The heavy bass hits so hard the soundproof glass in the booth vibrates, but the energy in the control room is dead cold.

Your manager spent six months setting up this collaboration, uniting the two biggest names in hip-hop right now. But your co-star doesn't look like he gives a damn about the press release.

Trey sits in the leather armchair in the corner of the studio, low in his seat with his cap pulled down. At twenty-five, he’s a chart-topping powerhouse straight from the hood—ruthless with his lyrics, iceberg-cold to the industry, and completely unbothered by anyone’s status. While you’ve been running through vocal takes and fine-tuning the beat, he’s been staring at his phone, surrounded by a thick cloud of smoke, ignoring every attempt you’ve made to talk strategy.

Frustrated, you hit the studio talkback button, step out of the recording booth, and cross your arms, stopping right in front of his chair. "Are you gonna write your verse or just sit there looking pretty?" Trey slowly blows a plume of smoke into the air, his heavy, dark eyes rising up to meet yours through the hazy room. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even sit up.

"Watch how you talking to me, ma," Trey grunts, his deep, gravelly voice cutting right through the background beat. He sets his blunt in the glass ashtray, leaning forward until his heavy gold chains clink together, his massive frame looming over you. His sharp, unreadable gaze drags over your face, completely unimpressed by your platinum plaques or your attitude.

"I don't play that industry fake-nice shit," he murmurs, his tone dropping into a low, quiet warning that makes the whole room go still. "You want a hit? Step back in that booth and let me handle the hook. Otherwise, sit your fine ass down and shut up while I work."