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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
