9. Killshot #2
Meanwhile, my brain was chewing on something else entirely.
The way I'd burned down Niko Savage last year, now that takedown felt clean.
Almost fun. Like pouring bleach on a stain and watching it vanish.
Easy with Niko. She was always loud and wrong, and when she came for me, I emptied the whole clip.
She got her headline, her trending moment, and then I made sure there wasn't a label or playlist that would touch her for a solid six months.
Even when she tried the last-ditch collab with Rocca Mel, it landed like a wet sneaker.
MikkiLeaks hyped the track for a week straight—industry first look, new queens breaking the mold—but the rollout fizzled.
The blog ran out of superlatives and sneak disses by day two.
After a lackluster surprise performance, Niko posted a Notes app apology and ghosted the timeline.
I should have felt bad.
I didn't.
That's the game.
But this thing with Cam? I kept waiting for it to feel the same way. For that little jolt of righteousness you get when a rival bared their neck and dared you to chop.
Instead, every time I replayed the bar in my head, it felt like biting down on tinfoil. The words were solid. The scheme was tight. The delivery was surgical.
But I couldn't shake the image of her on that balcony, couldn't stop seeing her hand next to mine in slow motion, like my brain was determined to make me sit through every frame. The exact angle of her wrist. The way the light caught her skin. How long she stayed there before pulling back.
Annoying as hell.
I forced my attention back to the screen, to what actually mattered.
Didn't work.
Something about that moment kept pulling at me. Stupid, but there it was.
The meeting wound down with the usual summary: two tracks left, one safe and one weaponized, and the team hungry for the kill. Jamel made his pitch again, this time with an extra layer of "don't let them see you hesitate."
"This is a moment, Romi," another suit said, voice low, trying to sound like a confidante instead of a coach. "You drop the track, you win the whole season. The other one—yeah, it's cute, but we're not here to be cute."
I let him hang on that last word. Gave the room a long, slow look, then uncrossed my arms and sat forward.
"Test them both," I said. "Focus group. You know the drill."
The team blinked, surprised I wasn't just reaching for the kill shot.
That was my rep—clean, decisive, ruthless in a way that didn't need to be loud.
But today, I let the indecision sit. Maybe because I didn't know what I wanted, or maybe because I wanted to see what the room would do if I stopped living up to their projections for five seconds.
Jamel said, "I'll set it up," but I saw the calculation behind his eyes. He'd already picked his favorite, but he needed me to pull the trigger so he could say it was my idea.
I stood, gathered my jacket, my phone, the slim folio with my notes.
Every gesture smooth, like a surgeon cleaning up before the next patient.
I didn't bother with the bagels or the fruit; I never ate in front of staff anyway.
Zaniyah followed, catching my sleeve for a split second before we cleared the glass.
She said nothing, just gave me a look that meant we'd talk about it later.
The elevator ride was silent. The doors opened onto the marble lobby, and the world outside the glass box hit me like a migraine: white stone, stainless steel, a ceiling so high it made everyone look short and unsure.
The reception desk gleamed in the corner.
The art was the same four pieces they rotated seasonally, each one more expensive and less memorable than the last.
Jamel caught up, blathering about the focus group logistics. "We'll get three pools: main demo first, then segment for college towns and international. Want the numbers by tomorrow, yeah?"
"Fine," I said, not slowing. My head was already somewhere else. Probably on a balcony in another building, another life.
We passed by the lobby's glass doors, and that's when I saw her.
Stacks Monroe. You couldn't miss her, even from a distance.
She was wearing cargo pants, an NSYNC hoodie cut off at the midriff, always a head taller than everyone else.
She was leaning against the reception counter, one leg up on the rail, talking to someone with so much energy it made the intern at the desk visibly shrink.
Her braids caught the overhead light, gleaming like gold. Her face was split in a grin as she told some story, her hands painting big, chaotic shapes in the air. I slowed without meaning to. Zaniyah bumped into me from behind, then immediately clocked what I was staring at.
"Isn't she supposed to be in Atlanta?" Z whispered.
"Guess the rumors about the new deal were true," I said.
Jamel was still talking, but he faded when he realized we weren't listening.
Stacks looked up, saw me, and for a second her grin went full-moon.
She started toward me, then suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.
Her face shifted to pure panic as she realized what was about to happen.
She whipped her head around, eyes wide, looking between me and whoever was behind her like she was calculating blast radius.
The person she'd been talking to turned, slow.
My throat locked up. Didn't want to look.
Then I did.
Because, of course, why wouldn't it be.
Fuck me.