Amy DuBois Barnett, Former Teen Vogue And Honey Mag EIC, Enters The Fiction Lane With ‘If I Ruled The World’
Written by admin on February 6, 2026
Everyone talks about the good ol’ days of the music and publishing industries; however, you must be a bit more specific when you state the time frame. Depending on your age, you could be speaking of the rowdy 70’s, the roaring 80’s, or, like Amy Dubois Barnett does, with a deep dive into the late 90’s and early 2000’s with her first novel, If I Ruled The World.
Following the life of a fictional New York City-based female magazine editor, named Nikki Rose, it’s not exactly a stretch for Dubois Barnett in real life, as she drew inspiration from her own career as a legendary magazine Editor-In-Chief of multiple major publishing titles like Teen Vogue and Honey. Later venturing into other legacy brands like Ebony and Jet, Dubois Barnett developed the idea for this project while running those content castles, starting the book in the early 2000s, then taking a break from writing it ’cause life be life’n. Now, decades into her creative career and after stints in the TV world, she dusted off the manuscript and plowed through to complete her passion project.
VIBE has an exclusive excerpt from the book (published by Flatiron Books), which was recently scooped up by Hulu and will be produced as a TV series with the well-decorated Lee Daniels (executive producer of Fox’s Empire), with Barnett on the production team. Get into this golden era tale by getting the book here, and ride the wave of excitement with Nikki Rose below:
I knew for certain that my life had truly changed. Hades was designed to look like, well, hell. The jaded New York City clubbers’ version, of course. Flames shot up the blood-red walls, torture instruments hung from the ceiling, and women in red leather dominatrix outfits danced in suspended cages. There were also seven different rooms representing the seven deadly sins.
Walking past the lust room, I caught sight of what looked like a tangle of human flesh writhing on the dance floor and on every available sofa. As I grabbed a glass of champagne from a waitress who wore only a red bra, boy shorts, and thigh-high boots, I sure hoped God had a sense of humor.
The red sea of hard-partying celebs was also like nothing I’d ever seen. Every time I turned, another celebrity would come into view: Usher, Will Smith, at least two of the Spice Girls, Nelly, Aaliyah, Lenny Kravitz, Lil’ Kim, Justin Timberlake. Not one person had defied MC RedHot’s strict dress code.
Barbara proceeded to introduce me to enough music label executives, celebrities, and well-lubricated party people to fill the New York Post’s Page Six for years. I had met a few famous people at StyleList, but this was a different crowd, more Vibe and Village Voice than Vogue and The New York Times. After a couple hours, my head was spinning from all the famous and infamous hands I’d shaken and cheeks I’d air-kissed— as well as the champagne I’d been nervously drinking like it was Perrier.
Desperate for a break, I found a cerise leather sectional sofa in a corner and perched on the edge. Taking another glass of champagne, I was about to get comfy and people-watch for a while when I heard a shrill voice behind me.
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” The earsplitting voice carried over the loud music.
I turned to see where the yelling was coming from and was confronted by a svelte woman with long jet-black hair, toasted-almond skin, and gray eyes. From a distance, she was beautiful, but as she leaned over to me from where she was seated on the other side of the sofa, I could see her hooded eyelids, the brown lip liner sloppily drawn to make her lips look fuller, the tracks of her weave.
“Are you talking to me?” I asked, not sure what to make of the tone of her voice. She turned to her friends, seated around her like ladies-in-waiting, all tall, striking women in identical tight dresses, and smirked.
“Am I talking to her? This bitch don’t even know,” she said. They all laughed. Through the clamor, I thought I recognized a voice. On the sofa’s far arm perched Luna, wearing a low-cut red catsuit.
“Tell her, Serena,” Luna egged the tall woman on.
“Did we invite you to sit here?” Serena wiggled her neck at me, her face inches from mine.
“I didn’t realize I needed to be invited to sit on a sofa in a club,” I said defiantly. The women all cackled in unison. Serena calmly looked me up and down. “Bitch, this is a reserved area. Puff Daddy” — she practically genuflected when she uttered his name — “is on his way over here, and he don’t want to see your sorry ass up in his private VIP, exclusive, reserved section.”
As Luna and her model crew laughed, I debated whether to mock the absurd redundancy of that sentence and stand my ground or roll my eyes and confidently flounce off. Opting not to be at the center of a bar fight at my first Red Party, I stood to leave. When I felt another hand on my arm, I assumed it was Barbara wanting me to meet some more people, but I turned to see Kiara, looking amazing in a red Balmain dress with rubies in her ears.
Kiara hugged me hard, then twirled me around to check out my outfit. “Fabulous, love! Next time, let’s go shopping together. Maybe we can score some showroom freebies.” Then she looked past me to survey the scene on the sofa. “And what do we have here?” It was clear that Kiara and Serena were not exactly girls.
“I was just leaving. Apparently, Puff Daddy is on his way over, and I’m not invited to sit on his special, VIP, exclusive, reserved, private sofa,” I told her, emphasizing every word. Kiara started to laugh — clearly at Serena, Luna, and their ridiculous pronouncement. “Well, love, I’ll tell you what. Let’s head on over to my reserved banquette.” She motioned with her chin at the most crowded area of the room. Photographers were going crazy, trying to shoot whoever was sitting behind the crush of onlookers. “Puff is already hanging over there, along with Paris, Usher, and Gisele. Oh, and you can leave your champagne glass here. I’ve got bottles of Cristal coming all night.”
