14. Liora Fresh #2
I left through the side entrance, past the valet line and the fake-laughing clusters of PR interns, and into the chill of the city. The silence in the car was perfect. I stared straight ahead, letting the night erase every face, every whisper, every thought I didn't ask for.
The line I'd said—about what I owed her—kept echoing louder than I wanted.
The only thing worse than being watched was letting them see you care.
The studio always felt like home base—a zone where nothing and no one could get to me unless I let them in.
When I wasn't laying vocals, the place hummed with a different pressure.
Its walls were hung with platinum plaques, all mine except for two: one for a Dev Royale collab I regretted and one they gave to the engineer out of pity.
The air smelled of cleaner and vintage equipment.
I paid extra for real analog gear, even if I didn't always use it.
Today was all about the next single. I wanted something that would outlast the week's headlines when the beef was done and buried.
The beat was monstrous: slow, heavy, triple-kick in the lower register.
I'd cycled through three toplines, none of them good enough.
I could hear the right one in my head, but it kept slipping every time I tried to capture it.
The engineer, Lacy, waited out my tantrums with monk-like patience.
He set up three different versions, each one labeled Romi FINAL with progressively more question marks.
At eleven sharp, my phone buzzed with a call from my agent. I ignored it, put myself on DND and finished a pass at the verse.
The second ring punched through because she probably picked notify anyway which meant it was urgent. I shut the studio door and pressed accept.
"Romi!" Bobbi, voice so bright it sounded fake. "Tell me you're ready for the biggest play of your career."
"I'm in the studio," I said. "What's up?"
Her laugh came out thin. "Okay, I know you said no extra press this week, but this isn't press—it's legacy. The showrunners of XMA Legends want you for their tribute segment. You, Stacks, and a couple others. It's a huge platform, babe. Primetime. Live."
I leaned against the wall, eyes on the framed photo of my first battle win. "Whose tribute?"
"They're doing a Liora Fresh retrospective," she said, like it was obvious.
"Thirty years since her first record. But they want to make it new—fresh.
They want modern girls, the ones who actually push the culture.
You'd open it, set the tone. They're giving you first pick of the verses.
Choreography, set design, whatever you want. "
Liora was a legend, the first to bridge rap and actual melody. Her last record sold a million copies in a week, and she never stopped giving the next gen hell. I'd studied her delivery when I was twelve, mapped out every word of her debut.
I nodded, even though my agent couldn't see it. "Who else is on the bill?"
"They're finalizing, but so far? Stacks is in. Skye Bella is a maybe. There's talk of a pop crossover—probably Rayelette or one of the Fizzr girls. Oh, and Cam Wolfe. Obviously."
Obviously.
I let the pause stretch out. The smile in my agent's voice wilted. It was bad enough I'd have to share a stage with someone who wasn't fit to polish my mic, I'd have to deal with Cam, too? Nah.
"Think of this is your unofficial single lead-in," she said, trying to recover. "And it's a safe zone—no drama, just respect. You'd kill it."
I pictured the headline: Old Guard and New Blood Squash the Beef for Liora Fresh. Either way, it wasn't going to be about me.
"I'm gonna have to pass," I said, soft but firm.
Bobbi made a shocked noise. "Wait, what?"
"I'm booked solid," I said. "Rollout, pre-release, the merch capsule. Not enough time."
"They'll move the rehearsal if you want," she said, desperate now. "They'll give you a co-producer credit. You don't have to share a greenroom with Cam. This is history, Romi. Don't let pride get in the way."
I squeezed my eyes shut. Counted to ten and uncurled my fist. "It's not pride. It's not worth the optics, not when it's a circus. Find someone else. Literally anyone else."
She tried to argue, but I didn't give her the air.
"I said no," I repeated. "Next time, ask before you say yes."
I ended the call, dropped the phone on the velvet couch, and the silence closed around me. On the other side of the door, Lacy had stopped the playback. She was waiting, maybe listening for the thud of something breaking, maybe not.
If they wanted a legacy, they could have it. Just not on their terms.
If anyone was going to call me on my own bullshit, it was Z.
She didn't knock. Zaniyah buzzed herself up and keyed in with both hands full: Vietnamese takeout and a brown paper bag that probably contained either craft beer or a bribe.
She dropped both on the kitchen island, shrugged off her hoodie, and went straight for the cabinet with my good glassware.
Classic Z move—remind the host who really owned the place.
"You're late," I said, watching her pour.
She stuck out her tongue. "Your voicemail said seven. And you're lucky my ass even showed up, considering you're about to self-sabotage your own career on national TV."
I opened the bag and poked at the spring rolls. "Who snitched?"
"Babe, you're not the only one with a manager. Bobbi called. Said you talked about the Liora tribute like it was a pyramid scheme."
I took a bite, chewed, and said nothing.
She joined me at the island, setting two glasses side by side. "So you wanna tell me what's really going on, or should I guess?"
"There's nothing to tell," I said. "I'm not doing a circus for a TV spot, especially not with Cam."
Zaniyah snorted. "Right, because you hate free publicity. Or legacy. Or money."
I kept my eyes on the food. "Not everything is about money."
"Uh-huh." She leaned forward, elbows on the marble. "Let's pretend I believe that for five seconds. You're telling me Liora Fresh hits you up and you say no because what? Cam's on the bill? That's your story?"
"Don't twist it."
She grinned, shark-like. "I'm not twisting nothing, Romi, you're the one acting like she's got a voodoo doll of you at her apartment.
All she has to do is exist and you get all…
" She waggled her hands, fingers out like claws.
"Weird and ferocious. Not like that weird Pisces thing you do, but different. "
I wanted to argue, but she wasn't wrong.
Zaniyah pressed the attack, gentle but relentless. "You're really going to let Cam Wolfe dictate your career moves now?"
I bristled. "It's not about her. It's about the game."
"Oh my God." She tipped back her drink. "I've heard less gaslighting at a couples therapy session."
I shot her a look, but she batted it away with a flick of her nails.
She went softer then, voice lowering. "Listen, I get it. She hurt your feelings. Not just the leak, but all the other times, too. But Ro, you built these rooms. You built the whole damn industry they're trying to push you out of. If you let her scare you off, you're giving her what she wants."