Chapter 1 - Black Partnership
The tinted glass doors of the
White Hot Pop
records company swung open as Millie Lucas stepped inside, her designer sneakers barely making a sound on the polished marble floor. The sleek, modern lobby gleamed under the artificial glow of recessed lighting, the entire place smelling faintly of expensive coffee and fresh printer paper. Amber, the receptionist with impossibly white teeth, flashed her a smile. Millie normally tolerated the wannabe influencer but today she had no patience for Amber's insipid chit-chat.
"Good morning, Miss Lucas," Amber chirped, but Millie barely heard her, making a beeline for the elevator.
She just wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. Once again she was here for a meeting―another pointless, time-sucking discussion about her career in which she'd have the least important opinion in the room.
The elevator ride to the executive floor felt like the slow march of inevitability. The walls felt too close, the air too still. It was always like this. A handful of executives in tailored suits and too-tight smiles, discussing her future like she was some outdated product on a shelf that needed repackaging.
She knew exactly how it would go.
"We need to
evolve
the brand, Millie."
"You're
aging out
of your demographic, sweetheart."
"Let's talk about
longevity
."
She exhaled sharply through her nose as the doors slid open.
Tytus Jones was already waiting outside the conference room, leaning casually against the wall like he owned the place. The black man had taken to waiting for Millie's arrival before entering the room, like he was her own private escort or something. He had this air about him―sharp-dressed but relaxed, someone who always knew more than he let on. His eyes flicked over her as she approached.
"Right on time," he said smoothly.
She rolled her eyes. "Lucky me."
Inside, the long glass table was already surrounded by a handful of executives from her management team, their voices a low hum of discussion that quieted the moment she entered.
She took her seat, crossing her arms as she met their expectant gazes.
"Alright," she said, forcing a tight-lipped smile. "Tell me what I'm doing next."
A few of them chuckled, as if she'd made a joke. She hadn't.
Tytus slid into the seat next to her and leaned in slightly. His voice was low, almost conspiratorial. "Why don't we discuss
who
you could be next?"
Something about the way he said it sent a chill down her spine. Millie
was
Millie, that was part of her charm. Why were people always suggesting she become somebody else?
She slumped back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, as Bob Harrison―her longtime promoter and lead manager―wheezed his way into the room. His gut strained against the buttons of his checkered blazer, his comb-over fighting a losing battle against the harsh overhead lighting. He wiped a bead of sweat from his ruddy forehead with a crumpled napkin before slapping a stack of papers onto the glass table.
"Alright, alright, let's get down to business," he grumbled, plopping into his seat. The leather groaned in protest.
Millie watched with thinly veiled impatience as Bob fumbled with his reading glasses, squinting at his notes like a man trying to decipher ancient scripture. It was painfully obvious that he was out of his depth. He didn't understand her. He never really had. But he had been the man with the right connections at the right time to launch her career. Now though...
"So," he started, clearing his throat. "We all know Millie here has had one hell of a career the past four years―sold-out tours, number one albums, the whole nine yards." He gestured vaguely in her direction as if she were a product on a shelf rather than a living, breathing person. "But the numbers are... well, they're, uh, shifting."
"Declining," Tytus Jones corrected smoothly from his seat across the table, sipping his espresso like this was all an amusing game to him.
Bob shot him a look before continuing. "Right. Declining. But nothing we can't fix with a good ol'―uh―refresh, huh?"
Millie sighed, staring at the ceiling. Here we go.
Bob leaned forward, the movement causing his stomach to press awkwardly against the table's edge. "Now, back in the day, what worked? The sweet, innocent girl-next-door thing. The catchy anthems, a little bit of attitude but not too much, real clean, real wholesome."
Millie felt herself stiffen. She knew where this was going.
"But now, well... you're a woman." His gaze flicked briefly―but not too briefly―to her body before he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "And, uh, that means we need to... lean into that a little more."
There was an awkward silence.
Millie's jaw clenched. "Lean into what exactly, Bob?"
Bob opened his mouth, closed it again. "Well, you know, more mature... sexier, but, uh, still classy! Not too edgy. Just enough to get people talking again."
Millie let out a bitter laugh. He had no idea what he wanted her to be. Even so, Bob was committed to continuing on, only slightly phased.
"...so, we're thinking maybe a shift in sound," Bob wheezed, flipping through his crumpled notes. "A little more rock, you know? Something with more grit. Maybe even―"
"Oh yeah," Millie cut in, deadpan. "Because when people think of Millie Lucas, they definitely think of gritty rock anthems."
Bob blinked, ignoring her sarcasm. "Well, what about a wardrobe change? A little more...uh, provocative? Like I said, we need to lean into your maturity." His eyes darted around the room, looking for support.
Tytus Jones smirked from his seat at the end of the table. The other executives looked uncomfortable.
"I'm not talking anything that would jeopardize your image," Bob said. "Just... give it a little update."
"Right," she said dryly. "So you want me to be 'sexy but not too sexy.' Edgy but still relatable. Feminist but not in a way that makes people uncomfortable. Got it."
Bob chuckled nervously, shuffling his notes like they could somehow save him from this disaster of a meeting. "Look, kid, we just gotta find the right angle. Something that'll bring in the old fans while getting the new ones excited."
"And you think you know what young women are into now?" Millie arched a brow. "Bob, no offense, but you can't even work your own Instagram account."
Tytus smirked, watching Bob flounder. "She's got a point, Harrison. Maybe it's time to let someone with their finger actually on the pulse take the lead."
One of the younger executives, a woman in an expensive blazer named Helen, cleared her throat. "What if we brought in some fresh blood? A feature with one of the hottest new artists on the market. That always boosts engagement."
Millie let out a sharp laugh. "You mean the artists who grew up listening to me? Right, sure. Let me just give them the honor of riding my name while I desperately claw at relevancy." She shook her head. "This is ridiculous."
Bob sighed, rubbing his temples. "Millie, we're
trying
to help you stay relevant."
Millie snapped forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Stay relevant? Bob, I've spent the last four years shaping an entire generation of fans! Every single pop girl out there right now? Guess what―they're all variations of me. And now, because I'm twenty, you're acting like my career is over."
The room fell silent. But Millie wasn't done yet.
"Alright, so let me get this straight," Millie continued, tapping her nails against the table. "I should either suddenly start making guitar-heavy, angst-ridden music or else just show more cleavage? Maybe wiggle my ass? That's the grand plan?"
Bob's face darkened, but before he could respond, Tytus leaned forward, his voice silken and persuasive.
"Which brings me to my suggestion, Millie. You all know I came from BNWO label. What about working with their star, Markus Khan Kwaest?"
The atmosphere in the room shifted. Millie felt it immediately―the sudden tension, the way the executives leaned in slightly, watching for her reaction. She had heard the name thrown around before, but never in a serious conversation about her.
