Chapter Text
The Royale Gala isn’t just a party. It’s the event of the season—where record deals are whispered over champagne, feuds are both ignited and buried, and every flash of a camera has the potential to shift the industry. The venue, a sprawling glass-walled estate overlooking the city skyline, is packed with legends. Rappers, Musicians, actors, CEOs. The kind of people who don’t just buy mansions; they buy islands.
Kendrick steps into the main hall, followed by his boys. He walks in like he owns the place. And, in a way, he does.
Draped in a sleek, custom-tailored Louis Vuitton suit, his signature ‘a’ chain glinting under the chandeliers, he moves through the crowd effortlessly. People greet him with nods, daps, whispers. Many watch in admiration. Some try to hide their smirks while exchanging amused glances. He knows what they’re really thinking.
There’s no way Drake showed up after the Super Bowl.
No way he’d let himself be in the same space as Kendrick.
His career was hanging by a thin thread, anyway.
Kendrick feels a rush of pride in his chest.
He doesn’t want to say he won. But he did.
But then, he hears it—
A ripple in the atmosphere. A sudden shift in energy.
A few people glance toward the entrance. Some pretend not to notice, but their posture changes. The room, alive with laughter and conversation, seems to tighten just a little.
And that’s when Kendrick turns.
Drake has arrived.
The man who had disappeared from every interview, every public event, every single social media post since that Super Bowl night—he is here, standing at the threshold, cool, composed, unreadable. His suit is impeccable, his gaze calm but dangerous.
Kendrick’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.
Because Drake is looking at him too.
And just like that, the entire Royale Gala is holding its breath.
Kendrick wants to burst out laughing. It was thrilling.
Then, he turns towards his team and smiles.
« Man, I wanna get wasted tonight. »
.
.
The Royale Gala is still alive with conversation, music, and laughter—but beneath the opulence, beneath the polished champagne flutes and the million-dollar suits, something else lingers.
It’s in the way people shift their bodies ever so slightly. The way they sneak glances between Kendrick and Drake, pretending not to watch but failing miserably. It’s in the way even the servers, trained to be invisible, move just a little too carefully when passing near them.
Kendrick doesn’t react. He keeps his posture loose, his face always wearing that small laid-back smirk, his drink held casually in one hand as he listened to the people next to him talk. But he knows.
Every damn person in this room is waiting.
Drake hasn’t moved much since stepping inside. He stands near the bar, his back against the counter, posture relaxed but deliberate. A slow drink in one hand. His other hand resting lightly in his pocket. He looks like a man completely at ease. Like someone who chose to walk into the lion’s den. Like someone who hasn’t been humiliated for weeks. Months even.
Ken hates that.
His gaze flicks to Drake once, briefly. Just enough to catch the details—his sharp-cut Armani suit, the way his chain rests just under the collarbone, how his jaw is set in that unreadable way, smooth and composed.
And then, it happens.
Drake eyes meet his.
It’s not long. Barely two seconds. But the weight of it is enough to make the air between them feel thick, heavy. A silent charge, like the moment before a match is struck.
Kendrick doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Neither does Drake.
Then, subtly, barely noticeable unless you’re really watching—Drake exhales a small breath through his nose. A barely-there smirk touches the corner of his lips, but it’s gone before it fully forms.
Ken’s fingers tighten around his glass.
That damn little fucker.
So, is that how you wanna play it, Aubrey?
The moment breaks when someone—a label executive, maybe, Kendrick doesn’t care—steps in between them and starts talking with him, oblivious to the silent war that just passed through the air. Kendrick shifts his attention towards the newcomer, setting his drink down on a marble table as if nothing happened.
.
.
The party flows on, draped in golden lights and the hum of expensive champagne. Laughter spills from the VIP section, blending with the bass-heavy music pulsing through the venue.
Kendrick gulps down another flute of expensive champagne, the atmosphere becoming more and more intoxicating by the seconds.
Drake is somewhere across the ballroom, and even without looking, Kendrick can feel it. It’s like the universe itself is making sure they stay in each other’s orbit, no matter how much distance they try to put between them.
Every time Kendrick turns a corner, Drake is there—too far to call it a confrontation, too close to ignore. A game of presence, of silent pressure. The whole damn industry is waiting, watching, ready for fireworks.
See, Kendrick was maybe the worlds’s biggest hater but he plays it cool. He always does.
However at some point, the need for a moment away from the crowd pushes him toward the restroom.
The bathroom is a sanctuary of silence compared to the roaring party outside. Sleek marble, dim golden lighting, the scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air. Ken doesn’t expect company—at least, not his company.
But when he steps inside, there Drake is.
Fucking fantastic.
The man was leaning against the sink, rolling the cuff of his sleeve like he has all the time in the world. Like he belongs here.
Kendrick stops in his tracks, his grip tightening on the edge of his jacket.
For a moment, neither of them speak. But the air between them is thick—so thick—with everything unspoken, everything the cameras have caught, everything the world has turned into spectacle.
Kendrick can feel it, the way his own presence shifts the atmosphere. The way Drake goes unnaturally still, just for a second.
Kendrick flashes him a little grin, tilts his head slightly. “Didn’t know this was your spot.”
Drake finally moves, just enough to push off the counter. “Didn’t know you’d follow me.”
Kendrick lets out a sharp laugh, short and humorless. « Right. ‘Cause I really need to waste my time trailing you. »
Drake holds his gaze, unimpressed. “Could’ve fooled me. Seem pretty obsessed with me lately.”
Kendrick smirk is razor-sharp now. “Obsessed?” He steps forward just slightly, the space between them narrowing. « Nah, see, Aubrey, that’s your thing… How is yer ego, by the way? Still doing good? »
Drake exhales through his nose, a slow, deliberate thing. His expression remains unreadable, but Kendrick knows better.
He knows he hit something.
Kendrick leans in just enough that his voice drops lower. « What’s the matter, man? Still mad now that you have to rebuild your career?»
Drake doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react.
But then a glint amusement flashes in his eyes.
« I always loved how you were so much smaller than me. »
Kendrick’s gaze hardens. But it was almost imperceptible.
And that what tells Drake he’s gotten under his skin.
Kendrick then smiles, slow and smug. “Careful, I might write an entire album about you again.”
Drake finally moves, stepping into Kendrick’s space just enough that the air grows heavy again. “ Please, do.” he says, voice just as low, just as controlled.
Kendrick clicks his tongue, tilting his head. “Are you sure? If so then, you got my permission to sue me too. That’s the only thing you know how to do right, anyway.”
Drake’s jaw tenses.
Ken watches, cataloging every little shift, every flicker of something almost breaking through that barely constructed front.
Then he steps back, shaking his head with a smirk. “See you out there, Aubrey. Try not to think too much about me.”
He leaves without looking back.
But he doesn’t need to.
He knows Drake is still standing there, still holding onto whatever anger he’s barely keeping beneath the surface.
And Kendrick ?
Kendrick loves that.