid-sentence on her "exclusive" story when the hand landed on her arm.
Her face went from animated to pale in about two seconds.
She tried to argue, gestured wildly, but they were already steering her toward the exit.
Professional. Quiet. Over in less than a minute.
Romi never looked at her directly. Never acknowledged what just happened. She turned back to her conversation, took a sip from her martini glass, and continued like she hadn't just had someone removed.
The power of it. The absolute fucking control. And for three seconds she'd pointed it at me without blinking.
I kept moving, trying to look casual. A guy in an emerald jacket collided with my shoulder, tried to follow me with compliments, but I ducked around a pillar and lost him.
On the far side of the room, I slowed. Looked back.
Romi caught my eye. She must've felt it, or maybe she never looked away in the first place.
There was zero drama to her face—just professional interest, the kind you'd give an old rival at a tournament.
For a moment, I thought she'd ignore me.
But she didn't. She lifted her chin a single degree and gave the tiniest nod before looking away.
It wasn't friendly. But it wasn't war either.
I returned it. My face did something weird: a twitch at the corner of my mouth. Couldn't decide if this was a loss or a win.
I ducked around another display and made for the bar, trying to give my hands something to do besides shake. I ordered a soda water with lime and let the moment replay: the look, the nod, the restraint.
Maybe she was done. Maybe I was too.
The soda water tasted like nothing. I finished it and left it empty on the counter, already scanning for the next safe zone.
Stacks Monroe was holding court at the far end of the bar, a half-circle of producers orbiting her like satellites. She wore a sequined bomber over a Free All The Girls tee, already halfway through a highball.
The moment she saw me, her whole vibe amped up. "Cammie!" She pulled me into a one-armed hug that somehow didn't spill her drink. The producers did the respectful step-back, but you could feel their curiosity.
Stacks leaned in for the air kiss, lips away from cameras. "You good after all that mess?"
I shrugged. Code for Don't talk about it here. She got it, transitioned instantly to banter.
We found a perch at the corner of the bar. Stacks shielded me from the crowd with her body, which was both unnecessary and deeply comforting. She took a sip, then eyed me over the rim. "You working on anything new, or just popping up to these things to keep Romi nervous?"
It was almost a dare. I let the question hang, then went for a counterpunch. "Funny, I heard she's the one who keeps changing venues whenever I show up."
Stacks grinned, all teeth. "So you heard about the afterparty."
News to me. I lifted a brow. "You're leaking intel to the opps, huh?"
Then, like clockwork, a photographer materialized. He was young, probably a freelancer, and had the raw, hopeful energy of someone who still believed in "candid" shots.
"Excuse me, would you two mind—" He gestured with the camera.
Stacks didn't miss a beat. "Hell yeah, you can get our good side," she said, then squared us up. I played along, turning just enough to catch the light and the joke.
The flash went off, and the moment froze. In the half-second after, I realized there were at least two other cameras pointed our way. Press, always circling for the next clickbait header.
As the photographer retreated, one of the producers—Stacks's main hanger-on, I guessed—leaned in. "Is it true you're working together on a project?"
Stacks winked. "We don't talk business at parties, but if we did, it'd be top secret."
They all laughed, but the question stuck—by the way all eyes were on me, waiting for confirmation or denial. I gave them nothing.
When the attention shifted, Stacks leaned closer. Her voice dropped, the way it did when she wanted to say something real. "You keep looking over there," she whispered, tilting her head toward the center of the room. "Be less obvious about it unless you're itching for round two with her."
The words landed. I felt the skin on my neck go tight. I wanted to deny it, make a joke, say I was just tracking exits or clocking security. But that would be a lie, and Stacks would know.
Instead, I fixed my eyes on the glass in my hand and waited for the burn to pass.
Stacks tapped the bar twice, a tiny drumroll, and said, "Your thoughts are mad loud right now." Then, louder: "Let's get another round before they start charging us to sit here."
She flagged the bartender and launched into a story. The crowd at the bar relaxed again, laughter ping-ponging between the regulars.
I nodded along, but my eyes kept sliding sideways.
Toward the VIP stairs, toward the quieter perimeter, toward any corner where I could breathe without someone watching.
The noise was starting to feel like static in my skull, all the fake laughs and strategic conversations bleeding together into white noise.
My brain was this close to taking a commercial break.
As soon as it felt right, I said, "Be back. Gonna scope upstairs."
Stacks raised her glass. "Bring back dirt," she said. "Or a bottle."
"Why not both?"
She winked, and I melted away from the bar, the echo of her words following me up the stairs.
The VIP stairs were barely lit, a mercy after the LED overkill of the party floor.
Every step up was like wading deeper into a pool: the sound, the crowd, the heat—all fading out in slow increments until the only thing left was the muffled heartbeat of the bass, and the click of my own shoes on concrete.
I reached the landing and paused. The second level was almost empty, just a few scattered groups clinging to low sofas or perched on the balcony rail.
Here, the music was background, not a weapon.
Nobody jostled. Nobody photo bombed. It was a holding area for the famous, the infamous, and anyone who needed a moment without press.
Romi.
I froze on the spot. Everything in me screamed to turn around, to get the fuck back downstairs before she noticed me.
The fight was too fresh. All that poison we'd spat at each other, the way it had just…
died out with both of us too tired to keep swinging.
Or the way it almost ended, with one of us pinned to the wall and the other's mouth on her throat.
And then tonight—she'd clocked me in that crowd, sent security right past me, and put them on Niko instead.
She could've had them pack me right up and walk me out.
She didn't. I hated that some part of me wanted to know why.
Fuck it. I was already here.