Whitegirls Like You Ch 01

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 A handful of executives in tailored suits and too-tight smiles, discussing her future like she was some outdated product on a shelf that needed repackaging.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.

Bob cleared his throat. "Uh, well, yes, Tytus. I was just getting to that―"

"No, you weren't," Tytus cut in smoothly. "And we both know you don't have the vision for this." His eyes locked onto Millie's. "But I do."

Millie stared at him, her heart beating a little faster, her fingers tightening into a fist against her lap. Tytus had been here less than a month and already he was dominating these board meetings. But working with someone like Markus?

She wasn't sure if she was actually intrigued―or if she hated that she might be.

Tytus took his time before speaking, letting the weight of the moment settle. Then, with a smooth, measured voice, he said, "A few months ago, back when I was still with BNWO in L.A., Markus Khan Kwaest mentioned he was open to a joint project. He wasn't specific, just said he was looking for the right collaboration―something big, something unexpected."

Millie noticed the way Bob's jaw clenched, his face quickly turning the shade of an overripe tomato. She turned her gaze to the other executives, most of whom looked similarly appalled, except for Helen, who gave her a pained but sympathetic smile. Most were stuffy old white men in pressed suits, all of whom had been running White Hot Pop like it was still 2005, utterly clueless about what was actually happening in music.

And that―more than anything―made her interested.

She fought back a smirk, letting her gaze drift back to Tytus. "BNWO Label's been making waves lately," she mused. "People actually respect them."

A few of the executives softened their expressions. At least Millie still had

some

sway over them.

Tytus nodded, his expression unreadable. "That's why

White Hot Pop

brought me over. Because I know what's moving the industry right now."

Bob scoffed, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "Markus Khan Kwaest?

Really?

You're talking about a rapper who's constantly in the headlines for all the wrong reasons. You want to throw Millie in with that?"

"That," Tytus countered, "is exactly

why

it would work. It's unexpected, it's high-impact, and it'd prove that Millie isn't some washed-up teen idol―she's an artist who can evolve."

Millie sat up a little straighter, pretending to consider it, but the truth was, she had already made up her mind. The horrified looks on the faces of Bob and the rest of the old farts were almost worth it alone.

She tilted her head, letting a slow, knowing smile creep onto her lips.

"You know what?" she said, deliberately dragging out her words. "I think I like where this idea is going. Let's dig into it a bit and see what we think. If it doesn't pan out, then fine, I'll go for an edgier look and sound. Fair?"

Bob groaned audibly, while Helen pinched the bridge of her nose like she was fighting off a migraine. Even so, they all nodded in agreement before ending the meeting.

Tytus grinned before joining Millie on her way out of the room, and for the first time, Millie felt like maybe―just maybe―she was about to shake things up in exactly the right way.

Millie sat in the back of her car, staring blankly out the tinted window as the Nashville skyline blurred past. She was supposed to be heading home after that circus of a meeting, but her mind was elsewhere.

Markus Khan Kwaest.

The name alone had sent ripples through the music industry. He was everywhere―on podcasts, in clubs, on magazine covers. A superstar. A controversy magnet. A walking, talking headline. And now, possibly, her next collaborator.

Most of her team would likely have a collective heart attack if she went through with this. Markus wasn't safe. He wasn't predictable, he wasn't market-tested for a 'clean pop princess' like her. He was the opposite of everything she had been built to represent.

And yet...

Millie couldn't deny his pull.

Markus had started out as the host of the

Doggin' Duties

podcast, where he would sometimes perform, rapping and singing his early lyrics for his podcast audience. Then a year ago, he had exploded onto the scene with two platinum albums back-to-back, something almost unheard of for a newcomer. His music was raw, intoxicating―a mix of old-school grit and modern, high-energy production. Girls loved him. Maybe it was the deep, rumbling voice, or the cocky, unapologetic attitude, or how he oozed dominance in a way that made them weak in the knees.

Especially girls like her.

Millie wasn't blind to it. She had seen it firsthand. College-aged white girls adored Markus. It was a trend―one she'd even joked about with friends. Big, brash, tattooed black rapper with a reputation for trouble? They ate it up.

And Markus knew it, too. Some might call that arrogance, but Millie respected it as the confidence of a born performer.

He flaunted his appeal, parading around in expensive designer clothes, always surrounded by a fresh batch of wide-eyed, brainless Instagram models. He had a type. White, blonde, and disposable. There was a revolving door of them―airhead influencers, wannabe actresses, even a few married supermodels who should've known better.

Millie had heard the rumors. The drugs, the wild parties, the misogynistic lyrics that had feminists screaming for his cancellation. The whispers of gang affiliations, old former friends who weren't so 'former' after all. He wasn't just a bad boy―he was dangerous.

Or at least, that's what the headlines made him out to be.

But here's the thing: controversy hadn't slowed him down. If anything, it had made him bigger.

Millie smirked to herself. Her team was worried about her losing relevance? Markus had exactly what she needed―buzz, impact, a new audience that still listened to her old songs but wouldn't be caught dead admitting it.

Teaming up with him would be a massive risk.

It would also be the smartest damn thing she could do.

"Can you pull over for a minute?" Millie asked her driver. "I need to make a call."

She quickly slipped her phone out of her purse and rang Tytus. "Hey, you got time we could meet up? I

really

need to talk this through."

Tytus' smooth voice answered, "For you?

Absolutely

."

Millie drummed her fingers against her phone, staring at Tytus across the table at the dimly lit cafe where they had arranged to meet up. She was still thinking about Markus Khan Kwaest, about everything she knew―and didn't know―about him. Tytus could fill in those blanks. He had already pitched her again on the idea, unfiltered with his concepts now that the other execs weren't around. Millie was polite enough to hear him out before getting to what she really called him about.

"Alright," she finally said, leaning in slightly. "I'm not saying yes to this. Not yet."

Tytus smirked, swirling the last of his whiskey in his glass. "Oh? I thought you liked the idea."

"I like that it makes Bob and the other fossils want to throw themselves out a window," she admitted. "But if I'm gonna make a move this big, I need to know

exactly

what I'm getting into."

Tytus arched an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Millie said, locking eyes with him, "I want to see him live first. No interviews, no PR spin―just him on stage, doing his thing. I need to feel the energy, see the crowd, figure out if this is something I can actually work with."

Tytus nodded slowly, clearly impressed. "Smart." He set his drink down and pulled out his phone. "You're in luck, princess. Markus has a sold-out show at the Crypto.com Arena in L.A. next Friday."

Millie sat up straighter. "Can you get me in?"

Tytus gave her a look. "You're talking to the man who just came from BNWO Label. Of course I can get you in." His fingers moved quickly over his screen as he sent a few discreet messages. Within minutes, he glanced back up, smirking. "Done. VIP treatment, backstage access. All set."

Millie exhaled, barely able to contain the rush of anticipation. "Good. Then book me a flight―I'll be in L.A. next week."

"I'll book it for two. You'll want me there with you, trust me." Tytus lifted his wine glass. "To bold decisions."

Millie clinked her still non-alcoholic drink against his, a sly smile creeping onto her lips.

She had no idea what she kind of scene she was about to step into―but she couldn't wait to find out.