14. Liora Fresh
Liora Fresh
Romi
They say awards season will bring out the best in people. That's a lie invented by publicists.
What it actually does is turn every semi-luxurious event space at Magma into a cold war zone—no bullets, just the deployment of influence, alliances, and precision-guided rumors.
If you squinted through the smog, you could see the old factory bones under the LED up-lights and minimalist white sofas.
The RSVP list was three hundred, but the fire code said ninety, so everyone was packed in at skin-to-skin proximity, breathing recirculated air and watching each other for a single moment of weakness.
I wore a one-shoulder Rick Owens, black on black, with a belt wide enough to armor a ribcage. The effect was "postmodern villainess" with a side of "hands off me unless you're writing the check." I'd let the stylist do a severe slick-back on my hair, and my face was geometry and shadows.
I entered right on time, not a minute early. My name was trending before I hit the security line; a blogger leaked the guest list, and half the timeline was betting on which pair of rivals would square up first. The odds for Romi versus Cam Wolfe were five to one.
I made a slow perimeter, trading air kisses and "so good to see you.
" You could tell a lot about a person by how they greeted you at these things.
The old guard (producers, VPs, label heads) bowed just enough to acknowledge the position.
The new guard (influencers, playlist editors, up-and-comers) came in hot, all hunger and too-loud "I grew up on your shit!
" energy. I gave them both what they needed: a perfect smile, a handshake, a laser-beam look that let them think I was considering them for future use.
What I was really doing was keeping a visual on the other queen in the room.
I couldn't miss her if I tried (trust, I wanted to) and she apparently wanted to be seen.
Cam Wolfe cut through the noise like a blade.
Long, dark curls on one side of her head that bounced with movement.
Gold hoop earrings popped against the shaved side.
Immaculate face beat, fitted white blouse open low.
The fabric parted to reveal her throat tattoo coiling like a dark vine against tan skin and disappeared into the shirt buttons.
She'd taped her breasts beneath the lapels, the exposed curves more eye-catching than any cleavage.
Those ridiculous floral pants and those nude heels she couldn't walk quiet in if she tried.
She hugged the walls at first, feigning disinterest, but her eyes performed reconnaissance sweeps that landed on me.
I refused to give her the satisfaction of blinking first. We could do this shit all night and I wouldn't move an inch.
I had not posted a single story since the day of the leak.
No comments, no subtweets, no "my truth" notes.
The industry took this as a sign of dignity, which tells you all you need to know about our moral standards.
The speculation was constant—What does Romi think?
—and every hot take upped the pressure for me to get real disrespectful.
But I don't chase the wave. I let the wave chase me.
And, as I told Jamel, I wasn't going to be pushed into rushing the track out; make her sweat it out first.
Through it all, I kept my peripheral vision wide.
Stacks had positioned herself at the center of some circle, hands painting pictures in the air as she told whatever story had everyone leaning in.
She was good at this part. The effortless charm, the way she made people feel let in on something.
I didn't have that. What I had, I'd built, every angle of it, on purpose.
Stacks just was. Her lives always had thousands of views, full of fans just watching her play video games with Cam, sit in her makeup chair and get off jokes that always turned into memes.
People gravitated toward Stacks because she was relatable. Everybody's favorite word for a woman who doesn't scare them.
I commanded attention because I could.
But it was Cam who kept drawing my eye, and I hated that I gave away this power.
Standing just outside Stacks's spotlight, she was listening with half her attention while the other half surveyed the room.
When her gaze found mine, she didn't look away.
She met my stare across the crowded space and gave it right back.
There was something in her expression I couldn't pin down. Whatever it was, she looked like she was waiting to see which way I'd jump.
I should look away. Cut off the power supply before she gets too comfortable with it.
So, I turned deliberately toward the nearest industry exec, giving him the smile that launched a thousand deals. Some people earn my attention. Others just think they do.
Two more handshakes, a quick photo with the brand team, and I disengaged, walking the edge of the room. On the second pass, I was stopped by a former A&R of mine—now a "talent scout" for a competing label. He was wearing an electric blue jacket that should have been a war crime.
He gripped my hand, invited himself into my space, voice pitched for intimacy. "You know everyone in here is waiting to see if you'll make the next move, right?"
I made my face blank. "They can wait."
He laughed, but it came out nervous. "You're not gonna address the Cam thing?"
"It's not beef if you're not on my level."
He tried to play it off, but he wilted. Good. "That's cold, Romi."
I shrugged, letting my hand float up to the neckline of my dress. "So is the industry."
He wanted more—gossip, inside scoop, maybe even a hint of regret. I gave him nothing.
When I finally excused myself, I made for the outdoor balcony, the one space in the venue that wasn't being watched by a hundred cameras. The air outside was cleaner, a couple degrees cooler, and the skyline stood there flexing, lights stacked in a city counting its own money.
I leaned on the rail, careful not to wrinkle the dress, and closed my eyes for one whole, slow breath. The city buzzed under my hands, a million points of light reminding me that, in this world, you only mattered as long as you kept moving.
The glass door slid open behind me. I didn't turn. I knew that scent. That weight in the air. Cam.
A beat of silence. Then: "You really blocked me?"
I stayed facing the skyline. "Of course it's you." A breath. "You leaked a diss track about me, Cam. I thought we had it out, had our little kii-kii, and then boom. You really thought I'd let you play in my face like that?"
"I didn't leak it," she said. "You know that."
"Do I?"
Her voice cracked. "You could've asked me what's up. Cussed me clean out. Anything. But you just…cut me off. No chance to explain, like I wasn't worth a conversation. The hell?"
I turned. Slowly. "What did you think I owed you?"
She blinked. Like I'd slapped her. Cam's jaw set, eyes sharp. "Understood, fine. But you do realize that goes both ways? If you thought I didn't owe you anything either, why are you so mad at me right now?"
I flinched. "You think I'm supposed to just let you continue to disrespect me?" I added, voice like glass. "Smile through it? Let it ride because we had a couple of decent conversations?"
Cam's jaw tightened. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Romi."
"But you did." I stepped closer to show her exactly how done I was.
"You know what? No matter what they say about me—bitch, queen of pussy rap, puppet, villain—I never let them see it hurt.
It's never about the crown, Cam. It's about the cost of keeping it.
Don't act like you don't know." I paused, held her gaze.
"So if I can own all the shit people say about me, why the fuck can't you own what YOU said? "
"Are you fucking serious right now?"
"Dead serious."
"You want me to own it?" Her voice went sharp, louder. "Fine. I said it. Every word. You ARE a gatekeeper, Romi. You DO act like you're the only one who paid dues. And yeah, I was pissed when I wrote it, but I wasn't lying."
"Good," I said, ice-cold. "Then we're clear."
"No, we're not clear!" She stepped forward, closing the gap between us. "Because you're standing here, acting like I'm the only one who crossed a line. Like you ain't write a whole track about me too. Like you weren't sitting on that shit, waiting for the perfect moment to drop it and bury me."
"I ain't even release the one that would've ended you. And you know I can."
"Because you're deciding if I'm worth the bullet!" Her fists balled up at her sides. "You talk about owning your shit, but you won't own that you wanted to hurt me as bad as I hurt you."
The truth was a punch to the gut.
She wasn't wrong, but I wasn't going to tell her that.
"The difference," I said, voice low and cutting, "is I know what I'm willing to sacrifice. You're out here wanting to be real, wanting to be different, but the second it costs you something, you fold."
"I'm not folding." She shook her head and laughed.
"I'm just—I'm trying to figure out how to exist in the same room as you without feeling like I'm gonna combust. Because here's the thing you don't get, Romi: I can only get close to you when we're beefing and I feel that shit.
I hate it. That's the only time you let your guard down. "
She'd been watching me long enough to read the parts I didn't perform. Had me all figured out and was just standing there, holding it, not using it as a weapon.
Nobody had ever been close enough to notice. That was the part I couldn't forgive her for.
She was furious. Arms folded, eyes hard, mouth flat—and she was still here, still pushing, because I'd left her no other way in.
And worse, I'd been doing it on purpose.
Whatever Cam wanted from me, I didn't have a word for it. Felt it in the space between us, my pulse jumping before I told it to. Proximity, I decided. Nothing a few feet wouldn't fix.
I turned and walked, and told myself it was about power. The one who left first always kept it.