Whitegirls Like You Ch. 04

Chapter 4 - A Blacked Executive

Millie stepped into the executive boardroom of White Hot Pop, her pulse steady but tense as she took in the familiar setting yet again.

The long glass table, the too-bright recessed lighting, the same executives who had spent years making decisions for her career.

And at the head of it all―Bob Harrison, slumped in his chair with a permanent scowl, his gut pressing against the buttons of his overworked blazer. He barely glanced up as she entered, already flipping through a printed agenda, as if her presence was an afterthought.

Millie exhaled sharply.

This was it. The moment.

She had made up her mind―she was going to announce her partnership with Markus Khan Kwaest, whether they liked it or not.

But there was one lingering question in the back of her mind, one that had been nagging at her ever since her hotel conversation with Tytus.

How exactly was he planning to "handle" Bob?

Before she could dwell on it, the doors swung open again, and in walked Tytus Jones―looking as cool and impossibly in control as ever.

And right beside him?

Helen.

Holding his hand.

Millie's lips parted slightly, but she quickly recovered, keeping her expression neutral as they walked toward the table, their fingers still loosely entwined.

Helen looked different today―softer, almost glowing in a way that was not at all businesslike. Her suit was still perfectly tailored, but there was a relaxed air to her that Millie had never seen before.

Millie caught Tytus' eye and tilted her head as if to say: what did you do to her?

Tytus just winked. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

Is he playing Helen? Millie wondered. Just how far did things go the other night once I'd left?

Millie barely had time to process the implications before Helen let go of Tytus' hand and took a seat next to Millie, Tytus casually settling in beside her as well.

Millie's eyes continued flicking between him and Helen, but neither of them acknowledged that anything had changed between them.

Bob, on the other hand, had definitely noticed―his brows furrowing, his face darkening as he took in the seating arrangement.

Millie could almost hear the gears turning in his old-fashioned, stubborn head.

And just like that, she realized exactly what Tytus had done.

This wasn't just a power move.

This was "checkmate".

Helen, one of Bob's few, true allies in the company, was now sitting firmly in Millie's camp―and from the way Bob was gripping the arms of his chair, it was killing him.

Millie almost smiled.

Until the boardroom doors swung open again.

Millie froze.

Striding into the room―heels clicking against the polished floors, blonde hair flawless, eyes steely―was Trisha Lucas.

Her mother.

Millie's stomach dropped. Trisha never came to these things.

Bob's scowl lifted for the first time that morning. Relief flooded his face as he straightened in his chair, like a drowning man who had just found a life raft.

Trisha didn't spare her daughter a glance. Instead, she glided toward Bob's side, placing a perfectly manicured hand on the back of his chair.

Guess it was just "check" after all.

"Apologies for the late entrance," she said smoothly, flashing a smile at the executives. "I wasn't about to miss this."

Millie felt her pulse spike. Of course you were, mother! She shouted in her mind. This was Bob's doing, she was sure of it. He must have gotten wind of her little visit to L. A.

Tytus, seated beside her, shifted slightly. She didn't have to look at him to know he was tense.

This was not part of the plan.

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. His usual cool expression was gone―instead, he looked sharply focused, calculating, maybe even a little thrown off.

Because he hadn't expected this. At least, not enough to have a backup plan.

Millie swallowed. Damn it.

Bob knew how Trisha always complicated things, dragging even little details out incessantly. If Bob had called in her mother, that meant he knew Millie wanted the partnership. Or at the very least, suspected something big was coming.

And there was no way in hell Trisha Lucas was going to let the partnership happen.

Her mother was a legacy woman, old-school, status-obsessed. Frankly―to Millie's disappointment―racist, though in the casual way. She had spent Millie's entire career orchestrating her every move, shaping her into the perfect pop princess.

Trisha had fought tooth and nail to ensure her daughter never strayed from the "good girl" image.

So what now?

Millie was about to sit in front of this entire boardroom and announce that she wanted to work with Markus Khan Kwaest―a man her mother would see as the exact opposite of everything she had built.

Millie kept her expression neutral, even as her mind raced.

Her mother's sudden appearance had thrown everything off-balance, and she knew exactly how this would go. The moment the shit hit the fan, Trisha would take the reigns, out-shouting and out-staring anyone who tried to talk her down.

Before Millie could even think of how to navigate this, Tytus spoke up, his voice smooth and deliberate.

"Trisha," he said, leaning back in his chair as if he wasn't the least bit rattled. "I wasn't aware you'd be joining us today."

Trisha gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Well, Millie's career is a family business, wouldn't you say?"

Millie's fingers curled into her lap. A family business. Right. Because in her mother's mind, Millie wasn't just a person―she was an investment.

Tytus nodded, still calm. "Of course. That's why I'd love to discuss a few things with you privately, maybe before the meeting―"

"No need for that."

Bob's gravelly voice cut through the room, his beady eyes flicking between them like he was enjoying the disruption. He sat forward, clasping his hands together with forced urgency.

"We need to move quickly," Bob said. "Millie's brand has been slipping for the past year, and it's time to lock in our strategy before she loses even more ground. I've asked Trisha here to make sure it gets done."

Millie clenched her jaw. Of course he had to make it sound like she was circling the damn drain.

Her mother stiffened. "Losing ground?"

Millie knew that tone―the sharp edge of worry beneath the polished exterior. Trisha didn't just care about her daughter's success―she cared about what that success meant for her.

Bob nodded, eager to drive the point home. "Her numbers are shifting, Trisha. Her audience is aging out, the industry is moving fast, and if we don't keep her relevant, she's going to start losing endorsements, sponsorships―"

"Excuse me?" Trisha's carefully crafted poise cracked just slightly.

Millie knew it all too well―this wasn't really about Millie's career. Trisha was worried about her own financial and social standing.

If Millie's star dimmed, so did Trisha's access to wealth. The exclusive events, the brand partnerships, the money―all of it was tied to her daughter's success.

Millie opened her mouth to cut in, but to her surprise, it was Tytus who leaned forward, shifting his approach.

"We're not here to alarm you," Tytus said smoothly, shooting Bob a look before turning back to Trisha. "But we do need to be proactive. Millie still has major influence, but this is the moment to reshape and evolve. We need to move now, before we're playing catch-up."

It was rare to see Bob and Tytus on the same side of an argument, but Millie wasn't about to question it―if it got Trisha to shut up, she'd take it.

Trisha's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening slightly around the arm of her chair.

For a moment, she looked ready to fight―but then Millie saw the shift.

The calculation.

Her mother wasn't stupid. She knew that if she caused a scene now, she'd look weak. Desperate.

So instead, she inhaled slowly, composing herself.

"Fine," she said, her voice clipped. "Let's hear it."

Millie took a steady breath as she felt Tytus' gaze land on her.

He gave a small nod. Go. Now's your moment.

She straightened in her seat, placing her hands on the glass table, her nails tapping lightly against the surface. Fuck, was this scary.

"I've made a decision about my next project," she said, keeping her voice even, controlled. "I'm going to collaborate with Markus Khan Kwaest... on a full album."

The reaction was instantaneous.

Gasps. Murmurs. Wide eyes from every executive at the table.

Bob, however, didn't murmur.

He snorted, leaning back in his chair with a scoff. "You can't be serious."

Millie's jaw tightened. "I'm very serious."

Bob shook his head, slamming a pudgy hand onto the table. "Millie, come on. You think pairing up with some thug rapper is gonna save your career?" He let out a harsh laugh. "Jesus, the optics! We've talked about this―"

Millie's hands curled into fists beneath the table.

But Bob wasn't done.

"That man is nothing but trouble. His Black culture lyrics? His gang history? His bad-boy image?" He looked around the room, searching for support. "And you, Millie? A beautiful young woman with a wholesome brand―you want to throw yourself next to that?"

The way he said that made Millie's stomach turn. "He's not a thug."

It was disgusting, but not surprising.

Bob didn't see Markus as an artist, or even as a man―he saw him as a stain. Something dirty, something unworthy. And worst of all, Bob wasn't even trying to hide it.

Millie opened her mouth to snap back―she wasn't about to let this racist bullshit slide―when she noticed something that made her breath catch.

Her mother.

Trisha Lucas sat completely still, hands folded neatly in her lap. No outrage, no gasps.

Just dead silence.

But the tension?

Palpable.

Her face was a perfect mask of poise, but Millie knew her mother too well. Trisha was calculating. Absorbing. Raging beneath the surface.

And that scared her more than Bob's ranting ever could.

Before Millie could speak, Tytus jumped in, his voice smooth and commanding.

"Well, Bob," he said, "I think you're looking at this all wrong."

Bob shot him a glare. "Oh, enlighten me, hotshot."

Tytus smirked, completely unbothered by the hostility. "Millie's evolving. She has to. Her audience certainly is. And Markus Khan Kwaest? He's become one of the biggest names in music: Two platinum albums in less than a year. He's got millions of loyal fans who are dying for something fresh―and a hell of a lot of them have been Millie's fans too. A crossover with Millie? That's not just big―it's game-changing."

Helen, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. "It's a perfect expansion strategy. Millie gets access to an entirely new market―hip-hop and R&B fans who wouldn't normally listen to her. Plus her former fans who had lost interest running back to her. And Markus? He benefits from her mainstream, pop-heavy audience. It's a win-win."

Millie watched her mother carefully.

Nothing.

Just that chilling silence.

It felt like she was watching a dam ready to burst.

The question was: what happens when it finally does?

Bob snorted, shaking his head as he waved a dismissive hand in the air.

"Oh, come on," he grumbled. "This is just another trend. In six months, people will have moved on to the next thing. You really think Millie standing next to some Black rapper from the ghetto is going to turn her into some kind of groundbreaking artist?"

Millie clenched her jaw. Some Black rapper.

Helen, however, wasn't having it.

She sat up straighter, her eyes sharp, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Bob, I used to think like you," she admitted. "I used to look at people like Markus and only see the headlines, the scandals. But I was wrong."

Bob scoffed, but Helen didn't stop.

"I actually listened to his music," she continued, placing her hands on the table. "And I don't mean reading some out-of-context lyrics printed in a hit piece―I mean really listening. Feeling the energy, the depth, the power behind his words. Markus isn't just some thug rapper, Bob. He's a cultural force."

Millie couldn't believe what she was hearing.

This was Helen Whitmore―a woman who just yesterday had been firmly against the collaboration. And now?

She was defending Markus like it was personal.

Then Helen's eyes flicked, just for a moment, toward Tytus.

And suddenly, Millie understood.

It was personal.

Millie saw it―the quiet shift in Helen's demeanor, the not-so-subtle way she and Tytus had arrived together, the way she spoke about seeing things differently now.

Tytus had really done a number on her. Maybe something to do with those prototype tracks?

Whatever it was, it had changed Helen.

She took a breath, regaining her focus. "Look around you, Bob. The world is changing. Black Lives Matter isn't just a movement―it's a shift in the cultural landscape. Audiences are demanding more diversity, more representation, more authenticity. This isn't a wave―it's a reckoning. And we can either be part of it, or we can be drowned by it."

More than a few of the executives murmured, seemingly in agreement with Helen. Then silence.

Bob's face turned red.

For a second, Millie thought he might actually explode.

Instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, pushing himself up from his chair. "We're pausing this discussion," he growled. "New meeting. End of the week."

He stormed out, his footsteps thudding heavily down the hall.

Millie glanced at Helen, who sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly. She'd single-handedly stalled the man.

Tytus?

He just smirked, like he had expected all of this.

Millie, however, wasn't so sure.

Because while Bob was predictable, there was still one person who hadn't said a word.

Millie turned to her mother, watching her carefully.

Trisha Lucas remained still, her expression unreadable.

But the tension in the air?

It felt like a storm was coming. Millie knew it was coming for her, so she ran out of the room before she got caught in it.

Millie couldn't take it anymore.

Whatever the small victory had bought them, the meeting had been a disaster―the arguments, tension so thick it could choke her, and her mother's icy, silent fury hanging over everything like a guillotine.

She needed to get out. She needed air.

Millie barely registered the hallways as she hurried away, heels clicking against the tile floors, ignoring the confused glances from passing employees.

Then, she saw it―the women's restroom.

She slipped inside, the cool, sterile air wrapping around her as she rushed into the furthest stall, shutting the door behind her and locking it with trembling fingers.

Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, and before she could stop herself―

The tears came.

She pressed a hand over her mouth, forcing herself to stay quiet, to keep it together, but her shoulders shook as the weight of everything pressed down on her.

The exhaustion. The constant fight for her dreams. The feeling of being trapped between what she wanted and what everyone else expected of her.

And her mother―

God, her mother.

Millie squeezed her eyes shut, leaning against the cold metal of the stall.

Just one minute. She just needed one minute to breathe, to let it out before she had to go back and deal with all of them.

Then―

The restroom door creaked open.

Millie's stomach dropped.

Shit.

She sucked in a sharp breath, instantly lifting her feet off the floor, tucking her knees against her chest so it looked like the stall was empty.

For a second, she didn't move.

Didn't breathe―despite her desperate need to.

Her heart pounded in her ears as the footsteps echoed against the tile.

Was it her mother?

Had Trisha followed her?

Millie bit her lip, holding perfectly still, waiting for whoever it was to make a move.

Millie kept her breath locked in her chest, every muscle in her body tense.

The footsteps had stopped just outside the stalls, and then―

A man's voice.

Deep. Smooth. Familiar.

Tytus.

Millie's eyes widened in shock, her heart slamming against her ribs.

And then―

A woman's soft, flirtatious laugh.

Helen.

Millie's stomach flipped as realization hit her like a freight train.

They were here together.

In the women's restroom.

She stayed completely still, barely daring to breathe as their voices drifted through the thin metal divider.

"Damn," Tytus murmured, his tone laced with amusement. "That was one hell of a speech in there."

Helen giggled, the sound light and teasing. "You liked that?"

Tytus chuckled. "Liked it? I almost stood up and clapped."

Helen laughed softly again, her heels clicking slightly as she shifted her weight. "Well, I want you to know that I meant every word."

Millie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will herself invisible. Then she heard the sound of Tytus's suit pants being unzipped and opened her eyes. Through the opening under the stall, Helen's knees had very clearly dropped to the floor in front of Tytus.

"I really did," Helen continued, followed by a wet slurping sound. "Now after a meeting like that, are you ready to blow... Mmm... Some steam off?"

She had not planned on hiding in a bathroom stall while listening to Tytus and Helen fool around―but now? She was stuck.

"You were on fire in there," Tytus resumed, his voice dropping just slightly as more wet kissing and slurping sounds emanated from the stall. "Didn't know you had that in you. I'm just glad I brought you around to my side of things."

Helen hummed. "Mmm... You bring out the best in me."

Millie felt her entire soul cringe. She felt like a dirty pervert listening in on Helen obviously giving a blowjob right next to her. She would have bet money that there had been nothing between them before last night.

How had Tytus convinced Helen to do something this lewd? Or... maybe Helen was more of a slut than Millie had thought.

This was so not what she needed right now. But why then was it making her feel so hot?

She had stormed in here to escape the tension of the meeting, to breathe, to collect herself before facing her mother's inevitable wrath.

And instead?

She was trapped in a stall while Tytus was busy facefucking Helen.

That was the wrong thought to have just then.

The moment it had passed through Millie's head, her mind began filling in the blanks, imagining Tytus with his big Black cock out while Helen greedily worshiped him with her mouth.

Just like in Millie's porn videos, except she was a front row audience to the act. Without thinking, she swiftly jammed a hand down her pants, biting her lip as she felt how slick her slit already was.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Millie thought. Maybe I'm really a dirty slut too.

Millie paused, unsure why she had just mentally degraded herself. But the sounds from the stall kept getting hotter and messier.

Helen must be giving him some real sloppy head, Millie thought again as she resumed rubbing her clit.

She started justifying her actions, telling herself that she needed some stress relief too, so why not do a little cumming herself while she was here anyway?

There was no harm in that, right?

"Damn, girl!" Tytus moaned. "You know just what I need."

Helen giggled again, her tone playful. "Well, I figured you could use a little... stress relief after all that."

Tytus let out a low chuckle. "Oh yeah? You know what would really give me some relief...?"

Helen's eyes sparkled with mischief as she stood, her panties slipping down her legs, landing with a soft thud on the floor. "Gee, I wonder what that would be?" she teasingly asked, her voice dripping with sweetness.

Millie watched as Helen shuffled up from her knees, turning around so that her butt was facing back at Tytus.

"Could it be... some tight, white pussy?" Helen moaned the words as Millie heard Helen's hands clap against the stall walls right next to her head.

"If so, I'm more than happy to be of service."

Oh god, this is too much! Millie thought, her orgasm building swiftly. She grabbed the front of her hoodie and shoved it in her mouth to muffle her own sounds of pleasure.

Helen let out a deep guttural moan as Tytus pressed into her. "Oh fuck, yes!!"

"You like that, baby?" Tytus groaned, and Helen's moan grew louder. "You want it all, don't you?"

The walls of the stall seemed to be closing in on Millie as the sound of flesh slapping against flesh grew more intense, Millie's hand a blur as it worked her clit. Her eyes were glued to the gap under the door, watching Helen's heels tap out a rhythm of passionate submission.

"Take it," Helen begged, her voice hoarse with lust. "Fuck me, Tytus. Take out all your stress on my bare ass."

Millie's eyes widened as Tytus added spanking Helen to the sounds of their lovemaking. She was about to cum.

"Yes, do me more! That feels so good!" Helen was moaning loud enough that Millie started to worry someone outside might overhear.

"I love fucking your big black cock!!" Helen screamed.

That's what took Millie over the edge. Jerking her hand away from her sex, Millie desperately tried to stay quiet as the orgasm convulsed through her body. She was only mostly successful, but thanks to the obscene noises from the stall over, Tytus and Helen hadn't seemed to notice.

Tytus' grunts grew deeper, his hips moving faster as he claimed her, his hand reaching around to squeeze her breasts, his fingers toying with her hardened nipples.

"Oh god, I need it!" Helen continued. "I need your cum!!"

Millie watched as Tytus pulled back, allowing Helen to swiftly fall onto her knees again, her mouth instantly wrapping around Tytus' black cock.

"Gluck! Gluck! Gluck!"

"Oh fuck, here it comes!" Tytus roared. "Take it all in your mouth, bitch!"

His moaning continued as Helen's knees went rigid and Millie knew she was busy swallowing all of that hot, Black seed.

Once Tytus and Helen had finished and started cleaning up, Millie overheard them discussing the meeting again.

Millie remained perfectly still, her breath barely audible as Tytus and Helen's voices lowered.

Their footsteps shifted, and then―

Helen sighed. "What do we do about Trisha?"

Millie's stomach clenched.

She inched forward, keeping her feet balanced on the toilet seat as she strained to hear.

Tytus let out a low exhale, the kind that meant he wasn't happy. "Millie's mom is a huge problem, no doubt about it."

Helen scoffed. "She practically sat next to Bob like his damn widow. We could've put a picture of him up on the wall and handed out candles."

Tytus chuckled darkly. "Would've saved us some time." But then his voice turned serious. "Listen, getting rid of Bob? That was step one. But unless Millie can pull her mom over to our side, I don't know if it's gonna be enough."

Millie's fingers tightened against the stall wall.

"Trisha still has influence," Helen murmured. "And Millie―she still cares what her mother thinks, even if she won't admit it."

Tytus sighed again. "That's the thing. If Trisha flips her shit, the rest of the board will follow. If she doesn't?" He exhaled. "Then we've still got a fight on our hands with Bob."

Millie sat there, letting their words sink in.

Her mother was the last real obstacle Tytus couldn't plan for, couldn't just wipe off the board.

And that meant this fight was on her.

Their footsteps started toward the door, and Millie listened as it swung open, then shut again, leaving her alone in the quiet restroom.

Her jaw clenched.

Enough was enough.

She had spent years letting her mother dictate her career, her choices, her life.

And now, even when Millie was on the verge of getting exactly what she wanted, Trisha was still holding her back.

No more.

Millie straightened, unlocked the stall door, and stepped out.

Her reflection in the mirror was fierce. Determined.

It was time to deal with Trisha Lucas.

One way or another, she was going to make her see the light.

For once in her life, her mother was going to support her.

Even if Millie had to drag her there kicking and screaming.

The moment Millie and her mother stepped into the black luxury SUV, the tension exploded.

"You have completely lost your mind," Trisha snapped, barely waiting for Millie to pull away from the White Hot Pop building.

Millie clenched her jaw, staring out the window, trying to keep her cool. Trying not to engage. Not yet anyway.

She wasn't looking for an escape. She already knew there was no way out of this fight. But she'd learned from experience that her mother needed to feel heard before she would ever feel like hearing.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Trisha continued, voice rising. "Markus Khan Kwaest? A Black man with a reputation like that? Do you have any idea what this would do to you?"

Damn it, why'd she have to start with Markus?

Millie whipped her head around, her blue eyes blazing. "Oh, you mean what it'll do to you?" she shot back. "What if I roll in the big bucks from this, would that change your tune?"

Trisha's nostrils flared. "Excuse me?"

That was her mother's favorite Karen line. Millie laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "That's what this is really about, right? Not me. Not my music. You. Your status, your reputation, your precious place in Nashville's high society."

Trisha's manicured fingers tightened into fists. "That's not true."

Millie scoffed. "Oh, please. You don't give a damn about my actual career. You only care if it reflects well on you."

Trisha's voice was sharp as a blade. "I built your career, Millie."

Millie's temper snapped.

"You controlled my career," she spat. "You turned me into a damn puppet―dressed me up, told me what to sing, how to act, who to be." Her hands curled into fists against her lap. "And the second I try to make a decision for myself, you treat it like some kind of betrayal."

Trisha let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "You have no idea what you're throwing away."

Millie's nails dug into her palms. She needed to calm down, needed something to drown out her mother's voice.

She reached for her phone, tapped a few times on the screen, and suddenly―

Markus Khan Kwaest's music blasted through the car speakers.

Trisha visibly recoiled, like the sound of his voice was personally offensive to her. "Turn that off."

Millie turned it up.

"Came up from nothing, now they all wanna see me,

Used to shut me out, now they dyin' to be me―"

Trisha's lip curled. "You're embarrassing yourself."

"Oh, I'm embarrassing myself?" She refused to look at her mother, her voice dripping with fury. "You know what's actually embarrassing? Being so damn stuck-up that you can't handle more than one token Black man in my life."

Trisha's face flushed with rage. "That is not what this is about―"

Millie cut her off. "Yes, it is! You barely tolerated Tytus when he came onboard, and you don't like Markus because he doesn't fit into your little perfect world of country club galas and charity luncheons. You don't like him because he doesn't bow down and play nice." She jabbed a finger at her. "And you definitely don't like the idea of me standing next to him on a stage."

Trisha's mouth opened―then closed.

She seethed.

But she said nothing.

For the first time in years, Millie had silenced her mother, if only momentarily.

The only sound left in the car was Markus' voice, smooth and powerful, weaving through the heavy bass.

Millie leaned back against the seat, eyes forward, lips pressed into a firm line.

For fifteen minutes, the SUV was filled with nothing but Markus Khan Kwaest's music.

Millie had kept it loud, letting the heavy bass drown out her anger, focusing on the lyrics, on the rhythm, on anything other than her mother sitting stiffly beside her.

To her surprise, Trisha hadn't protested again. She hadn't told her to turn it off.

In fact, when Millie glanced sideways, she caught her mother tapping her fingers lightly against her lap―almost absentmindedly, following the beat.

Another song ended, and before the next could begin, Trisha let out a slow breath.

"... I can see why you like it," she said reluctantly.

Millie raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Trisha shifted uncomfortably. "His music. It's... better than I expected."

Millie kept her eyes on the road, gripping the steering wheel. Of all the things she had expected her mother to say, that was not one of them.

Trisha exhaled again, softer this time. "And I suppose I can understand why you want to work with him."

Millie frowned. "Was that an apology?"

Trisha pursed her lips. "I said I understand, not that I agree."

Millie rolled her eyes. "Of course."

There was a long pause. Too long.

Then, just when Millie thought they might actually get through the rest of the drive in peace―

Trisha spoke again.

"I just worry," she murmured.

Millie gritted her teeth. "About what?"

Her mother hesitated. Then―

"Your image."

Millie's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Be specific."

Trisha's voice was careful, but too careful―like she was measuring every word, picking them delicately, like they wouldn't reek of racism no matter how much she tried to soften them.

"You're a beautiful young woman, Millie. You have a reputation. An image that we've worked so hard to build." Her fingers tightened around the hem of her designer dress. "And I just worry that being seen with... someone like him could damage that. You know what the tabloids did last time..."

Millie's stomach turned.

Markus was nothing like that boy. He wasn't there to feed off her like a leech.

Trisha continued, unaware―or maybe fully aware―of the landmine she was stepping on.

"It's one thing to work with him. But if people start talking―if they start assuming things..." She exhaled, voice dropping into a worried whisper. "And God forbid, if you actually dated a man like that―"

Millie slammed on the brakes.

The SUV jerked forward, coming to a screeching halt at a red light.

Her mother gasped, gripping the door handle. "Millie!"

Millie turned her head, eyes burning with rage. "A man like that?" she echoed, voice sharp. "Jesus, Mom, just say what you mean."

Trisha's face flushed, but she didn't back down. "Millie, you know how this world works. A Black man and a white pop star? People will talk. They'll assume. And if you got involved with him―if you got pregnant―"

Millie let out a sharp, humorless laugh, cutting her off. "Oh, there it is. Fuck off, mother!"

Her mother winced, but Millie wasn't done.

"Don't act like you give a damn about my dating life, or lack thereof," she spat. "You just don't want your perfect blonde daughter tainting your legacy by hooking up with a Black man, having Black babies."

Trisha's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.

Because they both knew it was true.

That. Was. It.

Millie inhaled sharply, shaking with anger, but then―

Then, a thought struck her.

She glanced at the dashboard's GPS. They were supposed to be headed home.

Screw that.

Millie swerved the car into the next turn, heading in the opposite direction.

Trisha startled. "Where are you going?"

Millie didn't answer.

Because the day before, while she had been shopping at Urban Threads, she couldn't help but notice a flyer pinned to the checkout counter.

A BLM rally―tonight, in downtown Nashville.

As much as she wanted to publicly show her support, she hadn't planned on going―she didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize her chances of landing the partnership.

But now that her mother wanted to talk about perception? Her image?

Fine.

Millie was about to give her a front-row seat to exactly what she was so damn afraid of.