This isn’t my first Grammys, but it’s the first time two of my clients have been nominated for multiple awards. Rhyson has won several in the past, of course, but tonight, Grip and Kai are up, and I think Rhyson and I are more nervous than they are.

“I’m still not sure about that lighting.” Rhyson watches a video of Kai’s rehearsal from earlier today on his phone. “Can we talk to the LD one more time?”

“Leave the lighting director alone,” Kai says from the corner where she and her stylist are consulting about her dress for the red carpet. “Rhys, you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” he asks absently, eyes still fixed on the video.

“The thing where you try to control the whole universe and act like a crazy person?” She stretches her eyes wide like he should know. “That thing.”

He looks up, one dark brow cocked, and stops the video, setting the phone down on the table.

“It’s your performance, Pep.” He shrugs. “If you feel comfortable with uneven lighting for the biggest performance of your life, who am I to disagree?”

“Rhyson!” I roll my eyes at my brother. “Don’t do that. The lighting was fine.”

“Fine?” His disgust is palpable. “Fine, not perfect. She should have perfect, Bris, and you know it.”

Kai and I exchange a look that says we hate it when he’s right.

“Okay.” I grab my phone and bag from the dressing room table. “I’ll go talk to the lighting director.”

“It’s the blue wash,” Rhyson says with a satisfied smile. “The setting at the beginning of the second verse.”

“Right. Blue wash, got it. I’ll see you guys back at the hotel.”

I pause at the door.

“And Sarah will be with you for the red carpet tonight.”

“Oh, great.” Kai gives me a wide smile. “What are you wearing for your first public appearance as an engaged woman?”

“Ugh.” The sigh drags past my lips. “Don’t remind me. As if I don’t have enough to do without having to think about getting red-carpet ready.”

“It’s a big night for Grip,” Rhyson says. “I’m sure if it comes down to whether he needs his manager or his fiancée more, it would be his fiancée.”

“You mean the fiancée who’s running off to check the blue wash before the second verse?” I give him a well-meaning smirk.

Rhyson doesn’t allow himself much guilt, but I’m pretty sure that’s what flits across his face. He grabs his phone and stands.

“I’ll talk to the LD,” he says.

“No, you won’t.” I wave him back to his seat. “It’s a huge night for Grip and Kai—for Prodigy. Our little label is up for a grand total of six nominations. I can do my job and be fabulous for the red carpet.”

“You sure?” he asks, uncertainty mingling with the guilt in his expression.

“You doubt me?” I volley back with more confidence than I actually feel.

“Okay, if you say so. See you later, sis.”

I’m wrapping up my conversation with the lighting director backstage—who, at the very least, deserves a fruit basket once this is all over—when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

“No, that worked,” Qwest says. “They hit it on that last run-through. Just make sure we strike that spot onstage, or I won’t hit the mark for camera two.”

I stand perfectly still in the corner where the lighting director and I talked, hoping she’ll walk on by and I’ll go undetected.

“Bristol?”

There goes hope.

“Qwest, hey.” I step forward, a smile pasted on my lips that feels like it’s made of plastic. “Good to see you.”

“Hmmm.” Qwest waves her choreographer on her way. Her eyes roam over me as they usually do, like she sees several things lacking before reaching my face. “I guess I should have known you’d be here.”

As friendly greetings go, it’s not one.

“Well, congratulations on your nomination.” I give her another stiff smile and start to walk off.

“Did you lobby for Grip and me not to perform ‘Queen’?”

Her question startles me enough to turn around and face her again. Her one Grammy nomination is for collaborating with Grip on “Queen,” for best rap performance.

“No. I-I don’t remember it even coming up. The producers of the show were very clear that they wanted Grip to perform ‘Bruise.’” I meet her eyes with nothing to hide. “It’s up for song of the year, and it’s pretty standard to ask the artists nominated for that award to perform, well, the song they’re nominated for.”

Qwest looks unconvinced for a moment before resignation clears her pretty face.

“It’s fine.” She shrugs. “I’m performing one of my other songs anyway.”

“Good.” I hesitate before speaking again. “I would never meddle that way, Qwest—in Grip’s career, I mean.”

“Awwww,” she says sarcastically. “I guess that’s one of the many reasons he loves you—that and your pretty hair and golden tan.”

I don’t reply, but instead let her stew in her own petty silence. I don’t have the time or patience for this shit today.

“I’m sorry, too, about all the drama with Angie Black.” Qwest watches me closely. I know she wants a reaction I’m determined not to give her. “And that picture on Instagram. I can imagine how I’d feel if I saw my boyfriend’s ex with her hands all over him.”

“Then why did you have your hands all over him?”

So much for not giving her a reaction.

“There she is.” Her smile is immediate and knowing. “I figured your claws would come out soon enough.”

“I don’t want my claws out, Qwest. I wish you well. I know you don’t believe that, but I do.”

“Oh, spare me.” The mask falls away, and Qwest’s ire is on full display. “You wish me well because you got nothing to worry about. I’m not a threat to you, and you know it.”

“You think I don’t feel threatened by you?” My scoffing laugh bounces between us. “Many of Grip’s family, friends, and fans would dance in the streets if he dumped me for you. Do you know how many people have told him that being with me discredits the work he does for the black community? And that you ‘make sense’ and I don’t? That if he wanted to have a real impact, he would choose you?”

“But none of that is Grip,” Qwest says. “You and I both know how he feels about you, that he doesn’t give a damn what any of them thinks. All I hear in everything you’ve said is that he’s willing to tell everyone to fuck off for you, and that’s gotta make you feel as secure as hell.”

She’s right. When it comes down to it, as tired as I am of all the outside voices and influences, I don’t doubt Grip’s love for me. I’ve had moments where I let the negativity get to me, but at the center is a rock-solid faith in our love.

“Besides,” Qwest continues, a touch of malice in the look she gives me, “you saw something you wanted that wasn’t yours, and you went for it. I probably would’ve done the same thing. Game recognize game.”

I see what she’s doing—provoking me—but the thought of her claiming Grip when he was never really hers festers under my skin.

“You’re mistaken,” I say before I can talk myself out of it.

“Oh?” Qwest furrows her brow as if she’s clueless about what I mean. “How am I mistaken?”

“He was never yours.” I force myself to look into eyes that hold more knowledge of Grip than they should.

“He was mine when he was in my bed.”

“He’s been in lots of beds, but there’s only been one woman in his heart.”

“And that’s you?”

“And that’s me.” I hesitate, swallowing cruel words for kinder ones. “Look, I’m trying to be gracious here, Qwest. Don’t make me be mean.”

Her harsh laugh scratches over my ears.

“Well the next time you feeling all gracious and shit,” she spits through a bitter smile, “and want to lend your man’s dick out, let me know, ’cause honey, I wasn’t done with it.”

She steps closer, her perfume invading my space as quickly as her slim body.

“You may be the only one who’s ever ‘been in his heart,’ but I wouldn’t have known it by the way he fucked me.”

The sharp reminder of their past intimacy slides under my ribs like a stiletto and makes me draw a stilted breath.

“Like I said, game recognize game,” she says. “The next time you want to throw Grip in my face, Bristol, be absolutely certain you can handle what I’ll throw back.”

Why am I even doing this? Why engage with her this way? I know I have nothing to worry about, but I keep letting this damn possessiveness get the best of me, and I’m tired of being jealous for no reason. With a weary sigh, I scoop the hair back from my face. The arrested expression on Qwest’s face confuses me until she reaches for my hand, holding my ring finger up to the light. Hurt floods her eyes as she studies the large square canary diamond Grip placed there.

“So it’s true,” she says quietly. “He’s marrying you.”

I don’t know what to say. I just stare back at her and wait for her to drop my hand. She forces a laugh.

“Well that was fast.”

“Fast? If you call ten years in the making fast, then yeah.”

She pulls a stream of braids over her shoulder and fingers the sleek strands. Her expression says she doesn’t give a damn, but I’m not convinced, and my heart hurts. I want to hate this woman. She slept with Grip. She led a social media shade campaign against me, but it’s the hurt I see just beneath the surface that keeps me from the dislike I want to give in to.

“I’m sorry, Qwest.” I know she wouldn’t want my pity. I respect her too much for that, and the barbs we just exchanged assure me she doesn’t need it. I can’t be sorry that Grip is mine, but I am sorry she ever thought he would be hers, sorry for my part in letting her believe that even for a few months.

“You said it—you’re the only one who’s ever been in his heart, who ever got past his bed.” Quest’s glassy eyes fix on my ring finger. “The rest of us he fucked, but doesn’t give a damn about.”

Without another word or glance, she turns on her heel and walks away.