11. Best Not Miss #2
It was a simple demand from the set. "Switch to the green Versace and the custom necklace.
" Easy. Except halfway back to the dressing room, my phone vibrated so hard in my palm I thought it might shatter.
My publicist was calling, probably for the fourth time, and the second I picked up, his voice was at maximum crisis.
"Do not, under any circumstances, post a story," he said, skipping hello. "We're handling this behind the scenes. Just finish the shoot, then go radio silent."
I hung up before he could get to "escalation." Not even a full minute later, the studio PR girl flagged me down outside the curtained-off dressing room and launched into her own spiel. "We think the best approach is to—"
Outwardly, I stayed calm, but inside, it was a full-on hurricane. My fingers itched to type something reckless. My tongue rolled the words around: bitch, liar, try-hard, culture vulture. I could scorch the earth in a single post if I wanted to.
I didn't. I watched Zaniyah in the mirror. She was waiting for me to react, to spiral and force her to talk me down. She was already drafting the apology in her head, I peeped it on her face.
But I wouldn't give them the show.
I reached for the phone again.
But I didn't post a single thing about her. Not a word. I drafted a story on a black background, white letters, tight and cold:
Some of y'all don't notice the foundation until you feel the building shake
I left it unsigned. Let the world do the math.
When I hit post, Zaniyah's eyes got wide. "That's all?" she said. "You're just…not going to respond?"
"We're not feeding the cycle. Let them eat each other alive. I'm done."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but something in my voice must have shut it down. She nodded, slow, and started typing away on her own phone.
With her distracted, I allowed my guard to drop for a second.
I thought about the party two weeks ago. The balcony, where we'd stood side by side and actually talked like people. Without the cameras, or the setup, just us. She thanked me for keeping the photoshoot drama quiet.
Then the lobby. Running into each other at that corporate mess, firing shots that never hit. Competitive conversation, she called it. Almost felt like we were cool. And I fell for it. Let myself think she was real with me when she was sitting on that track, waiting for the right time to drop it.
It had felt…not hopeful, but possible. Like maybe, if we shut out the cameras and the labels and the fucking blogs, we could see each other as equals.
But the game never let you forget to play your part.
First Niko, now Cam. Every time I let myself believe in someone, they ended up using it as ammo.
I wondered if there was something wrong with me, or if this was what happened when you let people get within swiping distance of the crown.
And everybody who gets too close comes back for the same soft spot.
At some point that stops being a coincidence.
I stood, smoothed my clothes, and checked my face in the mirror again. The eyes were cold, but alive. The mouth pulled tight, but ready.
Outside, the hallway buzzed with the next wave of chaos. New faces, new crises. None of it mattered worth a damn. I kept my eyes forward, my hands steady, and walked through the crowd like I was already on the cover.
The world spun around me, hungry for a crack. But I didn't give them shit, even if I felt that lick back, down to the root.
If it's anything this business taught me, it's that pain is just another form of fuel.
And I had a full tank.
Morning at the convention center felt like being trapped inside a jewel box. The stage lights were too bright, the air conditioning too aggressive, and the forced laughter from the press corps echoed off the vaulted ceiling in waves that made my teeth ache.
I stood at the podium in a custom Balmain—ivory with gold buttons, cut to perfection—next to Derek Santos, whose spray tan had reached "glazed ham" territory. His smile was all veneers, his hand too comfortable on the small of my back as we waited for the teleprompter to refresh.
"And now," Derek said, leaning into the microphone with that practiced charm that made him millions, "we come to a category I think Miss Dulce here knows very well."
He turned to me, eyebrows raised in exaggerated conspiracy. The press corps chuckled on cue.
"Best Female Rap Artist," he continued, drawing out the words. "Romi, how many times have you taken this one home now? Five? Six?"
I kept my smile smooth, tilted my head enough to look gracious instead of bored. "Let's just say I know where it lives."
More laughter. Safe. Easy. I could do this in my sleep.
Derek winked at the cameras. "Well, let's see if you'll need to make room on that shelf." He looked down at the card, cleared his throat with theatrical importance. "This year's nominees for Best Female Rap Artist are…"
I kept my spine rigid, hands loosely clasped in front of me. Standing here, exposed under industrial-strength lighting while a room full of vultures waiting for blood.
"Romi Dulce."
I smiled. Clean, practiced, the same one I'd been using since my first radio interview. A smattering of applause. I gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
"Stacks Monroe."
The smile held. Stacks was fine. Stacks was easy. We'd traded bars before, always respectful, always within bounds. I could lose to Stacks and walk out whole.
"Cam Wolfe."
My smile faltered—just a flicker, a half-second fracture in the porcelain—and I forced it back into place immediately. Jaw tight. Breath controlled. But I felt it, that microscopic crack, and I knew someone in the front row with a Canon and a vendetta had caught it too.
"And last but not least, Karma Bank$!"
Derek was still yapping, something about "the future of hip-hop" and "an incredible year for women in music," but all I heard was the blood rushing in my ears.
All I felt was the heat from the stage lights pressing down like a weight, and the awareness that every camera in the room was locked on my face.
The flashes started. Bright, disorienting, a wall of white that turned the press corps into shadows and shapes. I kept smiling through it, chin up, eyes forward.
Let them look. Let them dissect every muscle twitch and blown-out pixel.
I'd earned the right to stand here.
I'd won this award five times.
And I'd win it again.