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“Are you going to address it online?”
If she acknowledged the situation in any way, she’d play into Banks’s hand and essentially give the singer what she wanted.
“That’s the same as apologizing, and it’s not going to happen.”
“But if you don’t, you’ll lose the opportunity to work with Genesis.”
Or any of the other top companies. She’d recently received a call from Andrea to say that a small venture capital firm had expressed interest in a meeting, but Dani wasn’t excited by the prospect. She didn’t need more investors, she needed help to level up.
“Maybe I should go away for a while. I could take a few months, jet off to a private island. Work on some new material, brainstorm new product ideas...”
She just had to deny Banks any more ammunition. If she wasn’t around, Banks couldn’t stalk her, the press couldn’t get any pictures, and this situation would have to fade away.
“That could work. But it could also backfire. Banks isn’t above bringing up old stuff to keep herself relevant. Or doing more of those,” Nyla said, pointing to Dani’s phone and referencing the IG post.
“Why doesn’t she fucking get a life?”
Nyla laughed. “That’s what she’s doing. She’s trying to getyours. You need some good press. The studio is always having us do charity work. You can come along to a few with me.”
Dani wasn’t opposed to volunteering, but she said, “That feels so forced.”
“It is. But it might help.”
It was time for Dani to get real. She didn’t have a lot of choices. She couldn’t lose this opportunity. Either she figured out a way to neutralize Banks’s story, or, despite what she’d said, she’d have to apologize.
“I have a really good publicist,” Nyla offered. “She works for me, not the studio, and she’s cool people. Even if you don’t hire her, she’ll give you some good advice.”
Dani pursed her lips but nodded. “That sounds great, Nyla. Thanks.”
“I’ll shoot her a text.”
And if that didn’t work out, Dani would seriously need to look into that island thing.
“Why are you figuring this out on your own anyway?” Nyla asked, her fingers flying over her phone’s screen. “Shouldn’t Cash be taking care of this?”
Dani rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t see anything wrong with it. Jay and Nas, Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown, Biggie and Tupac... Beefs are big in hip-hop. And they sell records.”
Dani had signed with her manager, Cash Hamad, after he’d discovered her on SoundCloud. He’d praised her potential and vowed that if she worked hard and heeded his guidance, he’d make her a star. She’d been uploading her music for several years by then, so getting the attention of someone like Cash had been gratifying. He was well known in the business and highly respected by insiders she followed. Signing with him meant taking her career to the next level.
And she had, if “the next level” meant appearances on a bunchof tracks by Cash’s clients (read: men), who weren’t half as good as she was. And, if said appearances were tied to a video where she put on a G-string and made her ass clap while the artist, in thick gold chains and smoking a cigar, pointed his fingers at it. Because it wassooriginal the previous fifteen hundred times. As the unknown featured female rapper, she wasn’t treated any differently from the video vixens who were there to be eye candy, except she had to spit her verse, too.
When one of her freestyles went viral on YouTube, Cash “promoted” her, making her the First Lady of Dirty Junky, his multiplatinum rap group. She contributed to more songs, where her verses got major attention. Next came her solo record deal with Sick Flow Records, and now her second album was rocketing up the charts. Cash, true to his name, was looking to profit from her accomplishments with a tour in the winter before getting back in the studio next year.
She should’ve been thrilled. She was famous, popular, and financially successful. Everything young Dani had wanted. But she wasn’t making her own decisions; her career wasn’t her own. It was Cash’s, and he intended to ride it until the wheels fell off.
“But it’s screwing with Mela-Skin,” Nyla said.
“He doesn’t care.”
Cash wasn’t a fan of her “side hustle,” especially since he had no skin in that game. Instead he constantly bitched that it drew her attention away from making music.
“Alright, Duchess, we’re ready for you,” one of the on-set PAs called out.
Dani pushed off the makeup chair and checked her image in the mirror. “Duty calls.”
Nyla stood, too. “While you handle that, I’m going to help myself to some of that jambalaya I’ve been smelling.”
Dani laughed and headed over to the changing area, where the gorgeous Marchesa gown...hadawaited her. It was gone; a red leather bikini top and matching miniskirt hung on the rolling rack in its place.
