Whitegirls Like You Ch. 06

Whitegirls Like You

Chapter 6 - Black Takeover

For the first few minutes, neither Millie nor Trisha said anything.

Millie kept glancing at her mother, watching her stare out the window, her perfectly styled blonde hair now slightly disheveled, her manicured nails tapping absently against her lap.

She looked... unsettled.

Not in the usual haughty, dramatic way that Trisha always played up when something didn't go her way.

No, this was different.

Finally, Trisha inhaled sharply, her voice shaky in a way Millie had never heard before.

"I was wrong," she whispered.

Millie's brows lifted, eyes flicking to her mother for a second before focusing back on the road. "... About what, exactly?"

Trisha swallowed hard. "About... well, not everything, but... about getting in your way."

Millie stayed quiet, letting her mother continue.

"I've spent my whole life in this―this bubble," Trisha admitted, rubbing her temple as if exhausted by her own thoughts. "I've always thought of the world in a very specific way―what's proper, what's acceptable, what's expected." She let out a humorless laugh. "And I never thought about what that meant for other people."

Millie kept driving, but her grip on the wheel loosened slightly.

She had never heard her mother speak like this.

"I saw those people tonight," Trisha continued, shaking her head. "And I realized―I've never had to fight for anything. I've never had to feel unsafe, or unwelcome, or like I had to prove that I deserved basic respect. And I―" Her voice cracked slightly. "I've ignored that suffering my entire life, because it was never my problem."

Millie let out a slow breath, processing her mother's words.

She wasn't sure what she had expected from Trisha after the rally―defensiveness, excuses, maybe even more racist bullshit disguised as concern.

But this?

This was new.

This was genuine.

Trisha turned to her, eyes glassy but determined. "And you. I've treated you like you were―" She stopped herself, pressing a hand to her chest before exhaling shakily. "Like you were just... an extension of me."

Millie's hands tightened on the wheel.

She wasn't wrong.

"I never thought about what you wanted," Trisha admitted. "Not really. I just wanted you to be perfect, to fit into the image I had in my head. And that wasn't fair."

Millie let out a breath, shaking her head slightly. "No, it wasn't."

Trisha hesitated, then reached over, placing a gentle hand on Millie's thigh. "Can you... forgive me?"

Millie's heart skipped.

She had spent years resenting her mother, fighting against her control, feeling like she would never understand.

And now?

Now Trisha was begging for forgiveness. The world had turned upside down and shook all the crazy loose.

Millie stayed quiet for a moment, weighing her emotions carefully.

"I... I appreciate what you're saying," she admitted finally. "And I want to believe you." She gave her mother a sideways glance. "I just... can't help but wonder if this is happening a little fast."

Trisha let out a soft laugh―a tired, self-deprecating one. "You and me both. I don't know how to explain it, but something changed for me today. It's like my eyes have opened for the first time. But I know words aren't enough, not for the damage I've done. Can you... just give me some time to show you?"

Millie nodded. "I'm not going anywhere, mom. Not yet anyway."

They pulled into the driveway of the Lucas estate, the towering white mansion looking just as pristine and untouchable as ever.

As they stepped out of the car, Trisha turned to Millie, her expression firm.

"I won't fight you anymore," she vowed. "Whatever you choose to do, I won't stand in your way."

Millie studied her, searching for any sign of insincerity.

She didn't find any.

Then, Trisha squared her shoulders, as if bracing herself.

"I need to find a way to make amends for the past," she murmured. "For how I treated you... and for everything I've ignored." She exhaled, her expression hardening with resolve. "I don't know how yet. But I will."

Millie watched as her mother turned and disappeared into the house, leaving her standing alone in the warm Tennessee night.

She had gotten everything she wanted.

Her mother's support.

Her mother's understanding.

Her first real taste of Black cock and Black seed.

As Millie made her way up to her bedroom and prepared for bed, she could still taste the residual salty cream in her mouth. She had always assumed cum would have an unpleasant flavor, but the reality had been surprising. The way it had coated her tongue and throat had been oddly addictive, leaving her craving more even now.

Crawling under the covers, Millie closed her eyes, replaying the events of the evening in her mind. The memories immediately forced her lips into a blissful smile as she thought about how good of a white ally she had been. She had felt so alive, like she did whenever she was on stage. Except it was also different, a darker, more intoxicating energy. Surrounded by those powerful, commanding Black men, she had been both wanted and needed in a way she had rarely experienced. The way they had talked to her, the way they had used her, had flamed the fire that had been steadily growing deep within her. She felt like she was finally discovering who she truly was, and it was a person she liked.

Her hand wandered down her body, tracing the path where the cum splatters had pooled and trickled down her face to her chest, her stomach, and down to the apex of her thighs. Her breath hitched as she touched her still-damp panties. The memory of their rough hands, their gruff whispers of praise, had her body reacting with barely any touch necessary from herself. Her cheeks flushed with heat as she thought about how much she had enjoyed being their canvas.

With a soft sigh, she slipped her hand inside her panties, her fingers finding her swollen clit. As she touched herself, she couldn't help but imagine what it would have felt like to have one of them inside her, filling her up. Her heart raced at the thought of losing her virginity to a Black man, of being bred by a Black cock, the contrast as she imagined one entering her pale body was so different it felt erotic just to picture it. The idea thrilled and scared her in equal measure, but she knew that was the direction her desires were pulling her in. If Reggie hadn't come and stopped those men, Millie wasn't sure she would have even tried to.

The sensations grew more intense, her breath quickening as she explored herself. Her thoughts turned to Markus, the man who had started her on this journey of submission to Black men. She had no idea why his music had become so entwined into her every thought now, but she was so grateful that it had, and she couldn't wait to show him her appreciation in person. Ever since the concert, she had felt a connection with him that went beyond the music, a pull that she couldn't explain. As she climaxed, her body arching into the touch, she whispered his name into the darkness.

The same way she did every night.

The next afternoon, Millie sat in Tytus' sleek executive suite. She had worn heels and a short pink skirt over Black leggings, her form-fitting, white T-shirt with Black Lives Matter proudly on display as the fabric stretched tightly over her breasts. While this was a business meeting, Millie had been feeling emboldened by her experience yesterday, and more than a little eager for attention from a Black man like Tytus.

But now she was nursing an iced coffee while regretting her choice of attire, trying not to feel disgusted by the conversation they were having. This meeting was about Bob, and the more Tytus explained, the more Millie felt her skin crawl. He'd caught wind that Bob was embezzling, hoping to get out while the game was still good.

"I hate to say it, but Bob's been doing this for years," Tytus said, trying to console her. "We won't know how much he's skimmed until we can take a look at the records."

Just after Millie had confided in him about the rally and what had happened there, Tytus had dropped this bombshell. In his efforts to handle Bob, he'd discovered that Bob was stealing from White Hot Pop, and especially, from Millie's own earnings. He just didn't have enough proof yet.

Bob Harrison.

Whatever else Millie had thought about the man, she hadn't thought he was a thief.

Tytus leaned against the kitchen counter, rolling a whiskey glass between his fingers, his sharp brown eyes locked onto hers. He was scheming. She could always tell when he was scheming. It was one of his best traits, something she found absolutely hot about him. Well, aside from him being a Black man, anyway.

Even so, she knew he was right about Bob. Scheming or not, Tytus wouldn't lie to her, not about this.

"So," she said, arching a brow. "You said you had a plan."

Tytus exhaled. "I've already tried a few things."

Millie leaned forward. "And?"

He sighed, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it down. "I tried turning the other executives on him―didn't work. He's been around forever, and they're too scared to push him out unless there's real dirt."

Millie frowned. "Okay... so get dirt."

Tytus smirked ruefully. "Oh, believe me, I tried. Hired a guy to do some digging. Looked into his finances, his past deals, even his ex-wife." He shook his head. "Nada. He's a dinosaur, but he's careful. Whatever skeletons he has? He's kept them buried deep. All I could hold onto was straws pointing at strawmen, but added up, it all goes back to him."

Millie exhaled, drumming her nails against the coffee table. "So what now?"

Tytus sighed. "Fortunately, Helen's been on friendly terms with a lady in accounts payable for awhile now. Susan loves to gossip about Bob when he's not around, so we already know which invoices to pull for an audit. At my suggestion, Helen nabbed a copy of the key to her office so we can get at the files. Problem is, there's no way to get in during business hours without getting caught, and the place is locked down tight after hours."

Tytus tilted his head, watching her carefully. Measuring. Calculating.

Then, he said, way too casually, "There is one more option."

Millie narrowed her eyes. "... Why do I already hate it?"

Tytus smirked. "Because it requires you to do something unpleasant."

Millie groaned. "Just say it."

"There's a gala for the new exhibit opening at the National Museum of African American Music tomorrow afternoon, real ritzy, and it's during business hours, so the office will still be open," Tytus explained. "I've got tickets already, with me taking Susan as my plus one. You tell Bob that you're attending, and get him to go with you. Then Helen can slip in and get what we need."

"I'm not exactly Bob's favorite person right now, and this is a gala for Black musicians," Millie sighed. "What makes you think he'll agree?"

"Bob's a predictable man, Millie. He's a power guy―likes to feel in control, likes to think he's still got it despite looking like he sweats gravy." Tytus exhaled dramatically. "So, we give him the illusion of control. You just have to do a little... harmless flirting. Flash him some skin," he smirked. "Get him comfortable and off-guard. He'll think you're buttering him up to make amends for our partnership proposal."

Millie nearly choked on her coffee. "Are you insane?!"

Tytus grinned. "Maybe a little."

"No." She shook her head, crossing her arms. "Absolutely not. That's just... so gross. That man is old enough to be my father, and frankly, he's been more like one then my non-existent bio dad ever was."

Tytus chuckled. "I'm not asking you to sleep with him, princess. Just... play the game. Like it or not, he sees you as a woman now. Lean in when he talks, laugh at his dumb jokes, maybe―" He made a vague gesture. "Give him a light touch on the arm."

Millie visibly cringed. "I feel violated just hearing this."

Tytus sighed, pushing off the counter and walking toward her. "Look, I get it. It's gross. But Bob is an ego-driven idiot. You think he'd ever expect you to be the one setting him up?"

Millie stared at him, biting the inside of her cheek.

She hated this. Every part of her screamed against it.

But...

If she pulled this off, if they got a hold of something really damning, he'd be gone.

No more obstacles. No more fights.

Just freedom. Freedom to be with Markus. Sing with him, dance with him, and...

Tytus must have seen the shift in her expression, because he smirked. "You're considering it."

Millie groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Tytus said, way too pleased with himself. "You love that I'm a genius."

Millie sighed deeply. He was a genius. A hot, Black genius of a man. She bit her lip.

"... Fine. I'll do it."

Tytus clinked his whiskey glass against her coffee cup. "Atta girl."

"Ready to go, kid?" Bob asked, reaching a hand out to Millie. She sighed, her nose wrinkling slightly as she grasped his meaty paw and allowed herself to be pulled from her seat.

Millie stepped out of the black luxury car, her heels clicking against the marble driveway of The Hermitage Hotel, one of Nashville's most exclusive venues.

She hated these events.

The endless small talk, the fake smiles, the overpriced champagne―it was all so painfully boring. She had spent most of her career avoiding these kinds of gatherings, letting her mother and Bob handle the schmoozing while she focused on actually making music.

But this time?

This time, she had a mission.

She smoothed her hand over the silky black fabric of her dress, the plunging neckline just bold enough to catch attention but still on-brand for her girl-next-door appeal. Tytus had told her to dress strategically, to keep Bob distracted. It was certainly working. The dressed-up producer had barely taken his eyes off her cleavage the whole ride over while she forced herself to laugh at his outdated jokes.

She hated that she was playing this game.

But if it got Bob out of her way?

She was willing to play dirty.

The concourse was decorated lavishly, illuminated with soft, glowing lights and decorated with floral arrangements that probably cost more than a college tuition. A crowd of mostly executives, music producers, and a sprinkling of celebrities from all over Nashville filled the space, sipping champagne and trading gossip like it was currency.

Still forced to clutch Bob's arm, Millie scanned the crowd until she spotted Tytus.

He stood near the bar, effortlessly cool in a tailored black suit, a whiskey glass in hand as he spoke with a small group of industry execs, with Susan right by his side. She was a mousy Black girl only a few years older than Millie, her dark hair in tight ringlets, wearing a sleek, silver satin gown.

As Bob deposited Millie beside them to take a trip to the bar, Susan was laughing at one of Tytus' jokes, playfully swatting at his arm. Lucky bitch, Millie fumed.

Then Tytus walked over by Bob to get a refresher on his glass, forcing Millie to plaster a smile on her face as Susan turned to gush at her.

"I just have to say, you're still one of my all-time favorites," Susan said, letting her inner fangirl show. "But is it true that you plan to partner up with Markus Khan Kwaest?"

"Yeah, I do," Millie said defensively.

"Right on, girl!" Susan squealed, surprising Millie. "The two of you would be fire together."

"Well, thanks," Millie smiled. "Maybe I can sneak you in when we do a recording?"

"Ohmigod, yes!" Susan giggled.

In short order, Millie found herself chatting exclusively with Susan, and the two wandered closer to the exhibits, taking in the history and drama of Black performers from decades passed. In a quiet moment, Millie noticed Susan's energy shift as she prepared to ask a more somber question, and Millie wondered what was on her mind.

"Okay, real talk," Susan said, pointing her champagne flute at a glossy black-and-white photo of Chuck Berry mid-guitar solo. "How wild is it that white guys basically stole rock and roll, turned it into 'classic American music,' and now nobody talks about where it actually came from?"

Millie choked on her drink. "Damn, we're really just jumping into this, huh? That your idea of an ice breaker with a new white friend?"

Susan grinned. "You seem like you can handle it."

Millie laughed despite herself. "I mean... yeah, I guess I knew that, but when you see it like this?" She gestured around at the exhibits, at the legends staring back at them from the walls―Little Richard, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, The Supremes, James Brown. "It makes you feel kinda... I don't know. Guilty?"

Susan gave her a look. "White guilt? Cute."

A memory of her in the alley flashed through Millie's mind and she groaned. "Ugh, I mean yeah, a little. You think that sounds awful?"

"Nah, white guilt is real―or should be," Susan shrugged. "I get it. It's weird realizing how much the music industry has been built off Black talent while pushing actual Black artists to the side. But, hey, better late than never, right?"

Millie glanced over at a display about Motown and bit her lip. "Yeah. That's kinda why I want to work with Markus."

Susan nudged her playfully. "Look at you, having a moral awakening at a gala."

Millie rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, make fun of me."

Susan smirked. "Oh, I will. But seriously, that's dope. Just promise me one thing?"

"What?"

Susan gave her a knowing look. "If you're gonna do this, do it right. No fake activism. No 'look how progressive I am' branding crap. If you're in, be all the way in."

Millie held her gaze for a long moment before nodding, still thinking about her service to those Black men.

"I'm in."

Susan studied her, then finally grinned and clinked her glass against Millie's.

"Alright, pop princess. I'll be watching your moves, so let's see what you got."

Millie smirked, taking a sip of her champagne.

The pair continued chatting about music, Markus, and other mutual interests. Much to her chagrin, Millie decided that Susan wasn't so bad after all. Even more, her validation from Susan made her feel even more sure that she was making the right move in partnering up with Markus.

Some time later, Millie caught sight of Bob staggering toward her, pausing to chat when he noticed a familiar face. Even from across the room, Millie could tell he was already drunk.

His face was red, his tie was slightly loosened, and he was gesturing too wildly as he spoke, his drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

Millie took a slow breath, straightened her shoulders, and headed toward him. This was Bob, drunk and unfiltered.

"―and I told the guy," Bob was saying loudly as Millie approached, "you think you're gonna get radio play with that garbage? Please. Back in my day, you had to actually have talent to sell records."

The men around him chuckled, some nodding, others clearly just entertaining his rant. But then Bob's phone buzzed, and Millie saw some of the color drain from his cheeks as he looked over a message.

Millie's first thought was of Helen. What if someone had just alerted Bob to her presence?

Millie glanced at Tytus, who had just caught sight of Bob's reaction. His expression said, "Just keep going."

So, Millie took a breath, tucked a loose blonde curl behind her ear, and stepped closer, resisting the urge to shudder.

Whatever was on Bob's phone, Millie needed to keep him here and distracted. Time to up her flirting game.

Millie approached Bob with a sultry sway to her hips, her eyes shimmering with a forced warmth. "Hey, Bob," she said sweetly, her voice a coy purr. "You ever coming back for me, or are you too busy getting slammed to give a girl some attention?"

Bob's face colored again as he made eye contact with her, a reddish-purple blooming across his cheeks. His mind seemed to stall as he looked from her to his phone and back again, but he eventually made up his mind and put the phone away.

"You've gotten bolder, Millie, I'll give you that," Bob said, giving her an arm to hold once again. His voiced dropped to a whisper. "You're trying to play me―keep me here, aren't you?"

"I learned from the best how to get what I want," Millie said, still worried about Bob's reaction.

She had to keep enticing him, or he'd find some excuse to pull away.

"Besides," she added, winking at him seductively. "I know you're enjoying it."

Bob's grin widened, revealing a gold tooth. "Flatterer. I always knew you had the talent, kiddo." He leaned closer, his breath reeking of whiskey. "You know, if you're really looking to spice things up, I might just have the right connections for you. Something better than Markus."

"Oh?" Millie played along, placing her free hand on his arm, feeling her skin crawl just from touching him like this. "I'd love to hear more about that."

Bob's eyes lit up, and his hand slid down to her waist, his thumb brushing against the bare skin of her back. "Why don't we go somewhere quieter?" He suggested, his voice thick with innuendo. "Where we can talk business without any distractions."

Somehow she managed to keep her smile in place. Think of Markus. Think of Markus. "Lead the way, Bob."

Tytus gave her a discreet nod as she allowed Bob to escort her out of the ballroom and into a dimly lit corridor for the venue staff, where the music and chatter of the guests was somewhat muffled. Even here, the walls were filled with retired exhibits from the museum, more depictions of bygone Black musicians and their contributions to music.

In other circumstances, Millie would have paused to appreciate these ones as she had earlier with Susan, but she was too worried about how this next part would play out. She trusted Tytus would be watching from a distance, waiting for the perfect moment to slip out his phone and record their conversation, or step in if Bob lost his cool.

As soon as he felt they were alone, Bob turned on Millie, dropping her arm. "Let's see, you're either here because you're hoping to cover up your little discrepancy yesterday," Bob sneered, his sudden menace catching Millie by suprise. "Or you're here because you really are a slut looking to get in good with her boss."

Millie stumbled backward, up against the cold wall. "Wh―what are you talking about?"

Bob leaned against the wall, his body pressing into hers, his hand moving to cup her cheek. "You know, I always knew you'd come around to me. It's my natural charisma." His voice was a slurred whisper, his gaze lecherous. "Maybe you could do a little something for me, and I'll make sure you get whatever you want."

Millie felt sick, but she leaned into his touch, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "Stop it, Bob. This is too far, even for you."

"Too far? Don't tell me about what's too far!" Bob yanked out his phone, quickly pulling up a video before turning it to show Millie.

To her surprise, it was the video from the rally, the one where she had been used so thoroughly by the Black protestors. She instantly felt heat in her cheeks that had nothing to do with Bob confronting her. The way those Black men had talked to her, the way they had used her, had left a mark deeper than she had realized. And now, here it was, a visual representation of her submission, for the whole world to see.

Her heart raced as she watched the video, her cheeks flaming.

The sounds of the alley echoed through her mind even as they echoed through the hallway, reminding Millie of the feeling of cum splattering on her face, the taste of it in her mouth, the way those Black men had made her feel so wanted and dirty.

But the video was grainy and dark, both hers and the men's faces obscured by shadows and the hat and sunglasses she wore.

It could have been anyone, really. But she knew it was her, and so did Bob now. Did someone send it to Bob? But who, and how?

"You're a hot commodity now, aren't you?" Bob's grin was malicious. "Imagine my surprise when our IT guy notified me of this? Sweet little Millie on her knees, sucking off some Black thugs. Oh sure, you wore a hat and sunglasses, but I know it was really you."

"Bob, please," she whispered, pushing at his chest. "You can't do this to me."

"Why not? You're obviously into it," Bob leaned closer, his mouth hovering over hers. "You want this to go away, I can do that, get the video pulled and have IT run a bot to promote the idea of it being a deepfake, but in return, you gotta put out, sweetheart."

Millie couldn't believe how low Bob really was. "You're disgusting."

"Not as disgusting as you debasing yourself like a street hooker. You did that on your own," he murmured, his eyes dropping to her chest. "So, come on, what do you say? Just a little taste."

It was all she could do not to push him away. Was this the same Bob―the real Bob who had catapulted her to fame? But she knew this was the moment. This was it. The slip-up they needed.

"Fuck off!" Millie shouted. "Don't touch me!"

It was like throwing gasoline on a bonfire.

In an instant, his demeanor changed. The leer on his face grew more intense, and his hand that had been loitering at her waistline slammed into her back, pushing her into him. His mouth crushed hers in a sloppy, aggressive kiss that reeked of alcohol. Millie's stomach churned. Bob's hands grew more insistent, his palms sliding down to her ass, squeezing roughly. But every touch was a violation, a reminder of why she needed him gone.

It was then that she made a decision.

She hated white men.

They were pathetic. Disgusting. Soft, squishy, and greedy, like overripe fruit that had begun to rot from the inside out.

They didn't know how to handle a woman―they thought a pretty face and a tight body made them fair game for this kind of attention, that they didn't need to consider the woman at all.

Black men, though...

Black men like Tytus and Markus.

They were different.

Strong, confident, demanding―and yet somehow gentle, too. They knew what they wanted, and they didn't need to force it. They didn't need to manipulate or coerce. They just knew how to take control.

How to make a woman beg for it.

But this was different, this was forced. She wanted none of it. Especially here, surrounded by the legends of Black culture while this racist white man tried to assault her, the same man who wanted to block the next generation of Black talent from achieving greatness. It was practically sacrilege.

Millie mustered the strength to shove Bob off of her, but that only made him more angry and insistent. His hand moved to her neck, squeezing slightly, his breath hot and heavy on her face. "You're mine, you little slut," he murmured, his eyes glazed with lust. "Or else you can kiss your career goodbye!"

Millie's eyes flashed with anger. She couldn't stand it any longer.

"Actually," Tytus' smirking voice came from the shadows. "It looks to me like you're ours, Mr. Harrison." Millie's Black savior stepped out into the dim light, phone in hand.

Bob's eyes bulged as he saw the evidence of his own depravity, captured in high definition. The hand around her neck loosened, and Millie gasped for air, shoving him away.

"You cocky, Black bastard," Bob shouted. "You're gonna regret crossing me this time!"

With a roar, Bob swung at Tytus, fist flying through the air. But Tytus was too fast. He side-stepped the blow with the grace of a panther, leaving Bob's fist to connect with nothing but empty space. Off-balance, the older man stumbled and slammed into the wall with a loud thud, his eyes rolling back in his head before he crumpled to the floor.

Panic flooded Millie. "Is he okay?"

Tytus stepped over him, kneeling down to check him over. "Oh, he's fine," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Just had a little run-in with reality. He'll be out cold for a bit, but no permanent damage."

Millie took a tentative step toward Bob's prone form, then stopped. "Shouldn't we... call someone?"

Tytus waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, he could've had far worse. Besides," he winked at her, "it's not like anyone's going to miss him."

The weight of what had just happened settled heavily on her shoulders. She hoped it really was over. With Tytus' video and the threat of an audit, surely Bob would have no choice but to step down now.

But as she stood there shaking, catching her breath, Tytus waved her over, hunging her sweetly until the shaking finally stopped.

When it did, he signaled that it was time to go.

"Wait," Millie said, looking guilty. "Bob had a video of me from the rally on his phone."

"The one sent to him by IT?" Tytus asked. "Relax, I've got you."

He reached down and pulled Bob's phone from him, then promptly smashed it on the ground under his heel.

"Don't worry, I'll handle IT and get that vid pulled or discredited," Tytus whispered as they left the corridor and returned to the street outside the venue. "When Bob wakes up, he won't remember a damn thing about it or what happened here."

Millie arched a brow. She doubted even Tytus and the modern wonders of corporate PR could completely erase the video and the rumors it would generate, but she trusted him at his word that he would handle the matter. She was still worried about Bob though. "You really think he won't remember this?"

"Yeah, Bob gets into a lot of stuff at these parties, the alcohol being the least of it," Tytus said, his voice smooth as velvet. Millie wondered what they had been doing while she was busy with Susan. "I guarantee, by the time he comes to, he'll have no recollection of this little encounter. He won't be able to tell anyone his version of events―because in his mind, it never happened. All he'll ever see is a video of him sexually assaulting you."

The implications of this were huge. If Bob was unable to explain the incriminating video, he'd have no defense, no way to claim it was staged or any other bogus excuse. Millie smiled. The white asshole deserved to burn.

The night air was cool and crisp, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the gala still pulsing inside the grand concourse of the National Museum of African American Music. Millie stood by the road near the valet station, arms crossed, shifting slightly in her heels as she waited.

Tytus and Susan were beside her, him looking as effortlessly smooth as ever in his tailored black suit, sipping from a glass of whiskey he had somehow managed to smuggle outside, while Susan doted on his arm. Millie felt her jealousy flare just a bit, wishing she could do the same, but she didn't want to feed the tabloids with any new material.

Once Susan had caught a taxi, Millie slid beside Tytus conspiratorially.

"You sure she's coming?" Millie asked, glancing back toward the museum entrance.

Tytus smirked. "I've learned that Helen's a lot of things, princess, but unreliable ain't one of them."

Millie couldn't remember when he had started calling her 'princess', but for some reason she liked it. Sure enough, just after he said it, a white audi pulled up alongside them with Helen in the driver's seat.

Helen stepped out, her heels clicking against the marble as she quickly made her way over to them. Her expression was calm, composed―but her eyes?

Her eyes were alight with something sharp and victorious.

Millie recognized that look. It was the same look she'd had when she won Next Pop Idol.

Helen barely slowed her pace before she reached them, slipping a flash drive into Tytus' waiting hand. "Got it," she said smoothly.

Millie's brows lifted. "That was fast."

Helen smirked. "You don't rise in this industry without knowing your way around bad office password habits."

Tytus turned the drive over in his fingers, grinning. "You got all of the files on here?"

Helen nodded. "Everything. The off-the-books transactions, dummy accounts, padded invoices, falsified budget reports. He's been siphoning money for years, long before you rose to stardom, Millie―probably assuming no one would ever call him on it." She crossed her arms. "Arrogant bastard didn't even try hard to cover his tracks."

The three of them entered the audi, with Tytus as the driver. As they left the gala behind, Helen placed a hand seductively on Tytus' thigh, causing Millie to blush.

Millie finally let out a slow breath. "So that's it, then. We have him."

Tytus' smirk deepened. "Oh, we more than have him. He can bury him." He pocketed the flash drive, then turned to Millie with a wicked glint in his eyes. "Between this and the video of him trying to grope you like a desperate creep? Bob's about to take the fastest exit out of White Hot Pop in history."

Millie shuddered at the reminder of what she'd had to do at the gala―playing nice, letting Bob think she was interested, letting his disgusting hands linger just long enough for the camera to catch it.

But it had been worth it.

Because now?

Now he was finished.

Helen exhaled, adjusting the cuff of her blazer. "I'll start leaking whispers to the board. Let them panic about an audit before we drop the hammer."

Tytus clapped her on the back. "I knew I kept you around for a reason."

Helen smirked. "Please. You just like that I'm better at this than you."

Millie rolled her eyes, but she couldn't help but grin.

Millie slammed the front door shut behind her, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

She had done what she'd had to, but now that the adrenaline was coming down, she couldn't stop feeling Bob's mouth on her, or his hands on her ass. She'd never felt so gross.

"Millie?" Trisha called to her as she slid down the stairs and into the foyer in her bathrobe. "Is everything alright?"

A bath. That's what she needed. And then―maybe some time on her computer, while she listened to one of Markus' albums...

"Yeah, I'm okay, mom," Millie sighed. "Just need to take a bath. Thanks for the idea."

Millie stormed up the stairs, but stopped just outside her mother's room. There was music coming from her bathroom that she recognized. It was Markus singing Gold Digger, one of the same songs her mother had listened to with Millie on the way to the rally:

"Hoe give me money, so I ain't sayin' she a gold digger.

When she's needy, whitegirl ain't messin' with no broke niggas."

"You gotta leave, get down girl, give head, get down.

I gotta leave, slide down girl, go 'head, sit down."

"I hope you don't mind," Trisha said from behind her, looking a bit embarrassed. "I actually really liked his music the other day, so I started listening to it more."

"Oh, actually, that's great mom!" Millie couldn't believe it. Where had her mother gone? But she wasn't going to question it, not when she desperately needed to relax herself. "Let me know if you want to borrow my record player, I've got some great tracks of his on their too."

"I'd love to!" Trisha said, a bit too enthusiastically. But Millie was already darting into her bedroom and locking the door.

Yanking off her dress like it burned her skin, Millie sprinted into the bathroom and turned the shower handle to scalding, stepping under the spray and scrubbing herself raw.

But it didn't matter.

No matter how much she washed, she still felt dirty.

Not because of what she had done.

Because of how easily she had done it.

Because deep down, a small, wicked part of her had enjoyed it―not the act itself, that was still gross to her since Bob was white and old, but because of the power and the attention.

For years, Bob had controlled her. Made her feel small. Treated her like a product, not a person.

But tonight?

She had controlled him.

And now, he was about to lose everything.

Even so, as she wrapped a towel around herself and and sat at her computer, the shame lingered.

She had let Bob touch her. Had let his greedy, clammy hands graze her lower back, had let his leering eyes scan her up and down while she smiled, while she laughed at his jokes, while she played along.

And all the while, she had wanted to scream.

She should have known.

She should have always known.

Because when had a white man in her life ever not disappointed her?

Her father had left before she was even old enough to remember his face. One day, he was there―kissing her mother on the cheek, holding baby Millie in his arms―and the next? Gone. No explanation, no goodbyes. Just a ghost of a man who never looked back.

Then, there was Ryan, the boy she had almost dated before he betrayed her. The one she had trusted, the one she had thought was different―until she found out he had only been cozying up to her so he could leak private details to the press for his own gain.

She had written "Boys Ain't Shit" about him.

And now?

Now there was Bob.

Bob, the one white man who had actually seemed like he wanted to help her. Who had built her up, shaped her career, helped her climb to the top―except it was never about her.

It was about him.

He had used her talent. He had capitalized on her success. He had stolen from her earnings. And now, when his power was slipping, when his ego was crumbling and he thought he had one over her―he had tried to feel her up like a desperate old pervert.

He was a pig.

And so had been every other white man in her life.

But when she thought about Tytus?

Or Markus?

The contrast was staggering.

Tytus was smooth, powerful, in control―but he had never once tried to stand in her way. Never tried to own her like Bob had. He saw her as an equal, a player in the game―not a pawn.

And Markus?

Markus, despite all his controversy, despite his wild reputation, had been nothing but suave, supportive, and respectful since the moment she met him. She couldn't wait to get to know him more, to see more of the Black man that he was.

Bob, her father, Ryan―they weren't real men.

They were boys, pretending to be men.

Millie lifted her chin, eyes narrowing as she stared at herself in the reflection off the computer screen. She booted up the laptop, quickly pulling up tab after tab of interracial porn. She wanted to fill her mind with Black cocks. She wanted to forget all about whiteboys.

She was done with them.

For good.

As moans emanated from her screen and Markus crooned in the background, the thought of Markus' firm, capable hands on her made Millie shiver, erasing the feel of Bob's sausage fingers clawing at her.

She let the mental image of Markus' dark chocolate skin against hers consume her, imagining his powerful body holding her down, his deep voice whispering sweet, dirty nothings into her ear. It was exactly what she needed to forget about the shame. Thinking about nothing other than Black cocks set her free.

Over the next few days, Tytus worked fast.

The incriminating video? Devastating.

Bob, clearly wasted, throwing himself at his own artist? His voice slurred, desperate, inappropriate?

It was the kind of scandal that ended careers.

And Tytus knew exactly how to wield it.

By the time Bob even realized what was happening, it was too late.

Under immense pressure from the board, he had no choice but to resign quietly―no statements, no farewell tour, just a pathetic, hushed exit from the company he had once ruled. To his credit as a former media mogul, Bob had at least managed to keep out of jail with a few million to enjoy his "retirement".

And when the dust settled?

Tytus Jones was sitting at the head of the table as the new lead producer of White Hot Pop.

Millie's path was clear.

No more Bob. No more roadblocks.

The future was hers to take, and that meant taking on Markus as her partner. Tytus had already made the calls, but they still needed to make it official.

Millie sat at the executive boardroom table wearing her latest look: a long-sleeved, solid black spandex-blend shirt with a plunging neckline that perfectly hugged her every curve, the words "White Ally" in bold, white lettering separated by the cleft between her boobs. Her lower half was in a pleated, knee-length schoolgirl skirt―no leggings this time, and a pair of faux leather Chelsea boots. Millie tried to keep her expression neutral as the murmurs of confusion rippled through the room, though only partially because of her outfit.

Bob's absence had not gone unnoticed.

Half the executives looked bewildered, ogling Millie's displayed assets shamelessly, while the other half checked their phones and emails, flipping through messages as if trying to confirm what they were witnessing―a meeting without Bob Harrison at the helm.

At the head of the table, looking as cool and in control as ever, Tytus Jones leaned back in Bob's old chair, fingers tapping idly against the polished wood as he waited for the realization to settle in.

At last, Tytus smirked, spreading his hands in an easy, effortless gesture. "As you all know by now, Bob resigned earlier this week," he said casually. "Effective immediately. I'm in charge now."

Millie watched as the executives glanced at each other, whispering, some looking genuinely stunned while others simply looked cautious.

Bob had been a fixture in the company for years―way too long, in Millie's opinion. So it was only natural that his sudden departure would catch them off guard, especially given the lack of an official announcement. Helen, seated beside Millie, took control before the confusion could spiral further.

"I know this is unexpected," she said smoothly, sitting up straighter. "But let's be honest―this company has been in desperate need of fresh leadership for a long time." She gestured toward Tytus. "And now we have it. We're all in good hands here, people."

Tytus smiled at her―just a hint of something private passing between them―before turning back to the room. "Bob made his choice," he said simply. "And the board approved mine."

A few more exchanged whispers, a couple of careful nods, but no one objected outright.

And then―

The door swung open.

The room fell silent.

Millie's breath hitched.

Because standing in the doorway, in all his towering, broad-shouldered, effortlessly magnetic glory, was Markus Khan Kwaest.

His presence was commanding, his deep brown eyes scanning the room, taking in the stunned faces of the executives with the kind of calm, knowing amusement that said he was fully aware of the effect he had on people.

He stepped inside, his movements fluid, powerful, dressed in a fitted black jacket over a simple white tee, chains glinting against his skin, exuding the kind of natural confidence that didn't need to be forced.

Millie forgot how to breathe.

She had spent weeks thinking about him, fantasizing about him, convincing her post-orgasmic self that this was just business―that working with Markus was just about her career, her growth, her future.

But now? She realized she was utterly lying to herself.

With him standing right there, she realized she had forgotten just how hot he really was. Her pussy instantly hummed to life like an inferno between her legs.

Jesus, did she need him bad.

Her stomach tightened, her pulse pounded in her ears.

This man was dangerous, but oh so exciting.

Meanwhile, the executives sat frozen in their seats, too stunned to speak, the energy in the room completely shifted.

"Hi, Markus here," he smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Damn. Y'all act like you've never heard of me or something."

"Nah, they just a little shell-shocked right now," Tytus chuckled, completely unfazed. "You're right on time, bro."

The Black men tapped fists before Markus took the empty seat by Millie, instantly upping her temperature a few degrees. He glanced at the lettering on her shirt before nodding in approval.

"We're moving forward on this partnership," Tytus announced, his voice clear, authoritative. "A full album―Millie and Markus, front and center."

The reaction was instant.

A few executives looked stunned, some hesitant, but none of them spoke up. The majority simply clapped in approval.

Because this wasn't a discussion anymore.

This was happening.

Markus didn't bother looking at them―his attention remained on Millie.

And then―

He reached for her hand.

Millie's breath caught in her throat as his large, warm fingers wrapped around hers, his touch effortless, commanding, his grip firm but not forceful.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted their joined hands into the air, as if presenting her to the entire damn room.

Millie felt her entire body melt into pure, blissful submission.

Oh. Oh God, yes!

A slow, knowing smirk tugged at Markus' lips as if he could feel exactly what he was doing to her.

The boardroom roared in approval now, the energy undeniable.

Millie wasn't just in a business deal with Markus. She was in his world now―in his capable, Black hands.