Whitegirls Like You Ch 03

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Whitegirls Like You

Chapter 3 -- Black Interest

Millie stared out the window of the private jet, watching the clouds shift and swirl beneath them. The steady hum of the engines filled the cabin, but her mind was racing far louder.

She had made her decision.

Now, it was time to make it happen.

Tytus lounged across from her, scrolling through his phone, looking as unbothered as ever. If there was one thing she had learned about him, it was that he never looked stressed―even when he was probably calculating three different power plays at once.

She turned away from the window, straightening in her seat. "I want you to set up a meeting with Markus."

Tytus looked up, eyebrow raised. "Already moving on it."

"Good," she said, adjusting the cuffs of her sweater. "But don't tell Bob or the rest of the team. Not yet."

A slow smirk spread across Tytus's face. "Ah. You're planning a strategic attack."

Millie smirked right back. "Let's call it... controlling the narrative."

He chuckled, locking his phone and giving her his full attention―something she was really enjoying lately. Tytus' charms had been growing on her since the concert.

His warm, brown eyes stared into hers. "Smart. If Bob gets wind of this too soon, he'll throw every roadblock he can to shut it down."

"Exactly," Millie said, uncrossing her legs, her bare left knee "accidentally" resting against Tytus' suit-panted leg. "Helen's going to be the key. If I can get her to see my vision, she can help push it through."

Tytus nodded, tapping his fingers on the armrest―Millie briefly imagined them caressing her thigh instead. "She'll need the right pitch, though. She's old-school, but she's not stupid. If we frame this as growth―as something that'll keep your brand evolving, expanding―we can get her on board."

Millie exhaled, feeling a thrill of satisfaction. This was her plan, her move―not something dictated by Bob, not some forced marketing stunt.

Her eyes flicked back to the clouds outside.

Markus Khan Kwaest.

She was betting big on him. But something in her gut told her...

It was going to pay off. Big time.

Three Days Later.

Millie adjusted her sunglasses as she stepped onto the bustling streets of downtown Nashville, the late morning sun casting warm golden light over the sidewalks. A light breeze carried the scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cafe, mixing with the faint hum of live music drifting from a street performer's guitar.

She had told herself this was just a casual shopping trip―a way to clear her head before the meeting with Helen, and then the inevitable battle with Bob. She couldn't just stay at home anymore, listening to the Markus Khan Kwaest album that Tytus had lent her while she fixated on her new, little obsession...

But as she wandered in and out of boutiques, flipping through racks of designer jackets and knee-high boots, she realized she wasn't really focused on shopping.

Her attention kept drifting.

More specifically, to the people around her.

At first, she didn't think much of it. She had always prided herself on being socially aware, someone who actually cared about the struggles people went through outside of her own privileged bubble. But now, as she walked past coffee shops, street vendors, and bustling sidewalks, she noticed that she was... fixating.

On

Black

men.

She had never not noticed them before―Nashville wasn't exactly a whitewashed town―but now? It was different.

A group of them walked past her outside a sneaker store, laughing over something on one of their phones. One of them―tall, muscular, dressed in an effortlessly cool fit―flashed a grin at his friend, and Millie felt herself staring for just a second too long.

She quickly looked away.

Then there was the barista at the cafe, a deep voice rolling off his tongue as he took an order, a silver ring flashing on his hand as he gestured toward the menu. She followed that flash like a hypnotist's watch for a solid minute before shaking it off.

Or the guy leaning against a streetlight, scrolling through his phone with an easy confidence, his hoodie pulled up just enough to shadow his sharp jawline. She felt a sudden urge to flip the hoodie back and look into his eyes.

Millie swallowed.

This is ridiculous.

It wasn't like she was checking them out. She wasn't suddenly into

Black

guys. That wasn't it.

No, this was about... awareness. Sensitivity. She had just spent time around Markus, she was planning to work closely with him, and even more time around Tytus, so that meant she needed to be more in tune with the struggles of

Black

culture. That's all it was.

Right?

She exhaled sharply, stepping into a high-end boutique to distract herself.

A sales associate immediately rushed over. "Miss Lucas! What a surprise! We're so happy to have you here. Looking for anything special today?"

Millie forced a bright smile. "Just browsing."

As she wandered through the racks, running her fingers over the expensive fabrics, her mind drifted again.

Markus.

She thought about his deep voice and the way his eyes had flicked over her with quiet amusement when they first met.

Her grip tightened on the hanger she was holding. What kind of outfit would he enjoy seeing her in?

No.

This wasn't about that. She was here to find a new style for her brand.

Shaking off the thought, she grabbed a few skirts and dresses off the rack and headed toward the fitting rooms.

She had more important things to focus on than whatever Markus might say.

An hour later and Millie was still feeling unsatisfied with her purchases. There was something missing, something that didn't really feel like the new her. To let off some steam, Millie had strolled into Vinyl Revival, one of the few old-school record shops still surviving in downtown Nashville. The recent vinyl revival had really boomed here in Nashville, and the store carried vinyl versions of the albums coming out from all the hottest performers. The place still smelled like aged paper and nostalgia, the walls lined with posters of both legendary rock icons and modern rap superstars.

She wasn't sure why she had come in.

Okay, that was a lie.

She knew exactly why.

Her fingers skimmed over the rows of vinyl and CDs until she spotted the M section. And there they were―vinyl copies of Markus Khan Kwaest's albums, stacked neatly, their covers bold and striking.

She picked up one, flipping it over to skim the tracklist.

She already had his songs downloaded on her phone―hell, she had spent the last few days humming them unconsciously―but this felt... different.

Tangible. Real.

Better yet, some of the tracklist were different covers of his songs than what was available digitally. And if Millie was about to collaborate with him, she needed to do her research, right? Understand his work fully.

That's all this was. Research.

So, naturally, she bought three copies of each album―one to actually listen to, one for aesthetic purposes, and one in case she misplaced the first two.

Totally logical.

After leaving the record shop, she drifted into Urban Threads, a boutique known for its mix of streetwear and social justice apparel. Very popular with

Black

customers. Not that it mattered to her.

Immediately, a display near the front caught her eye.

A row of hoodies, T-shirts, and jackets―each emblazoned with powerful slogans:

Black Lives Matter.

Reparations.

Black Only.

Black Men Are Real Men.

Millie bit her lip, her fingers brushing over the fabric. Not quite what she was looking for, but she grabbed a couple of T-shirts anyway.

She had always supported these movements, of course. She had donated, spoken about racial justice when it mattered. But now... now she felt hyper-aware. Like she needed to be louder about it.

Like she needed to show it.

Personally.

The next find caught her off guard. It was a white hoodie with stylized black text:

Born To Be Blacked.

Beneath the text was a black spade with a white letter "Q" inside. She wasn't sure what that meant, but the text made her hesitate. It was a little much. Even so, she kept it with her while she searched, justifying that she could wear it at home if nothing else.

After some more effort in searching the back of the store, she found what she had been missing.

Her eyes landed on a sleek black T-shirt with simple white text:

Black Justice. White Guilt.

An image of a raised

Black

fist was emblazoned in the center between the two lines of text. It felt safe. Not too bold, but still making a statement. She grabbed it, hurrying off to make her purchases.

Everything she picked still fit her style―modest, effortless, nothing that clashed with her carefully crafted "girl next door" image. She wasn't about to start dressing in crop tops and bodycon dresses just because she was suddenly more aware of

Black

culture.

And she

definitely

wasn't buying this to get attention from

Black

men.

Obviously

not.

This was about being an

ally.

She paid for her items, feeling oddly satisfied as she left the store, shopping bags swinging at her sides.

She had no idea why her stomach flipped a little at the thought of wearing the hoodie in front of Markus.

No idea at all.

The black SUV pulled up to the sprawling Lucas estate, a modern white mansion nestled among the rolling green hills on the outskirts of Nashville. The house was immaculate, its pristine lawn and carefully manicured hedges looking more like something from a magazine cover than an actual home.

Millie sighed, gripping the handles of her shopping bags a little tighter as she stepped out of the car. Home.

Or, more accurately, her mother's domain.

Before she even reached the front door, it swung open, revealing Trisha Lucas―blonde, buxom, and draped in a satin robe despite it being early evening. She looked like an older, curvier version of Millie―something Trisha prided herself on, much to Millie's chagrin.

"Finally," Trisha huffed, stepping aside so Millie could enter. "I was worried you'd run off to L.A. again permanently and abandoned me."

Millie rolled her eyes, dropping her bags on the foyer floor. Part of why she'd needed to go shopping was because of her mother's return from a trip to Bermuda. She needed her head on straight to deal with the woman. "Nice to see you too, Mom."

Trisha waved a manicured hand dismissively. "Well? How was the trip? Any exciting news?"

Millie paused for half a second before forcing a neutral smile. "It was... productive."

Trisha narrowed her icy blue eyes, so eerily similar to Millie's own. "Productive how?"

Millie shrugged, casually toeing off her sneakers. "Just some business talks, looking at new venues, figuring out the next step in my career."

All technically true―just not all of the truth.

She wasn't stupid. Her mother would never approve of what she was planning. Trisha had spent years carefully crafting Millie's image―pure, wholesome, marketable. The idea of her daughter collaborating with Markus Khan Kwaest, a

Black

rapper with a reputation that could make an old-school country club woman clutch her pearls?

Not happening.

Trisha pursed her lips, scrutinizing Millie as if she could read the unspoken words between them.

"Hm," she said finally, turning on her heel. "Well, you know I don't like you spending too much time in Los Angeles. That place is full of... bad influences."

Millie swallowed a laugh. Bad influences? If only Trisha knew.

"Don't worry, Mom," she said lightly. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

Trisha glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp. "I certainly hope so."

Millie forced another tight-lipped smile, then grabbed her shopping bags and headed upstairs before her mother could pry any further.

She had plans to make. Plans that Trisha Lucas would know about when it was far too late to stop them.

"Ahem!"

Millie paused half-way up the stairs to look back at her mother.

"So, aren't you going to ask me about

my

trip?" Trisha asked, eyebrow raised.

"Oh, uh, how did it go?"

"Well, the flight was positively dreadful―I prayed for safety at least three times before we landed. Then when I got to my room, wouldn't you know it, they forgot all about my VIP package being delivered beforehand..."

Millie listened for what felt like an appropriate amount of time so that her mother wouldn't be too upset by her interruption.

"That sounds great, mom, but I'll have to hear the rest later. I've got a bit of work to do upstairs right now."

Trisha sighed. "Oh very well. But don't be a stranger, dear. Your momma misses you."

"I missed you too, mom."

Millie closed her bedroom door, setting down her shopping bags onto the king-sized bed. Her bedroom was a massive, elegantly decorated suite with high ceilings and expensive furniture her mother had chosen. She hesitated for only a second before pulling out a vinyl copy of Markus Khan Kwaest's very first album. She felt the excitement in her chest building as she got the record started, keeping the volume just low enough for the music not to travel downstairs.

The heavy bass kicked in, lightly vibrating through the room as Markus' voice rumbled through the speakers, his lyrics smooth and hypnotic, and before she realized what she was doing, she was rapping along under her breath.

"Came up from the bottom, had to take what's mine,

Now they watchin' every move, tryna step in line."

Millie smirked as she rummaged through the shopping bags, pulling out the hoodie she had bought earlier. She slipped it over her head, admiring the perfectly oversized fit as she turned toward the full-length mirror in the corner of her room.

She looked good.

Hot, even.

The white hoodie blended with her fair skin, making her look like a pale, delicate angel. She grinned wickedly when she read the text again. A small heat expanding in her belly as she considered how naughty she felt just wearing it.

Next she tried on the black T-shirt. It contrasted perfectly with her golden blonde hair, giving her a bold yet effortless edge. She turned to the side, posing slightly.

Yeah, this worked.

She rummaged through the rest of her bags, putting on a fashion show in front of the mirror. She swapped out the hoodie for a jacket, pairing it with her favorite high-waisted jeans and a pair of white sneakers. The outfit still felt totally her―cute, put-together―but with just the right amount of statement.

She was proud of herself. Not just for the way she looked, but for what she represented.

She wasn't just evolving her style―she was evolving herself, showing real support for something bigger than herself. She was owning her "white guilt" as the shirt stated.

And if it also happened to make her look amazing, well... that was just a bonus.

Feeling emboldened, Millie grabbed her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she landed on Helen Whitmore.

She took a breath, then tapped the call button.

Helen picked up on the third ring. "Millie? Everything alright?"

"Everything's great," Millie said smoothly, turning down the volume on her speakers. "I know we have that meeting scheduled, but I was hoping I could get together more casually. Do you have some time tonight? I was just thinking about my next career moves, and I realized that before I make any big decisions, I really wanted to get your input."

A slight pause. "Oh?" Helen's voice sounded intrigued.

"Yeah," Millie continued, laying it on just thick enough. "I really value your perspective as a fellow woman in this industry. You've seen all the different ways female artists can adapt and grow, and honestly? I trust your insight more than anyone else's."

Helen let out a pleased hum. "Well, I appreciate that, Millie. It's smart of you to think ahead."

Millie grinned. Hook, line, and sinker.

"So is that a 'yes' then?" Millie asked. "Just a small conversation―me, you, and Tytus. Nothing formal, just some brainstorming. Maybe at Tytus' apartment? That way, we don't get interrupted."

Helen considered for a moment. "Alright. I can make time for that."

"Perfect," Millie said, barely containing her excitement. "I'll text you the details."

As she hung up the phone, she felt unstoppable.

She turned the music back up, standing in front of the mirror once more, singing along with the lyrics from memory.

The girl staring back at her wasn't the cute little pop princess anymore.

She was smarter, bolder, ready to take charge.

The start of a new era for Millie Lucas.

Millie stepped into Tytus Jones' apartment, immediately taking in the high-end luxury of the space.

It wasn't just an apartment―it was an executive suite, the kind of place that powerful men lived in. The walls were sleek matte black, accented by modern gold fixtures and framed platinum records. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Nashville skyline, the city glowing beneath them.

Everything about the place screamed success, control, influence.

Tytus, dressed in a sharp fitted blazer over a black tee, lounged effortlessly on the leather sectional, sipping a dark whiskey. Across from him, Helen Whitmore sat with her legs crossed, perfectly poised in a cream-colored suit. Her dark hair was neatly pinned up, her expression sharp and unreadable.

Millie took a seat, smoothing her hands over her jeans as she leaned forward.

"So," Helen said, adjusting her glasses as she clasped her hands together. "Tell me why I'm here."

Tytus smirked, setting his glass down. "We're here to talk about evolution. About making Millie's brand not just bigger, but untouchable."

Helen exhaled, already looking wary. "Go on."

Millie took a deep breath. "I want to do an album collaboration with Markus Khan Kwaest."

Helen's expression did not change. But the slight way her jaw tightened told Millie everything she needed to know.

After a pause, Helen simply said, "No."

Millie raised an eyebrow. "No?"

Helen sighed, placing a manicured hand on her knee. "Millie, you know I respect you. I've always admired your instincts. But this?" She shook her head. "This is reckless."

Tytus leaned back, exhaling sharply. "Helen, come on―"

"No, let me finish." Helen cut him off, turning her attention back to Millie. "Markus Khan Kwaest is talented, sure. But he's also a scandal magnet. Misogynistic, aggressive, unpredictable. You really want to tie your name to that?"

Millie expected this reaction, but it still annoyed her. "Helen, let's be real―the media loves blowing things out of proportion. Markus isn't half as bad as they make him out to be."

Helen arched an eyebrow. "He has a track record, Millie. The lyrics alone―"

"―are artistic expression," Tytus interrupted smoothly. "It's not like Millie hasn't played with attitude in her songs before. You remember 'Boys Ain't Shit'?"

To be fair, Millie had written that song after the first and only boy she'd considered dating sold her out for a juicy tabloid article.

Helen sighed heavily, clearly frustrated. "That's not the same, Tytus. That was a teenage girl's anthem. Markus raps about... about―" She hesitated.

"What?" Millie challenged, folding her arms. "About his reality? About things men actually think about but are too scared to say out loud?"

Helen pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're romanticizing it."

"No," Millie said firmly, sitting up straighter. "I'm being realistic. This isn't 2015. Edgy sells. Controversy sells. And whether we like it or not, Markus is one of the biggest names in the industry right now. If I work with him, it'll be the biggest move of my career."