Page 9

AVERI

I closed my eyes and let the music guide me, my voice floating over the slow, aching melody of the track.

You walk in the room, I forget how to breathe…

You ain't gotta say it, I know what you need…

But you don’t see me, boy, you never do…

Wish I could be the one you're runnin’ to

Tell me, do you notice me?…

The song was haunting, raw, a confessional that poured out of me effortlessly. I had written “Notice Me” for a female artist’s perspective, but the more I sang it, the more I realized just how personal it felt.

Had I ever felt like this about someone?

The thought unsettled me, so I pushed it away, focusing on the session.

I had Malachi engineering the track, someone I trusted to bring my vision to life.

The levels were right, the reverb sat exactly where I needed it, and I was just about to hit my final run when?—

The damn studio door swung open. “Ain’t no way in hell she supposed to be singin’ like that.”

I froze mid-note, my eyes snapping open, irritation climbing up my spine at the sound of Royal’s voice. I looked up to see him and Zay standing there, smirking like they owned the place.

Malachi sighed. “Bro, you know your session don’t start ‘til three.”

Royal ignored him and leaned against the console before pressing the button for the intercom into the booth, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. “You real comfortable takin’ up my studio time, huh?” he drawled.

I rolled my eyes. “Your studio time? You don’t own the room, Royal.”

He smirked. “Nah, but my name might as well be on the door, Shawty.” His lazy-ass arrogance was exhausting.

Malachi pressed a button on the console. “Yo man we almost done?—”

Royal cut him off, his voice mocking. “Please hurry up and get her screechy sounding ass out my booth.”

I flipped him off through the glass as Zay laughed. “Damn Ave, you just gon’ let him talk to you like that?”

I snatched my headphones off and stormed out of the booth, my heels clicking against the floor as I narrowed my eyes at Royal. Zay and Malachi were chuckling, and even King had walked in at some point, leaning against the doorframe like he was about to enjoy the show.

“You done?” I asked, crossing my arms.

Royal’s eyes flickered down my body for a split second before he smirked. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”

I let out a slow breath. I refused to let him get to me. But the way he was looking at me, the way he stayed looking at me, it was distracting especially when he licked those thick pink lips. I hated him so much, especially hated that he got to me to easily and I let him.

King shook his head. “Damn Ave, that was you singin’?”

I turned to him, grateful for a normal conversation and a reason to turn my gaze from Royal’s. “Yeah.”

“That shit sounded good as hell,” Zay added. “You sure this ain’t for Ro’s album?”

I snorted. “Absolutely the fuck not. He don’t deserve my best.”

Royal’s brows lifted. “Excuse me?”

I turned back to him. “You heard me. You don’t deserve my best; you get all my mediocre shit. You’re an asshole.”

Royal tilted his head, that cocky little grin creeping back onto his face. “You crazy as hell if you think you not givin’ me your best,” he said, voice low. “You tryin’ to impress me, and you know it.”

I scoffed. “Royal, please go to the deepest parts of hell.”

“Already there,” he murmured, his eyes flickering over me. “You comin’ with me?”

My stomach flipped, and I hated it. I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he occupied my damn mind.

Even now, standing there, his chocolate skin lightly misted with sweat, muscles on display, tattoos covering his chest, neck and arms… I had to actively remind myself to stop staring. This man never had a damn shirt on in the studio, and it was distracting as hell.

I had already told him twice to put some damn clothes on. And each time, he just smirked and did the opposite. God, give me strength.

We’d been in the studio for a few hours.

Zay, Malachi and King had all left each needing to go handle their own business.

But Royal refused to leave and honestly, I didn’t mind.

We were in a good vibe, had a good flow.

There was no need to end the session when really, I felt like it was just getting started for real.

I didn’t have to turn around to know he was there. I could feel him. Royal had this way of commanding the space just by existing. It was annoying as hell—and worse? It was working.

I inhaled sharply, setting my phone on the soundboard before turning to face him.

And there he was. Standing way too damn close, shirtless again.

His tattooed chest and abs on full display like he didn’t give a single damn about personal boundaries or the effect he had on people, specifically on me.

I dragged my eyes up to his face, doing my best to ignore the fact that this man looked like a walking sin, and rolled my eyes. “Put some damn clothes on, Royal.”

He smirked. “Why?”

I crossed my arms. “Because this ain’t your damn house.”

He took a slow step forward, forcing me to tilt my chin up to keep my glare locked on him. His gold chain caught the dim light of the studio, the tattoo on his neck shifting as he spoke.

“Nah, see…” He tapped his temple. “I been paying attention. You only tell me to put on a shirt when it’s just me and you in the studio.” My stomach clenched. I knew where this was going. “You like seein’ me like this,” he murmured. “You just don’t wanna admit it.”

I scoffed. “Boy, please.”

He leaned in a little, voice dropping lower. “It’s cool, Ave. I ain’t mad at it,” he said, his breath warm against my skin. “If I was you, I’d wanna look too.”

My pulse jumped, and I hated it. I hated how cocky he was.

I hated that I was so damn aware of how close he was—how his scent was a mix of cologne, sweat, and sin, how his lips curled when he smirked, how he was so damn tall I had to tilt my head back just to hold my ground.

But most of all? I hated that he was right.

I swallowed and took a step back, regaining my composure. “Personal space, Royal.” I lifted a brow. “You keep yours, I’ll keep mine.”

He grinned, slow and lazy. “I’on know, Ave. You might be the one crossing the lines.”

Before I could cuss him out properly, my phone rang. Saved. By. The. Fuckin’. Bell. I turned my back to him dramatically and grabbed my phone, exhaling sharply when I saw Egypt’s name on the screen.

“Excuse me,” I muttered, sending Royal a pointed look before walking out into the hallway.

I hit FaceTime, and Egypt’s face filled the screen. She was curled up on her couch in her trailer in Toronto, her makeup was done and she a bonnet on her head, holding a bowl of ice cream like she was watching an episode of my life unfold in real time.

She did a once-over, then narrowed her eyes. “Why you look all… flustered?”

I let out an exasperated sigh and fanned myself with my hand, still feeling overheated from Royal’s unnecessary proximity.

“Because this nigga Royal keeps fuckin’ with me,” I muttered.

Egypt immediately grinned sitting up. “Oh, word? What he do?”

I threw my head back, groaning. “Everything.”

She leaned in. “Like… the good kind of everything?”

I shot her a look. “No, Egypt.”

She smirked. “You sure?” I hesitated which was a big mistake because Egypt caught that shit instantly. “Oh, bitch.” She leaned back dramatically, laughing. “You like him.”

I nearly choked. “I do NOT.”

She laughed harder. “Nah, you not foolin’ me. You like that man.”

I shook my head. “I can’t stand him. He’s immature, reckless, and not serious about anything but himself.”

Egypt waved her spoon. “Mmhmm. And yet he got you in there sweating. Gon’ pop it for pimp one time, get that shit outta ya system.”

I hung up on her ass… immediately and considered blocking her too.

I took a full minute to compose myself before re-entering the studio. Only to find Royal sitting at the soundboard, headphones on, vibing to a track I had sent him earlier that day. I froze, because I knew that look on his face. He liked what he was hearing.

He looked up, smirking when he saw me. “Damn, Ave,” he drawled. “You finally sent me some shit I actually wanna use.”

I blinked, then narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?”

He just leaned back, arms stretched behind his head, and grinned the beautiful grin. “Guess we makin’ a hit, Shawty.”

My stomach flipped. I blamed it on hunger. Not him. Never him. But damn, the way he smiled at me, had me wanting to break a rule I had set for myself. Don’t fuck the client.

I should’ve known I couldn’t dodge my parents forever. After weeks of ignoring texts and rescheduling dinner plans, my mother had finally cornered me with an offer I couldn’t escape. Lunch today, at her office. I was trapped and there was no getting out of it, no more excuses to try to avoid it.

I arrived at her law firm, greeted by marble floors, towering glass windows, and the suffocating air of generational expectations. Her assistant led me to her office, where she was already sitting at her desk, flipping through a legal brief, looking impeccable as always.

The food was already set out when I arrived, but I barely had a second to pull out my chair before my mother’s sharp voice cut through the room.

She barely glanced up. “You’re late.”

I dropped into the chair across from her, sighing. “Good to see you too, Ma.”

Allison St. Claire was pristine as ever, dressed in an expensive navy power suit, her hair perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. Her office—cold, sleek, efficient—mirrored her energy. Nothing here was warm, welcoming, or inviting. It never had been.

She finally looked at me, a sharp brow arching. “You’ve been in Atlanta for weeks, and I have to beg to see my own daughter?”

I didn’t have the energy to argue. “I’ve been busy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Too busy with that rapper?”

My stomach clenched. She took a delicate sip of her sparkling water, waiting for my response.

Here we go.