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ROYAL TEEGAN

T he bass thumped through the walls of Grindhouse Studios; the beat heavy enough to shake the glass of Hennessy in my hand.

The studio was low-lit and moody, bathed in reds and deep blues, the scent of sativa and backwoods lingering in the air.

The spot was exclusive—invite only, the kind of place where real artists worked, not industry puppets who needed auto-tune to stay on beat.

I sat back in the leather chair, one diamond-encrusted chain resting on my chest, another hanging from my wrist as I let the music wash over me. My voice bounced back at me through the speakers, the track smooth, melodic—a mix of bragging, heartbreak, and that slick-talking energy I was known for.

It was good. Real good. But it was always good. And that’s why when Logan walked through the door with that look on his face, I already knew he was about to be on some bullshit.

“Damn, do you even knock?” I muttered, exhaling smoke from the blunt I had between my fingers.

Logan ignored me, dropping down into the chair across from me like he paid rent in this bitch.

His designer hoodie, gold chains, and crisp sneakers screamed money—but Logan wasn’t one of them money dudes who just threw cash around and acted like he belonged.

Nah, Logan was industry for real, and he knew everybody.

A lot of white boys in hip-hop were corny, but Logan was certified.

He was married to a black chick and had black kids, you could tell he grew up in the hood and wasn’t a culture vulture.

From what I had learned about him, he grew up on the south side of Chicago with Lux LA, they were best friends and took off in the music industry over a decade ago.

He knew the game, and more importantly, he knew me.

Which meant he also knew I wasn’t about to fuck with whatever dumbass idea he was about to present.

“You still making the same music?” Logan exhaled, dragging a hand down his face as he leaned back.

I snorted, unbothered. “Nigga, what?”

“You heard me, Royal." He gestured toward the speakers like he was really disappointed. “It’s the same shit, bro."

I turned my head, staring at him like he had lost his damn mind. “You came all the way to Atlanta just to tell me that?”

Logan sighed, shaking his head. “Nah. I came to tell you I’m bringing in a new producer and songwriter for you.”

I stared at him for a second. Then I laughed. Loud. Like he had just told the funniest joke I’d ever heard.

“Get the fuck outta here.” I said, still chuckling, dragging my blunt across the ashtray.

Logan raised a brow, unimpressed. “Am I laughing?”

My face dropped; all humor gone. “I write my own shit. I don’t need no ghostwriter, I don’t need no new producer, and I damn sure don’t need some outside nigga tellin’ me how to make my music.”

Logan folded his arms, nodding slowly. “Cool. I hear you. But I don’t give a fuck.”

I licked my teeth, my grip tightening around my glass. “Logan, don’t play with me.”

“You playin’ with yourself, bruh” Logan fired back. “You got all this talent, all this potential, and you just coastin’. Two albums in and yeah, you doin’ okay, but you ain’t big.”

I sat up straight, my mood shifting into something dangerous. “I ain’t big?” I repeated.

Logan didn’t blink. “Nah. You ain’t big. You Atlanta big, but you ain’t worldwide big and that’s the problem because you should be by now. When I first signed you, I had a vision for where I wanted you to be and you was close but then you got lazy.”

My jaw ticked, my fingers flexing like I was real close to throwing my drink across the room. I had been grinding for years. I grew up in the trenches of Atlanta, came from nothing, and built my name from the fuckin’ ground up.

I ain’t had no daddy in my house since that nigga was locked up for life, my mama worked her ass off to make sure me and my siblings ate, and I damn near had to fight my way out the streets to get here. And this nigga had the nerve—the unmitigated gall—to sit here and tell me I wasn’t big?

“Okay.” I nodded, fake calm, swirling my drink. “So, who this genius-ass producer and songwriter you bringin’ in, huh? Must be Kanye or some shit.”

Logan smirked, too satisfied. “Averi St. Claire.”

I blinked. Then I frowned. Then I laughed again, even harder this time.

“Ain’t no fuckin’’ way.” Logan just sat there stone- faced, waiting. “Nah, nigga.” I shook my head. “I know you ain’t tellin’ me that some bougie-ass actress from my lil’ sister’s favorite corny-ass witch show is supposed to come in here and tell me how to make music.”

Logan’s smirk widened. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

I clapped my hands together, mocking. “Oh, this is hilarious. So what’s next, huh? You finna bring in Zendaya to direct my next music video?”

Logan just let me get my jokes off, unmoved.

“Averi is more than some bougie ass actress. She’s also a three-time Grammy-winning producer and songwriter, Royal.

She got hits, her ear is unmatched, and she’s worked with the best of the best including me.

I mentored her, I know personally what she’s capable of. ”

I scoffed. “So? Nigga, I work with the best. I got the same producer and engineer I been rockin’ with since the jump.”

“And that’s the problem,” Logan said, voice edged in frustration.

“You’re stagnant. You think you know everything, but you don’t know shit.

You don’t wanna be great, you wanna be comfortable.

” I felt my temper rising, but before I could let that shit fly, Logan hit me with the real blow.

“If you don’t work with her, I’m shelving your next album. ”

I stilled and the studio went dead silent. My fingers curled into a tight fist, my breathing slow and even as I clenched my jaw. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Logan said flatly. “And I will.” I looked away, livid.

I couldn’t even remember the last time a nigga had checked me like this, let alone threatened my career.

Logan leaned forward, dropping his voice.

“I want more for you, Royal,” he said. “I wouldn’t pull this shit if I didn’t think it was worth it.

I know you can be one of the biggest in the game—but you gotta let go of your ego and trust that I know what the fuck I’m doing.

You trusted me with your career when you signed with us; trust that I know this is the move to make. ”

I didn’t respond. Because I didn’t trust nobody but me. And I damn sure didn’t trust some Hollywood-ass debutante to have any say in my music.

Logan pushed back from his chair, standing up. “You got a week to get your head straight.” Then he walked out, leaving me alone with my anger.

The bass was still thumping through the walls when Logan walked out, leaving me alone with my frustration. This was some bullshit.

I sat there for a second, staring at the blinking lights on the console, my jaw tight. Who the fuck did Logan think he was? I built my name by myself, came up, off my own pen, my own sound. Now he wanted me to just hand over my shit to some actress from a damn witch show.

Nah.

I pushed back from the mixing board and grabbed my phone.

Zay and King were already waiting outside.

I looked at King, my older brother who was also my manager, knowing he knew damn well that Logan was coming here and what he wanted to talk to me about.

As my manager it was his job to keep me informed of this shit before it happened.

“Nigga, you knew he was coming here on that bullshit and didn’t think to warn me?”

King looked guilty, same big ass eyes he had since we were kids.

He ran his hand down the front of his face; “Look Ro, I think it might be a good idea. A fresh perspective on the music. Petey is good when it comes to this producing shit, but he be sending you the same shit and it’s not challenging you.

I been saying that shit for the longest.”

“Keep something else like that from me and I’mma fire yo black ass. Yo job is to protect me and my interests.”

“And I am nigga, even if that means I gotta protect you from yoself. You so fuckin’’ stubborn and think you know everything but you don’t. My job is to manage you, so I’m managing.”

“Fuck outta here.” I sighed shaking my head. “This better be worth my time or yo ugly ass really gon’ get fired.”

“Shut up bitch, you ain’t gon fire shit. If you try to, I’mma tell mama.”

“So, nigga. Queenie don’t run me.”

“I’m telling her you said that shit too.”

“Fuck yo’ big ass laughing at?” I asked Zay, my security and best friend since childhood.

Standing at 6’5 he was a big body type of nigga, broader than a doorframe.

Zay always been dangerous and deadly. Once freshman year he knocked this nigga out cold and he was in a coma for two weeks.

He would have gotten in trouble if that shit wasn’t self defense and plenty of people witnessed the nigga fuckin’’ with him.

Growing up he played football but got injured in high school.

I hated that shit for him, but I promised when I got on, I’d always take care of him.

“You ugly ass nigga.” He replied. “Y’all childish as fuck. I’mma tell Queenie on both you niggas. Now let’s go so we can eat, I know she in that kitchen throwin down and I’m hungry.”

“Just big.” I shook my head as we made our exit.

The house I bought for my mama sat on a quiet street in South Fulton, in one of them new, suburban neighborhoods that had just enough Black folks to feel like home, but still far enough from the hood that she didn’t have to worry about gunshots at night.

It wasn’t no mansion—my mama wasn’t the type for all that. But it was big, real nice, with a wraparound porch, a brick driveway, and a backyard big enough for cookouts. It was the first thing I bought when I got money, and even though I had my own condo in Midtown, this was what home felt like.