27. Red Riding Hood #2
Zaniyah side-eyed me. "Mm-hm. Funny how your 'shit to do' lined up with her 'shit to do'."
I nearly choked. "Harriet the Spy. Can I have my business back for, like, five minutes?"
"Absolutely the fuck not. This is pure curiosity."
The car inched forward, heading toward Rodeo Drive. I saw a row of luxury stores and cafes with black and white stripes and expensive pale pink umbrellas. The restaurant was tucked into a walkway, and I hoped today would be free of any paparazzi jumpscares.
"Look," I said, "I appreciate the concern. But I'm not tryna be the headline for some industry gossip rag. You know what happens when people speculate. It gets ugly."
She shrugged. "Ugly for them. Not for you. You're the queen, Ro. They could make up whatever they want and it wouldn't touch you."
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But it didn't land. Strangers had their hands on the most private thing about me, and I hadn't given it a name yet, and sure as hell didn't give it to them to define for me.
Zaniyah pulled into the valet lane, put the car in park, and turned to me, face serious. Immediately, a valet was on either side, opening doors.
"Thank you."
We got out, letting the sun bake our shoulders. The afternoon air was thirty degrees hotter than my apartment. I adjusted my purse, tucked my hands into my pockets, and followed Zaniyah to the door.
She held it for me, and I let her, just this once.
Inside, the AC blasted hard enough to make my teeth ache. I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust, then scoped the room for Jamel. He was easy to spot—corner booth, blue suit, sunglasses on, looking bored as hell. He glanced up when we slid in across from him.
Zaniyah handled the small talk, launching into a story about a magazine festival who'd tried to pay her in "social currency" as an influencer because exposure magically paid bills, apparently.
I tuned it out, while the chatter of the restaurant filled my head.
Every table was packed with people who treat brunch like a blood sport—men in logo hoodies, women in five-hundred-dollar yoga pants, couples negotiating prenups over egg white omelets.
I watched them, wishing I could be any of them for five minutes.
Zaniyah was right. I was tired. Tired of the games, tired of the rules, tired of waking up every morning knowing how the next twelve hours would play out. But mostly, I was tired of pretending I didn't care about what came next.
My eyes drifted across the room, hoping nobody noticed me, and waited for Jamel to start the pitch.
Jamel cut straight to the chase. No hello, no preamble. He tapped his tablet and swiped to the first graph.
"Okay," he said, "so the streams are up. Like, way up." He flicked through two more screens, each one a brighter bar graph than the last. "The Liora Fresh tribute moved the needle. Old catalog, new catalog, your features and remixes. People are buying in."
Zaniyah grinned, stealing a piece of melon off the fruit plate. "Told you. Queen stays trending."
I ignored her. Jamel had that look he got when he was about to ask for a kidney. I sat up straighter.
He tapped the table. "There's one problem, though. The focus groups loved 'Summer Mode,' but they really loved 'Red Riding Hood.' Like, nine-to-one margin." He looked at me over the rim of his sunglasses.
I kept my face neutral. "What about it?"
He smiled. "Label wants to lead with it. Early drop next Friday and then ride the wave to the deluxe launch. They think it'll go viral—especially with the buzz about, ah, your performance. They're calling it a 'cultural moment.'"
My shoulders tensed. "We talked about this. I don't want to get boxed in as the girl who goes hard at other women. That's not my wheelhouse."
Jamel angled in, voice lower. "Romi, you know that's not how they're selling it. It's about narrative, about history. This is how you stay on top." He glanced at Zaniyah for backup, but she shrugged and popped a grape into her mouth.
I kept my eyes on the glass of water in front of me. Watched the sunlight bend through it, splitting into fragments on the table. "They want beef," I said. "They want to run the Quill Manifest/Dev Royale play back because people ate off that for months. I see what this is."
Jamel raised his hands, palms out. "You're not them. You have the leverage, and the audience wants to see you win."
"Dev never recovered from that," I said, flat.
"You remember that? He turned off his comments.
Started posting vague shit about 'real ones know.
' A year later, he's still trying to rehabilitate his image.
" I looked directly at Jamel, not even trying to soften my expression.
"Quill bodied him so bad he became a cautionary tale. That's what they want me to do to Cam."
Jamel shifted in his seat. "That's different. Dev came at Quill first and got what he deserved."
"And Cam came at me first. So, by that logic, I should destroy her and watch her spend the next year trying to convince people she's still relevant." I gritted my jaw, trying to keep it civil.
"So, what's the alternative?" Jamel asked. "You…let it go?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I know what happens when you win too hard.
You don't just beat them. You erase them.
And then everyone remembers you as the one who killed their careers.
Then what happens to Cam when I torch her in public?
She gets dragged, and then I'm yet again the mean girl when she can't keep up with me until the next rap chick has bills to pay.
It. Never. Stops. We've seen this before. It's not a good look."
"Cam can handle herself," Jamel said, but even he didn't sound sure.
I pushed my plate away, untouched. "No. I'm tired of catching strays from every girl who thinks keeping my name in her mouth is gonna pay her rent. That's not the lane I'm in, and I am sick of being pushed into it."
He stared at me, weighing the options. You could see the little gears turning in his head, the calculus of risk and reward. "I'll run it up the ladder," he said. "But if they push back, you might have to eat it."
I shrugged. "I've eaten worse."
He smiled. "That's why I like you. You know how to play the game."
I didn't answer. A server poured more coffee, the liquid black as obsidian in the glass carafe. I hated coffee, but I loved the way it looked. Smooth, dark, unyielding.
Across the restaurant, two execs from a rival label were whispering over Bloody Marys, both wearing shades and yesterday's hangovers. I clocked them in the mirror behind the bar, watched their eyes darting to our table. Probably hoping for a soundbite or a scandal. I gave them nothing.