Page 1 of American Royalty

Chapter One

“Duchess is here! Bitches better bow down!

D to the A to the N I / You wanna know why / Dudes go sky high / When I say jump? / I have no need to lie / Open up your eyes / The lush between my thighs / Dudes wanna pump...”

—Duchess, “Sky High”

Virginia Beach, Virginia

Sitting forward in the red leather club chair, Dani braced her elbows on her knees and bobbed her head, lip-syncing in time to the playback booming through the large airport hangar. The nasty drumbeat and thumping bass—courtesy of famed hip-hop producer SuzyQ—flowed through her, transforming her from Danielle Nelson, the tenacious young woman who’d survived being bounced from one relative’s house to the next, unwanted and unappreciated, into Duchess, one of the fastest-rising female rappers in the game, who’d snatch your balls before she’d let you touch her heart.

That’s all they see of me

My femininity

They think they have the key

Silly little guy

She stood and tossed her honey-blond curls, staring down the camera on the movable crane several feet away from her, swaying her hips, seducing the lens, looking beyond the equipment to all of the guys who’d soon be watching her.

Wanting her.

Eventually downloading the song because it was the closest they’d ever get to her.

She’d recorded her close-ups of this verse earlier today, full of sass and sex, giving them her signature head tilt and arched brow. But this part of the performance was about her movements and her body, clad to perfection in the stunning silver sequined Alberta Ferretti pantsuit the designer had lent her from the upcoming Limited Edition Fall Couture line. Dani channeled all of that charisma and raw sex appeal and felt her success in the sudden thickness of the atmosphere around her, the telltale prickle against her skin that told her she was the sole focus of everyone’s attention.

You could never see

What I’m meant to be

I belong to me

D to the A to the N I

She knew what she was supposed to do as the bars to the verse ended, but she refused to execute that choreography. Instead, she freestyled some moves and struck a standing power pose.

“Cut! Going again,” the assistant director called out.

The music stopped, and, as if roused from stasis, people in the darkened background continued on with their tasks. The dolly grip pulled the main camera operator off to the side while the cameramen bordering the set hefted the heavy equipment off their shoulders. Someone wearing a headset handed her a bottle of water as hair and makeup swarmed, patting her face with more setting powder and taming any loose curls that dared to fight the bobby pins and extra-hold hair spray.

“That was fire, Duchess,” Amal said, clasping his hands together. The in-demand video director appeared from the surrounding shadows and stepped onto the set, which was decorated like a luxurious home office in a mansion.

“Thanks. It felt good,” she said, handing the water back to a passing PA and waving off the beauty technicians.

“You looked strong, regal. Powerful. Buuuuut,” he said, drawing the one syllable out like taffy, “what happened at the end?”

Here it comes...

She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. She widened her eyes, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

He pointed to the pile of dollar bills heaped on the Aubusson rug. “You were supposed to tumble down to the ground and roll in the money, rub it all over your face and body. The point was to temper your strength with your femininity but make it gritty. Raw, y’know?”

It would have been one thing if she’d fucked up or he’d wanted additional coverage for the scene. But he’d loved what she’d done while on her feet; he was just pissed he hadn’t forced her on her knees.

Dani closed her eyes and pictured herself in a Missy Elliott–type video where she grew several feet, her head swelled like a hot-airballoon, and she chomped down, biting the director’s head clean off his body.

How’s that for temper, bitch?