8. No Comment #2
Her hair caught the blue glow from the spotlights below, looked like silk—the kind that comes from blowing a car payment at the salon every week.
The red dress with a high slit to the hip and an exposed slice of back that made her look both covered and naked at the same time.
It was all strategy, high slit and skin on display to get reactions.
Typical Romi move: covered, but somehow daring everyone to look.
I told myself I didn't care what she wore, but my eyes wouldn't budge.
Watched her swirl her drink, acting unbothered, and tried to remind myself why I hated her. Didn't work.
She didn't look up as I approached. Which was fair.
I hung back a pace, finding my own patch of railing to lean against. I could see the whole party from up here: the writhing dance floor, the constellation of camera flashes, the way everyone was so much smaller from this vantage.
I wondered if that was why Romi always liked the high ground.
For a minute, we didn't speak. I felt the static in the air, two wet cats circling a bathtub, both of us too tired to hiss.
The words from that back room still hung between us like menthol smoke. All the things we'd said that we couldn't take back.
She turned then, slow as honey, and gave me a look that was pure assessment. Her eyes moved from my face down to my shoes and back up, deciding whether I was worth the effort of conversation.
I tried not to let my eyes drift, but the way the dress dipped low at her back made it a losing battle.
Every shift of her hips pulled the fabric tighter, skin gleaming under the lights, the muscles along her spine flexing with every tiny move.
I told myself to focus on her face, to stay pissed, but my attention kept snagging—right there, just above the curve of her ass, which made the dress border on obscene.
It was humiliating, how bad I wanted to look away and how much worse it felt that I couldn't.
Then her gaze snagged mine.
Just for a heartbeat. But I saw it happen. Saw her eyes widen slightly. She blinked hard, then just went back to her usual bored-but-watching face.
I broke the silence, voice low. "You always look this bored when you're trying not to notice me?"
She didn't turn her head. Just let the corner of her mouth twitch, like she was giving the thought a chance before rejecting it. "Who says I'm trying?"
That stopped me. Romi didn't hand out openings; she made you steal them. "So you admit you're noticing."
She finally looked at me then. A flick, gone as fast as it came. "Don't flatter yourself," she said. "I'm actually hiding from Dev Royale. He's been trying to corner me about a collab for an hour."
I gave a full-body shudder. "Gross. Should I mention you're busy that day? And every day after?"
That got her. Romi snorted, a sound so sharp and real it surprised us both. She put her hand over her mouth and shook her head. "Not you being funny," she said. "I thought you had to schedule that shit in advance."
"I'm off the clock," I said. "This is just me. Being awkward as hell."
She finally turned to face me. Her eyes were tired, but not angry. "Could've fooled me. I thought you were going to crash the party and call me out from the stage."
"Tempting," I said, "but I figured you'd already done the math on every possible way this could play out, and none of them ended with me alive. Your sister is…scary-looking. On purpose, I assume?"
She laughed again. Softer this time. "You have no idea."
We stood there, leaning into the rail, letting the noise of the party below wash over us in waves. Every so often, I'd catch someone glancing up, maybe hoping for a catfight or a headline. They'd see us, side by side, and you could almost feel the disappointment.
I took a deep breath. "For what it's worth, I'm not looking for war."
She glanced over. "Not tonight?"
I shook my head. The words felt like chewing rubber, but I forced them out anyway. After what we'd said to each other, gratitude felt foreign, almost dangerous.
"And…thanks…for not leaking that shit at the photoshoot."
Romi went still, her drink halfway to her lips. She set it down on the rail with deliberate care, buying time to process. "You're thanking me?"
"Don't make it weird, damn," I blurted. The photoshoot was supposed to be a clean W.
I told her off, it landed, I dipped. And then I sat in traffic feeling all kinds of ways about a fight I won, which—nah.
Made no sense. "I'm just saying. That pink-haired girl looked sus.
You could've subbed me to hell. You didn't."
Maybe in about a week, something else would happen and we'd be old news. Not talking about it. Talking about it gave it enough air to grow into A Thing. That was just how media cycles worked.
Romi stared at me for a long moment, and I couldn't read her expression. Confusion, maybe? Like I'd just spoken in a language she didn't recognize. "We both stepped way outta pocket."
"Yeah, but you had more to lose if it got out. Your whole untouchable thing."
She tilted her head slightly, considering. "A story about you coming for my neck in a dressing room? That would've boosted your streaming. Given you exactly the type of press new artists kill for."
The accuracy of it stung. Because she was right—it would've. My name next to hers, the drama, the headlines. It was a moment that made careers.
"Yeah," I said, throat tight. "It would've."
"But you didn't want it."
"I want it," I corrected, surprising myself with the honesty. "I want the numbers, the attention, all of it. Just…not like that."
Her expression shifted—not softer, exactly, but less guarded.
As if I'd said something that made sense to her in a way she hadn't expected.
She was quiet for so long I thought she wasn't going to respond.
When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than I'd ever heard it.
"Some things shouldn't be entertainment. "
"You're right. They shouldn't."
She studied me for a second, something shifting in her expression. "That interview you did earlier. The one about beef and competition."
My stomach dropped. "You saw that?"
"Hard not to." She took a sip of her drink. "Smart play. Flipped it back on the reporter instead of giving them the sound bite they wanted."