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I sit back up, a shock of indignation spiking through me. ‘What? I had no idea—’

Malakai nods with a rueful smile. ‘Yeah, and that was deliberate on Matthew’s part. He “let” me direct a couple episodes, though.’

Episodes that I have, in fact, watched. When I saw his name on theVarietyannouncement, my pulse skipped, and a stupid, wide smile spilled on my face. Then it turned hard, frigid, split me in two. It was a year after we broke up, and I was over it, swore I was over it, and yet the announcement sent me bawling. I tried to disengage, but it’s hard to ignore someone you used to love achieving a dream you wanted just as badly for them. Hard not to feel some kind of caged joy for them, a happiness that burns because you were supposed to be there next to them as they did it. You were never supposed to be experiencing it from afar, muted, unable to scream ‘You did it!’ to anybody, but your own memories.

Still, at night, in bed, under my covers I watched it on my laptop, illicit, like it was the freakiest porn search, as if I was keeping it a secret from myself. His episodes had all the hallmarks of the Kai touch. The direction was soulful, sensitive, evoking emotion from the smallest thing– a sip of coffee, a sigh with focus on the lips. It was beautiful. The general concept of the show is good too, straightforward, a deep dive into Motown artists, each season focusing on an era, exposing the glitz and the grit with a slight romantic sheen. It’s clever, but the concept outweighs the content– it often veers into kumbaya bubblegum. While I did see Malakai’s directorial credit, I saw no developmental credits, or even exec credits.

Malakai releases an empty chuckle. ‘Matthew said he would help me mould it. Guide it. He obviously just took over. Wiped my name from everything. Took over my story ideas, made them. . . justfloppy,you know? Saccharine, respectability shit. He told me I didn’t have the experience to make it into the great thing it could be. And I could have gone legal, but I would have lost and it would have followed me around. Nobody would wanna work with me. My agent told me that was the way. That I take this loss for big gains later. And, I can’t lie, I’m still waiting for the gains. And, you know me, Kiki. . .’

He’s put his drink on the floor and laces his hands together. I know he says it flippantly, with no gravity, but looking at him, speaking with a flinty resolution in his eyes, I know that on some level it’s true. There’s a part of me that will always know a part of him.

‘. . . I’m not one to run away from paying my dues. I’d do anything if I get to make my shit. And I kind of think that was the problem? Matthew knew how hungry I was. Working for his production company was meant to be this huge thing in my life. And in so many ways it was. Opened up worlds. Got me into rooms I never thought I’d be in. But I feel like he’s trapping me. He’s put me in a couple of his writers’ rooms, and brings me along to all these dickhead LA parties, introduces me as his mentee, but. . . it feels like smoke and mirrors. Some weird thing he does to make himself feel like he isn’t a solipsistic prick. I haven’t had time to work on my own ideas in a year and a half. And I’m grateful and I know I’m lucky. I’m not complaining, but I can’t say that not being able to work on my shit isn’t killing me.’

He sits back up with a sigh, extending his leg so it almost brushes mine. An odd rush of something that has the flavour of protectiveness courses through me, hot and insolent. Malakai’s ideas are so alive, so considered, weighty, multi-dimensional and I hate the idea of someone not only stealing them, but watering them down, robbing them of their magic– his magic. I may not like him right now, and things may always be tense between us, but I’ll always be able to recognise his love for his craft. That never wavered even if his love for me did.

Malakai coughs, gathers himself and shrugs himself up. ‘So nah, Kiki, I can’t turn this down. I haven’t told anyone that, not fully, but you need to know that this isn’t just some sort of plaything for me. This project is a lifeline. A way for me to really be creative. To get back to me. Get my name really out there. Matthew was a good stepping stone, and I don’t regret it, but this. . . this feels special. Taré is special.’

My skin flares at the last sentence, a deep, spiky burn snaking through my veins. It’s an objective fact that Taré is special, but I’m wondering if he’s saying it with objectivity or because she’s specialtohim. And if they share something special, and we shared something special, then how special could my special be? And is my tolerance to THC that low, or is this a legitimate question?

I swallow. ‘What is it about?’

Malakai blinks. ‘What?’

‘Your feature idea.’

Malakai looks at me for a beat. I’ve always been able to tell when an idea is percolating in his brain, waiting to be unlocked. I can see the agitation in his eyes. ‘Fatherhood.’ He doesn’t ask me how I know. I nod and clear my throat.

‘OK. So. We both need this.’

‘Looks like it.’

He pauses, tilts his head. ‘Out of the new tunes what’s your favourite?’

‘It doesn’t have a name yet. But it’s the one with the lyrics about fire.’ I close my eyes and hum for two seconds. When I open them again, Malakai is gazing directly into me, electrifying me with knowledge.

‘That’s mine too.’

‘There’s a smokiness to it.’

‘It’s mad,’ Malakai affirms, ‘Like, both filthy and purifying.’

‘And the bit where it gets a little funky?’

‘Oohwee,’ Malakai releases a low whistle. ‘Nasty.’

‘Yet still takes you somewhere sweet.’

We stare at each other for a few moments. I nod to myself. ‘OK.OK.’ I rub my hands on my thighs as I contemplate the reality of our situation. ‘So it’s only about three or four months. We keep it professional. We don’t talk about anything personal. We work together up until the release– and, I guess, the wedding and that’s it.’

‘And you’re cool with that?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Malakai raises his brows and I force out a laugh. ‘Oh. You mean because you’ve had sex with our potential boss?’ I roll my eyes. ‘Get over yourself. I’m a grown woman, Malakai. I’m not gonna let your dick get in between me and my bag.’ I pause. ‘Unlessyoucan’t handle me working on this. For whatever reason. In which case you can still walk away.’

‘I can handle you, Kiki. You know that.’ His dark, coruscating gaze makes my breath syrupy. I must remain detached from Malakai’s panty-melting sensibilities or this is never going to work.

I clear my throat. ‘We also obviously can’t tell Taré about us.’

‘Well, no, not now. We’d look unserious, but why did you do that in the first place? Taré’s cool. She wouldn’t give a shit.’