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AVERI

T he house was just as immaculate as I remembered.

White brick, massive columns, a circular driveway with a fountain in the center, and a lawn so pristine, it looked like the groundskeepers cut it with scissors.

It was the kind of home that screamed old money, the kind of place where appearances mattered more than comfort.

I hated it.

Inside, the air smelled like rosemary chicken, fresh-baked rolls, and bullshit. I sat at the long mahogany dining table, pushing food around on my plate while my mother and father fawned over Candace and Brandon like they had just discovered fire.

“Oh, Candace, you are glowing,” my mother, Allison, gushed, beaming at my baby sister like she had cured cancer instead of just announcing a pregnancy.

Candace, ever the family darling, did that fake ass humble shrug she always did. “I guess I’m just really happy, Mommy. Having a baby with my amazing husband? It’s just so perfect.” Brandon kissed her hand, looking equally smug. I resisted the urge to gag.

My father, Dr. Elijah St. Claire, nodded in approval. “You two are doing everything right,” he said, the emphasis not lost on me. “Brandon, you just graduated medical school, Candace is preparing for motherhood, and soon you’ll both be building your family’s legacy.”

My mother nodded in agreement. “This is exactly what I always wanted for my children.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my past lives. Elias, my younger brother, shot me a smirk from across the table, clearly entertained by my irritation. The only person at this table who wasn’t an active op.

“So, Elias,” my mother turned to him, her tone still sickly sweet, “how are things with Rose?”

My brother perked up at the mention of his long-term girlfriend. “She’s good. We’re talking about moving in together after graduation.”

Cue another round of adoration.

“Oh, Elias, that’s wonderful,” my mother gushed. “A stable, committed relationship before making life decisions? That’s how it should be.”

My teeth clenched. Because I knew it was coming; the setup.

And just like clockwork, Candace turned to me with fake innocence. “What about you, Averi?” she asked, batting her lashes. “When are you settling down?”

I knew it.

I put down my fork, staring at her like she had lost her damn mind. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” Candace continued, “you’re almost thirty, you’ve had your fun, don’t you think it’s time to get serious about your future?”

Oh, this bitch was bold. Elias visibly winced, and even my father glanced at Candace like she was pushing it. But Allison? She leaned in.

“She has a point, Averi.”

Oh, now they tag-teaming me? I took a slow sip of my wine, willing myself not to curse in my parents’ house.

“Let me get this straight,” I said coolly, setting my glass down. “Y’all think because Candace popped out a pregnancy announcement and Elias is playing house, that I’m somehow behind?”

My mother sighed dramatically. “Averi?—”

“No, let’s talk about it.” I interrupted, sitting back. “Because every time I come home, it’s the same tired ass conversation. ‘Averi, when are you getting serious?’ ‘Averi, when are you settling down?’ But God forbid I bring up my actual success.”

Candace scoffed. “Oh my God, we get it, you’re a big-time Hollywood girl with a grammy, blah, blah, blah.”

“Three Grammys, actually.” I shot back. “How many you got?” Her mouth snapped shut. I turned to my mother. “Mama, did you ever think that maybe I’m happy?”

She tilted her head, a soft but judgmental look on her face. “Are you though Averi? How can you be happy with no man in your life?”

“Because I don’t need no man to make me feel complete, unlike some people.” My gaze shot between her and Candace before I stood up. “Y’all enjoy your dinner,” I said, grabbing my bag. “I’m going back to my hotel.” And with that, I walked out the house without another word.

Later in the day, I laid on the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling, venting on FaceTime with Egypt.

“Girl, I told you not to let them get under your skin,” she said, shaking her head.

I sighed. “I know. But they just—ugh. It’s like nothing I do is ever enough for them.”

Egypt stretched, adjusting her camera. “Yeah, well, fuck ‘em. You doing good as hell, Ave. We some successful ass boss bitches and if yo’ bougie ass mama and sister can’t accept that then they can go to hell.”

I smirked. “Thanks, babe.”

She squinted at me. “So… what’s up with this meeting with Royal?”

I groaned. “I knew you were gonna ask.”

Egypt smirked. “I mean… I am your best friend.”

I exhaled, rolling onto my stomach. “I’m supposed to meet with Logan and Royal tomorrow at Grindhouse. But honestly? I’m still on the fence.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like headaches, and from what I’ve heard? That nigga is one big ass migraine.”

Egypt laughed. “Well, keep an open mind, Ave. You might actually fuck with his vibe.”

“Yeah, I doubt it.”

The next day, I stepped into Grindhouse Studios, the air thick with the scent of loud, cologne, and ego.

Logan led me toward Studio C, and before we even walked in, I could hear the bass thrumming through the walls.

The second we stepped inside, my ears immediately honed in on the track playing through the speakers.

The bass-heavy track playing through the custom speakers was smooth, full of that melodic rap-and-sing blend that made Royal a Tory Lanez- Chris Brown hybrid with a chip on his shoulder. The beat knocked; the flow was clean—but something about it felt… familiar.

My brows furrowed as I let the beat roll over me, the melody settling in my head before I realized exactly why it sounded familiar. This nigga had an identical song on his last album.

I turned to Logan, arms crossed. “Tell me I’m trippin’.”

Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wish I could.”

Before I could respond, the studio door swung open, and in walked the man of the hour himself—Royal. Behind him were two dudes, one looked just like him so I figured they could be related, the other was a big stocky dude who was one donut short of having a heart attack.

Royal was tall as hell, all confidence and cocky energy, covered in ink, diamond earrings glinting under the neon studio lights.

Dressed in a designer tee, heavy chains, and sweatpants hanging low, he moved like a nigga who knew he was fine and didn’t give a damn how anybody else felt about it. But it was the attitude that got me.

The moment his dark eyes landed on me, his face twisted into an expression of pure irritation—like I was a goddamn inconvenience in his studio. I already didn’t like him.

“Mannnnnnn,” he muttered rubbing his hand down his face. “So this is who you got me workin’ with?” He laughed, shaking his head. “A spoiled rich girl playin’ in music?”

I blinked once. Then twice. Oh okay, so this is the energy we were going to be on? No hello, no nice to meet you, nothing but pure bitchassness which I for damn sure wasn’t about to accept.

I smiled, sweetly making sure to display all 32 pearly whites. “And you must be Royal Teegan, the guy who keeps putting out the same damn song and callin’ it art. You don’t know shit about me so stop before you embarrass yourself.”

His smirk dropped but the laughs from his friends didn’t go unnoticed. Logan’s eyes flicked between us, probably already regretting every decision that led to this moment.

Royal took a step forward, arms crossed over his broad-ass chest, looking unimpressed. “You don’t know shit about my music.”

“Oh, I know enough.” I waved a lazy hand toward the speakers. “I know this sounds identical to track six on your last album.”

His jaw ticked. “So, you think you know me just off one listen?”

I scoffed. “Nigga, everybody knows you. You been making the same song since you came in the game. You rap about money, bitches, and struggle like the rest of these SoundCloud niggas, and the only thing switchin’ up is the beat.”

Royal’s head tilted slightly, that cocky little smirk creeping back onto his face. “That’s crazy, ‘cause last time I checked, my shit still sell. So, remind me again, why the fuck do I need you?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Because I have three Grammys.” His smirk faltered, but only for a second. I stepped forward, matching his stance. “How many you got?” I asked, tilting my head. “Oh. That’s right, you ain’t got shit.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his tongue running over his bottom lip in agitation. “I don’t give a fuck about no awards.”

“Of course you don’t,” I mused, nodding.

“That’s exactly why you don’t have any.” His jaw flexed, his lips pressing into a hard line.

I could see it all over his face—this nigga was heated.

His hands flexed at his sides, like he was holding himself back from saying something disrespectful.

Logan inhaled sharply, clearly ready to jump in before one of us actually tried to fight the other.

But I wasn’t done yet. “You wanna talk about who’s playing in music?

” I laughed, stepping even closer. “Nigga, you got all this talent, but you too stubborn to elevate. You could be great, but you stuck in your own head, makin’ the same tired-ass tracks ‘cause you refuse to grow.”

I watched at Royal’s dark eyes narrowed, his whole body tensing.

“Who the fuck you think you talkin’ to?”

“A nigga who needs my help but too arrogant to admit it,” I said coolly, my gaze unwavering. More thick, tense silence emanated between us. Logan and Royal’s friend’s eyes bouncing back and forth between us.

Royal’s fists clenched at his sides, and I could tell he was fighting the urge to really go off.

Logan coughed, stepping in like he already knew shit was about to get ugly. “Alright, alright, let’s chill for a sec?—”

Royal ignored him, his eyes locked on me and a slow, amused grin stretching across his face. “Lemme guess. You one of them bougie-ass debutantes who think just ‘cause they got industry cosigns, they know real music?”

I arched a brow. “And you one of them angry hood niggas who think just ‘cause they been through some shit, they’re automatically deep? Fuckin’ clown’.”

“Aye yo, who the fuck this bougie bitch think she talkin’ to?”

“Bitch?” I asked putting my freshly manicured coffins in his face. “Nigga, I’ll show yo ass a bitch.”

“Aye, aye, chill.” Logan stepped in between us. “Come on now, this ain’t what the fuck I brought y’all together to do.”

Royal chuckled lowly, but it wasn’t warm—it was the kind of laugh that said this nigga is about to say something even more disrespectful.

“Lemme make this real clear for you, Shawty,” he drawled, taking another step closer, invading my personal space. “I don’t need no fuckin’’ help. Especially not from some ran through actress who fucked with the right niggas and suddenly thinks she’s Quincy Jones.”

I swear to God, my vision went red. I took a deep breath, reeling in my temper, because if I snapped the way I wanted to, I was gonna end up catching a case. Instead, I smiled, the kind of smile that let a nigga know he fucked up.

“I never had to fuck nobody to prove my talent. How many dicks you sucked to get in this room?”

“Aye you better get her ass.”

“Oh, and since we talkin’ credentials now?

” I tapped my chin, pretending to think.

“Let’s see… hit TV show making millions, 10 songs making Billboards hot 100, three Grammys.

Songs I wrote and produced charting every damn year.

My first project won awards before I was even out of college.

” I let the words settle, watching his smirk fade.

“Meanwhile all you got is a fuckin’ BET award for some trash ass song nobody talks about.

So tell me, Royal, when exactly was the last time your mid-ass music was nominated for anything besides that one time on BET? ”

Crickets.

Good. Let that shit simmer. I thought with a sly smirk on my face.

I turned to Logan, done with this whole conversation. “Yeah, I’mma go ahead and pass on this bullshit. I don’t work with fuck niggas.” Then, without another word, I grabbed my bag and walked straight out the studio.