Page 15 of Love's Free Will

“Because it’s tired. Like yo’ damn attitude.” His end of the line got quiet. Good, I knew I hit a nerve.

I heard him exhale sharply. “You done?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, Royal. I’m done.” And I meant it. I was over this bullshit.

The moment we hung up, I texted Logan.

Me: We need to meet ASAP

I waited for a response, surprised that it came sooner rather than later.

Logan: Meet me at my office in an hour.

Exactly an hour later, I walked into the mid-sized office building that housed offices for LA Records, Los Angeles location. If there was one thing about LA Records, it was that they made sure you knew exactly who they were before you even stepped foot inside.

The 10-story glass building sat on a prime corner in West Hollywood, sleek and modern, with blacked-out windows and a massive digital billboard showcasing their biggest artists on rotation. There was Reese, another rapper also from Atlanta who gave Wale vibes with his soulful rhymes. Heaven, the beautiful songstress who I had lent my pen to and won a grammy with, Amiri Peoples, a female rapper from Chicago, Royal’s dumb ass and Lux LA at the top of the food chain. He had made LA Records what it was today and had been in the game for over fifteen years and didn’t look like he was going to be stopping anytime soon.

The entrance was a whole experience. Double glass doors, gold accents, and a red-carpeted walkway that made even the most regular-degular industry people feel like they were walkinginto a movie premiere. Inside? Minimalistic luxury meets pure hip-hop energy.

The lobby was damn near a museum, full of platinum and gold records mounted on the walls, all carefully curated under soft LED lighting. The floors were polished black marble, reflecting the overhead fixtures like a scene straight out of a music video.

To the right was a wall-sized LED screen that played a constant loop of LA Records' biggest moments—concert footage, Grammy wins, interviews with Lux LA and Logan, and behind-the-scenes clips from the studio. To the left was a waiting lounge that didn’t even feel like a waiting lounge—plush black leather seating, art-deco coffee tables, and a fully stocked espresso bar that also doubled as a liquor station after 6 PM.

At the reception desk, two assistants sat behind a curved black stone counter, typing away at their MacBooks like they were running the country instead of a record label.

Upstairs, the building was split into two main sections: Floors 3-7 were dedicated to the studios—each one state-of-the-art, fully soundproofed, with custom lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows, and lounges that put most five-star hotels to shame. Every studio had a name, all dedicated to hip-hop and R&B legends—there was aPac Room, Biggie’s Suite, Aaliyah’s Booth, and the Hov Lounge. Only top-tier artists got to record in the Lux Suite, named after the man himself.

Floors 8-10 were where all the real business happened. This was where Logan and Lux had their offices, along with the legal teams, A&Rs, and marketing execs. And let’s be real—most of the magic happened in Logan’s office on the 10th floor. His space was pure money, all floor-to-ceiling windows, black and gold furniture, and a private bar that was stocked better than most clubs.

Everything about LA Records was designed to be a flex, and honestly? It worked. If you got invited here, you weren’t just anybody. You were either somebody… or about to be.

When I walked into Logan’s office, I threw my Chanel purse down on the chair in front of his desk then I slammed my hands down on Logan’s desk, my patience officially gone.

“I quit.”

Logan, unfazed as ever, simply leaned back in his chair. “Well hello to you too. And no, you don’t.”

I hit him with a look sharp enough to cut. “Watch me.”

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Averi, you’re being dramatic?—”

“I am not being dramatic!” I snapped, pacing his office. “Royal is the most stubborn, irritating, hard-headed mutha fucka I have ever worked with. And I’ve worked with a lot of them. I don’t care how much money you throw at me, I’m not putting up with this bullshit.”

Logan didn’t say anything right away, just tapped his fingers against his desk. Then, real casual, he said, “I heardWestlake Ave.”

I stopped pacing, crossing my arms. “And?”

“I think it’s one of his best records.”

I rolled my eyes. “Because of me. I took it from shit to a hit and that mutha fucka is fighting me at every step. I can make him better, he’s so fuckin’ stubborn and won’t let me.”

He smirked. “I agree.” I sucked my teeth, annoyed that he was right. Logan leaned forward, serious now. “Look, I get it. Royal is… a lot. But you’re letting him get to you. If you really want to shape this project, you need to be there in person.”

I frowned. “You want me to go to Atlanta?”

“It makes sense,” he said. “Your show is wrapping for the season, and trust me, things will be a lot smoother if you twowork in the same space. I’ll talk to Royal and fix it. The label will front the expenses for the place.”

I exhaled slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

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