11. Best Not Miss
Best Not Miss
Romi
They wanted me perfect, untouchable, and completely under their control. Two out of three wasn't bad.
Billboard rented out the biggest studio in the city for this shoot, but you could tell by the level of panic in the air that they didn't trust a single one of us not to burn it to the ground before noon.
I sat for touch-ups on a rolling stool upholstered in fake white leather, legs crossed tight, as three different women—hair, face, wardrobe—circled me in a ballet of tweezers, glue, and static.
The light was so bright it made my retinas pulse.
Every angle engineered to maximize bone structure, minimize flaws, and keep the illusion going for as long as the camera needed.
Two ring lights were stacked, one head-height, one low and facing up, making my whole body look vacuum-sealed and glossy.
I wore the McQueen: graphite-and-black wool blazer, cut at the hip, with an asymmetric leather corset that squeezed my ribs into a wasp waist. The shoes were patent Louboutin boots, razor-heeled, red lacquer so fresh I could smell it if I bent double.
They'd painted my face to match the photo brief—sharp cheek, gold-highlighted eye, lips painted so black they reflected the light like patent.
It was giving "evil CEO at the end of the world. "
I didn't hate it. If it made it to the magazine, it would definitely eat.
In front of the seamless, the photographer (who everyone on set called "Marco" but who I knew had been born Mark) kept up a steady, nervous patter as he shot. "Love the profile, Romi. Yes, hold that—amazing—give me villain, but then soften—YES, perfect, perfect—don't move—"
I didn't, not when a rogue speck of mascara flaked into my left eye and started burning like acid. The show must go on.
I didn't notice at first when the room behind Marco filled up: the outer perimeter was a swirl of publicists, brand reps, and a rotating gallery of other artists cycling through hair and makeup stations. I'd tuned it out, as I'd been trained to do. The outside world existed when I wanted it to.
"Romi, give me a laugh! Can you give me a real one, just for fun?" Marco's voice. Too chirpy, but whatever. I gave him a perfect, hollow laugh—white teeth, nothing behind the eyes.
My latest track started pumping through the speakers—the one with the heavy bass line that made my chest vibrate.
"Perfect! Mouth the words, Romi. Give me different expressions—confident, then dangerous, then that smirk you do."
I synchronized my lips to my own voice floating through the room, letting the lyrics pull different faces from me.
The verse about taking what's mine. The hook about rising above the noise.
Each line demanded different—arrogance, ice-cold control, that predatory edge that made lesser artists step back.
"That's it!" Marco snapped away. "That look right there—hold it—"
I held the pose, feeling the heat off the lights bead sweat under my hairline, my voice wrapping around me like armor.
Behind the camera, a pair of stylists whispered in stage-whisper, but the words didn't reach me.
I could have stood there all day, frozen in my own legend, if not for the sudden shift in air. Like a cold front, fast and sharp.
I saw her in the mirror first: Zaniyah, slicing through the scrum with phone in hand, eyes wide and wild, all pretense at chill abandoned at the greenroom door.
She wore a slinky white jumpsuit with a Gremlins bomber over it, hair slicked back and fresh as a paint job, but her face was wrong.
Tight, scared, like she'd seen a murder and had to break the news.
She didn't wait for the shot to finish. She cut straight to my chair, phone up, voice at a whisper. "You need to check your mentions. Now."
I waved off the nearest makeup girl, who hovered with a can of setting spray. "Can I get two minutes?" I asked Marco, not really asking.
He gave a nervous, "Of course, of course, reset anyway," and the whole crew scattered like they'd been released from a spell. Zaniyah walked with me, one hand on my arm. "Not here," she said, "Come on."
We moved off the set, weaving through racks of designer looks and half-done faces.
I kept my eyes forward, posture perfect, though my stomach did that thing it did when things went left.
We hit the dressing room, a glass-walled cube with black curtains for privacy.
She yanked the curtain shut and shoved the phone into my hand.
"Play this," she said.
The screen was already up. The first thing I saw was the MikkiLeaks watermark—stamped dead center like a warning label. At the top: MIKKILEAKS EXCLUSIVE: Diss Track of the Decade—Did Cam Just End Romi Dulce's Reign?
For one second, I thought: There's no way. This is a stunt, some intern's fever dream. But Z's face said otherwise.
I pressed play.
The audio was raw, unfinished. Cam's voice over a basic boom-bap, nothing fancy, probably ripped right from the DAW at her label. The first two lines were a flex, standard, but then it dropped:
Queenpin, is you really the blueprint?/Cuz I seen the threads at the seams, shit is translucent/Said you built a dynasty, I see a house of cards/So tell the puppet-masters they can keep their bodyguard—
My chest went cold. Zaniyah's eyes never left my face.
No name, but nobody needed a map.
you threw sparks at a shadow/now you tellin' the fire when
It went on, each bar a sucker punch. She made fun of my "legacy brand," referenced the chain of ex-protégés, and—this one hit hardest—called me "the reason every girl with talent runs for the exits, and the ones who stay end up 'Pixogram with regrets.'"
By the end, my jaw was tight enough to grind glass.
I handed the phone back, hands steady, voice flat. "When did this drop?"
"Forty minutes ago. But it's everywhere."
I took a breath, smoothing the front of the blazer. "And?"
"Stan wars. Half the blogs are saying you got bodied. Other half say she's clout-chasing. Billboard is dying to ask for a statement. Mommy wants to know if you're okay."
I met her eyes in the dressing room mirror. "Text Mommy and say I'm good. Tell Billboard I'll comment after the shoot. And…" I thought for a second. "Tell the stylists to lose the corset for the next look. I want movement."
Zaniyah stared at me, waiting for a crack. When she didn't get it, she nodded and slipped out, tapping at her screen.
Left alone, I watched myself in the mirror.
Hair perfect, face perfect, no hint of the red in my cheeks or the way my left eye twitched every time someone called me a puppet.
I thought about the verse—how Cam had left out my name, but not my shadow.
She wanted to end me without giving me the satisfaction of a direct callout. I respected the tactic.
Hated it, but I respected it.
Worse, I'd actually believed her. Thought maybe she was different. Thought I could—
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
She played me. Said all the right things, acted like she had lines she wouldn't cross—then dropped the track the second my back was turned. Made me look like a fool for thinking we could be anything but enemies.
And that stupid afternoon at the label? Me and Cam in the lobby, laughing about what blogs might say if we were cutting up too hard to come for each other's necks.
She came off like another woman who got it.
My brain checked out when my pants started beating like a fucking drum.
Should've known better. Listening to my pussy never did anything but make me look stupid.
Now I'm out here looking dumb for believing anyone in this industry could ever be on my fucking side. Handed this hoe an inch because my body wanted to believe hers wasn't a threat.
Won't make that mistake again. Tell you that much.
Below the post, fan accounts already fighting it out: one side saying I'd just been "ethered," the other organizing a campaign to dig up every possible flaw in Cam's delivery, makeup, outfit, you name it.
Zaniyah moved closer. "You want me to post?"
"Let it breathe," I said. My voice sounded hollow, but I forced the edges to stay round. "If you chase it, you lose."
She tapped her nails on the table, restless. "At least let me drag Mikki. That shit is personal."
"No, Z. Just—leave it." I rolled my shoulders back, pushing down the knot of tension that had started climbing my neck.
I turned my attention back to the phone, scrolling through the carnage.
Every third post was some new hot take about the "rivalry of the century.
" Even industry people I respected were weighing in, talking about "passing the torch" or "time for the new guard.
" I caught a screenshot of a subliminal from Niko: This is what happens when you get comfortable at the top. With a shrug emoji.
Still living rent-free in that bitch's head after all this time. At least the eviction notice was cute.
My tongue pressed against teeth, as words pushed out of my throat. Took a deep breath instead.
Nobody needed a diva on this set.
I set the phone face down on the vanity and looked at my reflection. The makeup was perfect. Not a single hair out of place. I could've walked onto any red carpet in the world and passed for unbothered.
From the set, Marco's voice: "We're ready for you, Romi!"
I stood, squared my shoulders, and walked out. Each step in the red bottoms was a knife, but I didn't let it show. That was the difference between us: I never let them see me bleed.
I hit my mark in front of the camera. Gave Marco what he wanted. I flashed my grin and let the world decide if it was a threat or a promise.
The lights were brighter this time. I didn't blink once.
I made it through two more looks before the ice cracked.