The Rapper's Favorite || An Eminem Fanfiction

Chapter 6: Ghosts In The Studio

Aria's POV

The studio feels like it's holding its breath. There's a low hum from the soundboard, and the faint, persistent thud of the bass we've been looping for hours. Everything else is still. The room feels smaller, heavier, the air thick with frustration.

Marshall's been staring at his notebook for what feels like forever, his pen scratching across the page, then pausing, then scratching again. He's trapped in his head, wrestling with words that refuse to line up the way he wants them to. I get it. We've been grinding for days, and even though we've got a few songs locked down, the weight of the whole album is starting to crush us.

"You know," I say, stretching out on the couch, "if this album thing doesn't pan out, you've got a solid backup plan."

Marshall glances up, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah? What's that?"

I smirk. "Starting a cult. You've already got the whole 'reluctant messiah' vibe going for you. People would eat that up."

That gets a laugh out of him, but it's tired, weighed down by the hours we've spent stuck in this creative loop. "A cult, huh? What kind of cult are we talking?"

"One where no one leaves the studio until they've reached musical enlightenment," I say, grinning. "Strict rules. Worshipping at the altar of hip-hop. Maybe some weird rituals involving microphones."

Marshall snorts, shaking his head. "Yeah, that sounds about right. I'd be the worst cult leader though."

"Are you kidding? You'd be great," I say, propping myself up on my elbows. "You've already got the isolation thing down. All you need is some followers who never question you, and boom, you've got yourself a cult."

He chuckles, but there's still tension behind it. The humor cuts through the thick air for a moment, but we're both still feeling the weight of the process. We've made progress, sure, but it's slow. And every time we hit a wall, the pressure builds.

"I don't know," Marshall says, his voice rough around the edges. "Doesn't feel like we're moving fast enough."

I watch him carefully, seeing the exhaustion settle deeper into his face. He's been pushing himself hard, harder than necessary, because he feels like he's got something to prove. He doesn't say it out loud, but I can tell.

"You're too in your head about it," I say, my tone softening. "We've got a few solid songs down. It's not going to happen all at once."

He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Doesn't feel like it's enough."

"It's a start," I argue, sitting up. "You know better than anyone that this shit takes time. You can't force it."

He doesn't respond, just lets out a long sigh. The room goes quiet again, and for a second, I think he's going to argue with me. But instead, he stands up, walks over to the desk, and grabs a folder. He hands it to me without a word, his expression unreadable.

I blink at the folder in my lap, then look up at him. "What's this?"

"Open it," Marshall says, his voice quieter now, like he's waiting for something.

I flip the folder open and feel my stomach tighten when I see the contract inside. It's a songwriter's contract, my name staring back at me like it's daring me to acknowledge it.

I glance up at Marshall, and he's watching me closely. "I want you on the album. Officially."

My heart skips a beat, the weight of his words hitting me harder than I expected. This isn't just some casual offer—he's serious. He's pulling me out of the shadows and offering me a place on the album. And with that comes everything I've been running from.

"Marshall, I don't know..." I start, trying to gather my thoughts, but the words feel tangled in my throat. "I've been fine staying in the background."

He shakes his head, his brow furrowing. "Why? You've been more than 'fine in the background.' You're not just helping with the lyrics. You've been involved in the production, shaping the sound. You've got a talent for this, and you know it."

I swallow hard, staring down at the contract again. My hands tighten around the edges of the folder, but I don't look at him. This offer feels huge—bigger than just recognition for my songwriting. He's acknowledging everything I've contributed, and that makes it harder to brush off.

"I mean, yeah, I've helped here and there," I say, keeping my voice light. "But I don't need my name on it for that."

"You're serious?" Marshall steps closer, his tone sharper now. "You think all you've been doing is just 'helping here and there'? You've been in every session, every beat we've worked on. You've got a real ear for production, and I'm not the only one who sees it."

His words hit like a punch to the gut. He's not offering this out of some sense of obligation—he really believes in me. That should make it easier to say yes, but instead, it makes the fear inside me twist tighter.

"Marshall..." I trail off, trying to find the right words. "I don't know if this is the right move."

"The right move?" He looks at me like I've just said something completely absurd. "You've been shaping this album from the beginning. This isn't just my work—it's ours."

I feel his gaze on me, intense and unrelenting, but I can't bring myself to meet his eyes. The past is too close, too raw. The idea of stepping out from the shadows, putting my name out there again, feels like stepping into a storm I might not survive.

"I'm just more comfortable behind the scenes," I say, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Less pressure that way."

"Less pressure?" Marshall's voice tightens, his suspicion growing. "That's bullshit, and you know it."

I wince, but he's not wrong. It's not about comfort. It's about fear—fear of being seen again, of the industry that burned me before coming back to finish the job. But I can't explain that to him. Not yet.

"Look," I say, brushing it off, "I'll think about it. It's just... a lot to process."

Marshall doesn't look convinced, and I can feel his eyes on me, trying to figure out what I'm not saying. I know he's suspicious—he's too sharp not to notice—but he's not pushing. Not yet.

"I'm not offering this because I owe you something," he says, his voice quieter but firm. "I'm offering it because you've earned it. You belong on this album."

His words make my chest tighten, the weight of the decision settling in like lead. I've been avoiding this for so long, hiding in the shadows, but Marshall's giving me a way out. A way back. And that terrifies me more than anything.

"I'll think about it," I repeat, my voice a little quieter now. "Promise."

Marshall nods slowly, still watching me closely. "Alright. But don't take too long."

I close the folder, my hands shaking just slightly, and force a smile. I tell myself it's the weight of the decision, but deep down, I know it's more than that. The past is too close, and stepping into the light again feels like a risk I'm not sure I'm ready to take.