The party was a whirlwind of the "Typical Wayne Vibe." He had a bottle of Ace of Spades in one hand and a lit blunt in the other, dancing with a loose, erratic grace in the center of the room. The two girls were draped over the furniture, and the hotel staff were already rolling in carts of late-night food and more liquor.
Aubrey stood by the bar, pouring himself a stiff drink. He felt out of sync. He was supposed to be celebrating the biggest day of his life, but his eyes kept tracking Robyn. She was sitting at the edge of a lounge chair, a glass of dark rum in her hand, her eyes fixed on the balcony. She looked like she was waiting for a ghost to walk through the glass.
Wayne glided over to Aubrey, his diamond teeth glinting in the moody amber light. "You look like you're doing math in your head, Drizzy. Stop calculating. You're the king of the city tonight. Look at the girls, look at the view. This is what we did it for."
"I'm just focused, Tunechi," Aubrey said, trying to match the energy.
"Focus is for the booth," Wayne rasped, leaning in closer, his eyes sharp and knowing. "The party is for the ego. But I see you... you're worried about the Queen. I saw that look in the garage. Someone's knocking on the door they ain't supposed to be at, huh?"
Before Aubrey could answer, the heavy double doors of the penthouse entrance swung open. Jas walked in, his face looking completely drained of color. He didn't look at Wayne; he went straight to Robyn and then to Aubrey.
"We have a problem," Jas whispered, his voice barely audible over the bass. "Security just buzzed from the lobby. There's a customized Lamborghini parked sideways in the driveway. He's downstairs. And he's not alone."
The music seemed to fade into the background for Aubrey. The name didn't need to be spoken. The "Ex" had moved from the phone screen to the front door.
Robyn stood up slowly, her glass trembling slightly. "How many?"
"Just him and two of his guys," Jas said. "He's demanding to come up. He's making a scene, Robyn. The paps are already circling the car."
Wayne let out a long, slow whistle, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He looked at Aubrey, then at Robyn. "Well, well. The past wants a seat at the table. What we doing, Toronto? You want me to send my guys down there to handle the 'paperwork,' or are you gonna show him why the charts changed today?"
Aubrey felt a cold, hard resolve settle in his chest. This was the moment. This was the "Fierce" energy he had been building since the V-strap incident. He didn't look at Wayne. He looked at Robyn.
"Stay here," Aubrey said, his voice dropping into a register that made even Wayne raise an eyebrow.
"Aubrey, don't," Robyn whispered, reaching for his arm. "He's looking for a fight. He wants the cameras to see him taking his territory back."
"He's not taking anything," Aubrey said, shaking her hand off gently. He turned to Jas. "Tell security to let him into the private lounge on the mezzanine. No cameras. No paps. Just him. I'm going down."
"Drizzy, you sure?" Jas asked, his hand hovering over his phone.
Aubrey adjusted his silver chain, pulling his black OVO hoodie tight. He felt the weight of the Houston mansion, the lessons from the library, and the heat of the studio booth all merging into a single point of impact.
"I'm sure," Aubrey said. "Wayne, keep the party going. I'll be back in ten minutes."
Wayne raised his glass, a look of genuine respect in his eyes. "Go get 'em, King. Don't scuff the Nikes."
Aubrey walked out of the penthouse, the silence of the hallway a sharp contrast to the bass-heavy party behind him. He stepped into the elevator, his reflection in the polished wood showing a man who was no longer playing a character. He was the protector of the Queen, and he was about to face the man who thought he still owned the throne.
The elevator descended. The "private" game was about to get very, very loud.
The elevator ride down to the mezzanine felt like a descent into a different kind of war zone. The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the cables. Aubrey stood mirrored in the polished mahogany, his jaw tight. He wasn't thinking about the #1 record anymore. He wasn't thinking about the charts. He was thinking about the look of frozen fear in Robyn's eyes when that phone rang.
The doors hissed open. The mezzanine lounge was a vast, dimly lit space with dark velvet sofas and a floor-to-ceiling view of the city. Standing by the window, silhouetted against the neon glow of Miami, was a figure that radiated a jagged, chaotic energy.
It was him. Chris.
He was wearing a bleached-out denim jacket, his hair buzzed and dyed, diamonds flashing at his neck and ears. He wasn't alone; two of his "boys"—large, silent men in hoodies—were leaning against the bar, looking bored but dangerous.
As Aubrey stepped into the room, Chris turned around. A slow, mocking smirk spread across his face.
"Look at this," Chris said, his voice dripping with a casual, toxic arrogance. "The little actor from Toronto. I saw you on the news, man. Nice suit. Nice little song. You really think you're in the game now?"
Aubrey didn't stop until he was five feet away. He didn't look at the guards. He kept his eyes locked on Chris. "The game changed today, Chris. You're at the wrong hotel. And you're definitely calling the wrong woman."
Chris laughed, a sharp, barking sound. He took a step forward, invading Aubrey's personal space. He was shorter, but he carried himself like a live wire, unpredictable and violent. "The 'wrong woman'? Man, I've been the only man in her head for years. You're just a feature. You're a distraction. She uses guys like you to make me jealous, and you're too stupid to see it."
"She's not using me," Aubrey said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "She's moving on. And if you had any respect for what you two used to have, you'd walk out those doors before I have security throw you out."
Chris's face darkened instantly. The smirk vanished, replaced by the volatile temper that had made him a headline for all the wrong reasons. "Throw me out? You? You've been a 'superstar' for five minutes, boy. I've been the King of this shit since you were in high school."
Without warning, Chris reached out and shoved Aubrey—a hard, flat-handed strike to the chest that sent him back a step. "Go back to Canada, Aubrey. This isn't a TV set."
The "Houston stank" exploded into raw, protective fury. Aubrey didn't hesitate. He surged forward, his shoulder dipping as he drove his weight into Chris, slamming him back against the dark velvet sofa.
"Don't touch me," Aubrey hissed, his hand flying to the front of Chris's denim jacket, bunching the fabric until the diamonds at Chris's neck rattled.
The two guards moved instantly, but Aubrey didn't flinch. Out of the shadows, his own security detail—the silent giants who had followed him from the elevator—stepped forward, their hands ready. The room was a hair-trigger away from a full-scale riot.
"You're pathetic," Aubrey said, his face inches from Chris's. "You're lurking in garages and calling her twenty times because you can't stand that she found someone who treats her like she's worth more than a headline."
Chris snarled, swinging a wild, frantic punch that grazed Aubrey's jaw. Aubrey didn't back down; he threw a short, heavy hook that caught Chris in the ribs, the air leaving the smaller man in a sharp gasp. They tumbled toward the floor, a mess of expensive jewelry and bruised egos.
"STOP IT! BOTH OF YOU!"
The scream tore through the lounge like a gunshot.
Aubrey looked up, his chest heaving, his hand still balled into a fist. Robyn was standing at the entrance of the lounge. She looked small in the vast room, her silk robe fluttering, her face pale and streaked with the frustration she'd been hiding all night. Wayne was behind her, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, watching the scene with a cold, analytical interest.
Robyn ran forward, stepping between the two men. She didn't look at Aubrey first. She looked at Chris, who was picking himself up from the floor, clutching his side.
"Chris, enough," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Just... enough. What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you, Rob," Chris said, his voice suddenly sounding like a wounded child's. "This guy... he thinks he's you. He thinks he's the one."
"He is the one I'm with right now, Chris!" Robyn shouted, the tears finally breaking. "And you're making a scene! Do you want the paps to see this? Do you want another police report? I am begging you—if you ever cared about me, just leave. Please. I don't want this."
Chris looked at her, then he looked at Aubrey, who was standing tall, a small cut on his lip but his eyes unfocused and fierce. Chris saw the way Robyn was standing—slightly in front of Aubrey, guarding him. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
"You're really doing this?" Chris asked, his voice cracking. "With him?"
"Go, Chris," Robyn said, her voice dropping to a thready, exhausted whisper. "Just go."
Chris stared at her for a long beat, the silence in the lounge heavy enough to suffocate. Finally, he spat on the floor, adjusted his jacket, and turned to his guards. "Let's go. This place is full of ghosts anyway."
As the "Ex" and his crew disappeared back into the elevators, the tension in the room snapped. Robyn turned to Aubrey, her eyes wide with a mix of anger and relief.
"Are you crazy?" she whispered, reaching up to touch the cut on his lip. "He could have had a gun. His guys are—"
"I don't care about his guys," Aubrey said, his voice still vibrating with the fight. "I told you, I'm not letting anyone pull you back into that."
Wayne stepped forward, the smoke from his cigar drifting into the room. He looked at Aubrey and nodded, a look of grim approval on his face. "You got hands, Toronto. I didn't know the actors had it in 'em. But Robyn's right—get upstairs. The paps are gonna be crawling all over the lobby in five minutes."
Wayne turned to Robyn. "He's gone. For tonight. But Aubrey... you just officially signed up for the most dangerous job in the world. Being the man who replaces a legend's obsession."
Aubrey didn't answer. He just took Robyn's hand, leading her back toward the private elevator. The party in the penthouse was
still booming, the bass vibrating through the walls, but the "private" game had just become very,
very real.
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