Whitegirls Like You Ch 04

Chapter 4 - A Blacked Executive

Millie stepped into the executive boardroom of White Hot Pop, her pulse steady but tense as she took in the familiar setting yet again.

The long glass table, the too-bright recessed lighting, the same executives who had spent years making decisions for her career.

And at the head of it all―Bob Harrison, slumped in his chair with a permanent scowl, his gut pressing against the buttons of his overworked blazer. He barely glanced up as she entered, already flipping through a printed agenda, as if her presence was an afterthought.

Millie exhaled sharply.

This was it. The moment.

She had made up her mind―she was going to announce her partnership with Markus Khan Kwaest, whether they liked it or not.

But there was one lingering question in the back of her mind, one that had been nagging at her ever since her hotel conversation with Tytus.

How exactly was he planning to "handle" Bob?

Before she could dwell on it, the doors swung open again, and in walked Tytus Jones―looking as cool and impossibly in control as ever.

And right beside him?

Helen.

Holding his hand.

Millie's lips parted slightly, but she quickly recovered, keeping her expression neutral as they walked toward the table, their fingers still loosely entwined.

Helen looked different today―softer, almost glowing in a way that was not at all businesslike. Her suit was still perfectly tailored, but there was a relaxed air to her that Millie had never seen before.

Millie caught Tytus' eye and tilted her head as if to say: what did you do to her?

Tytus just winked. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

Is he playing Helen? Millie wondered. Just how far did things go the other night once I'd left?

Millie barely had time to process the implications before Helen let go of Tytus' hand and took a seat next to Millie, Tytus casually settling in beside her as well.

Millie's eyes continued flicking between him and Helen, but neither of them acknowledged that anything had changed between them.

Bob, on the other hand, had definitely noticed―his brows furrowing, his face darkening as he took in the seating arrangement.

Millie could almost hear the gears turning in his old-fashioned, stubborn head.

And just like that, she realized exactly what Tytus had done.

This wasn't just a power move.

This was "checkmate".

Helen, one of Bob's few, true allies in the company, was now sitting firmly in Millie's camp―and from the way Bob was gripping the arms of his chair, it was killing him.

Millie almost smiled.

Until the boardroom doors swung open again.

Millie froze.

Striding into the room―heels clicking against the polished floors, blonde hair flawless, eyes steely―was Trisha Lucas.

Her mother.

Millie's stomach dropped. Trisha

never

came to these things.

Bob's scowl lifted for the first time that morning. Relief flooded his face as he straightened in his chair, like a drowning man who had just found a life raft.

Trisha didn't spare her daughter a glance. Instead, she glided toward Bob's side, placing a perfectly manicured hand on the back of his chair.

Guess it was just "check" after all.

"Apologies for the late entrance," she said smoothly, flashing a smile at the executives. "I wasn't about to miss this."

Millie felt her pulse spike. Of

course

you were, mother! She shouted in her mind. This was Bob's doing, she was sure of it. He must have gotten wind of her little visit to L.A.

Tytus, seated beside her, shifted slightly. She didn't have to look at him to know he was tense.

This was not part of the plan.

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. His usual cool expression was gone―instead, he looked sharply focused, calculating, maybe even a little thrown off.

Because he hadn't expected this. At least, not enough to have a backup plan.

Millie swallowed.

Damn it.

Bob knew how Trisha always complicated things, dragging even little details out incessantly. If Bob had called in her mother, that meant he knew Millie wanted the partnership. Or at the very least, suspected something big was coming.

And there was no way in hell Trisha Lucas was going to let the partnership happen.

Her mother was a legacy woman, old-school, status-obsessed. Frankly―to Millie's disappointment―

racist

, though in the casual way. She had spent Millie's entire career orchestrating her every move, shaping her into the perfect pop princess.

Trisha had fought tooth and nail to ensure her daughter never strayed from the "good girl" image.

So what now?

Millie was about to sit in front of this entire boardroom and announce that she wanted to work with Markus Khan Kwaest―a man her mother would see as the exact opposite of everything she had built.

Millie kept her expression neutral, even as her mind raced.

Her mother's sudden appearance had thrown everything off-balance, and she knew exactly how this would go. The moment the shit hit the fan, Trisha would take the reigns, out-shouting and out-staring anyone who tried to talk her down.

Before Millie could even think of how to navigate this, Tytus spoke up, his voice smooth and deliberate.

"Trisha," he said, leaning back in his chair as if he wasn't the least bit rattled. "I wasn't aware you'd be joining us today."

Trisha gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Well, Millie's career is a family business, wouldn't you say?"

Millie's fingers curled into her lap. A family business. Right. Because in her mother's mind, Millie wasn't just a person―she was an investment.

Tytus nodded, still calm. "Of course. That's why I'd love to discuss a few things with you privately, maybe before the meeting―"

"No need for that."

Bob's gravelly voice cut through the room, his beady eyes flicking between them like he was enjoying the disruption. He sat forward, clasping his hands together with forced urgency.

"We need to move quickly," Bob said. "Millie's brand has been slipping for the past year, and it's time to lock in our strategy before she loses even more ground. I've asked Trisha here to make sure it gets done."

Millie clenched her jaw. Of course he had to make it sound like she was circling the damn drain.

Her mother stiffened. "Losing ground?"

Millie knew that tone―the sharp edge of worry beneath the polished exterior. Trisha didn't just care about her daughter's success―she cared about what that success meant for her.

Bob nodded, eager to drive the point home. "Her numbers are shifting, Trisha. Her audience is aging out, the industry is moving fast, and if we don't keep her relevant, she's going to start losing endorsements, sponsorships―"

"Excuse me?" Trisha's carefully crafted poise cracked just slightly.

Millie knew it all too well―this wasn't really about Millie's career. Trisha was worried about her own financial and social standing.

If Millie's star dimmed, so did Trisha's access to wealth. The exclusive events, the brand partnerships, the money―all of it was tied to her daughter's success.

Millie opened her mouth to cut in, but to her surprise, it was Tytus who leaned forward, shifting his approach.

"We're not here to alarm you," Tytus said smoothly, shooting Bob a look before turning back to Trisha. "But we do need to be proactive. Millie still has major influence, but this is the moment to reshape and evolve. We need to move now, before we're playing catch-up."

It was rare to see Bob and Tytus on the same side of an argument, but Millie wasn't about to question it―if it got Trisha to shut up, she'd take it.

Trisha's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening slightly around the arm of her chair.

For a moment, she looked ready to fight―but then Millie saw the shift.

The calculation.

Her mother wasn't stupid. She knew that if she caused a scene now, she'd look weak. Desperate.

So instead, she inhaled slowly, composing herself.

"Fine," she said, her voice clipped. "Let's hear it."

Millie took a steady breath as she felt Tytus' gaze land on her.

He gave a small nod. Go. Now's your moment.

She straightened in her seat, placing her hands on the glass table, her nails tapping lightly against the surface.

Fuck

, was this scary.

"I've made a decision about my next project," she said, keeping her voice even, controlled. "I'm going to collaborate with Markus Khan Kwaest... on a full album."

The reaction was instantaneous.

Gasps. Murmurs. Wide eyes from every executive at the table.

Bob, however, didn't murmur.

He snorted, leaning back in his chair with a scoff. "You can't be serious."

Millie's jaw tightened. "I'm very serious."

Bob shook his head, slamming a pudgy hand onto the table. "Millie, come on. You think pairing up with some thug rapper is gonna save your career?" He let out a harsh laugh. "Jesus, the optics! We've talked about this―"

Millie's hands curled into fists beneath the table.

But Bob wasn't done.

"That man is nothing but trouble. His

Black

culture lyrics? His

gang

history? His bad-boy image?" He looked around the room, searching for support. "And you, Millie? A beautiful young woman with a wholesome brand―you want to throw yourself next to that?"

The way he said that made Millie's stomach turn. "He's not a thug."

It was disgusting, but not surprising.

Bob didn't see Markus as an artist, or even as a man―he saw him as a stain. Something dirty, something unworthy. And worst of all, Bob wasn't even trying to hide it.

Millie opened her mouth to snap back―she wasn't about to let this racist bullshit slide―when she noticed something that made her breath catch.

Her mother.

Trisha Lucas sat completely still, hands folded neatly in her lap. No outrage, no gasps.

Just dead silence.

But the tension?

Palpable.

Her face was a perfect mask of poise, but Millie knew her mother too well. Trisha was calculating. Absorbing.

Raging

beneath the surface.

And that scared her more than Bob's ranting ever could.

Before Millie could speak, Tytus jumped in, his voice smooth and commanding.

"Well, Bob," he said, "I think you're looking at this all wrong."

Bob shot him a glare. "Oh, enlighten me, hotshot."

Tytus smirked, completely unbothered by the hostility. "Millie's evolving. She has to. Her audience certainly is. And Markus Khan Kwaest? He's become one of the biggest names in music: Two platinum albums in less than a year. He's got millions of loyal fans who are dying for something fresh―and a hell of a lot of them have been Millie's fans too. A crossover with Millie? That's not just big―it's game-changing."

Helen, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. "It's a perfect expansion strategy. Millie gets access to an entirely new market―hip-hop and R&B fans who wouldn't normally listen to her. Plus her former fans who had lost interest running back to her. And Markus? He benefits from her mainstream, pop-heavy audience. It's a win-win."

Millie watched her mother carefully.

Nothing.

Just that chilling silence.

It felt like she was watching a dam ready to burst.

The question was: what happens when it finally does?

Bob snorted, shaking his head as he waved a dismissive hand in the air.

"Oh, come on," he grumbled. "This is just another trend. In six months, people will have moved on to the next thing. You really think Millie standing next to some

Black

rapper from the ghetto is going to turn her into some kind of groundbreaking artist?"

Millie clenched her jaw. Some

Black

rapper.

Helen, however, wasn't having it.

She sat up straighter, her eyes sharp, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Bob, I used to think like you," she admitted. "I used to look at people like Markus and only see the headlines, the scandals. But I was wrong."

Bob scoffed, but Helen didn't stop.

"I actually listened to his music," she continued, placing her hands on the table. "And I don't mean reading some out-of-context lyrics printed in a hit piece―I mean really listening. Feeling the energy, the depth, the power behind his words. Markus isn't just some thug rapper, Bob. He's a cultural force."

Millie couldn't believe what she was hearing.

This was Helen Whitmore―a woman who just yesterday had been firmly against the collaboration. And now?

She was defending Markus like it was personal.

Then Helen's eyes flicked, just for a moment, toward Tytus.

And suddenly, Millie understood.

It

was

personal.

Millie saw it―the quiet shift in Helen's demeanor, the not-so-subtle way she and Tytus had arrived together, the way she spoke about seeing things differently now.

Tytus had really done a number on her. Maybe something to do with those prototype tracks?

Whatever it was, it had

changed

Helen.

She took a breath, regaining her focus. "Look around you, Bob. The world is changing.

Black Lives Matter

isn't just a movement―it's a shift in the cultural landscape. Audiences are demanding more diversity, more representation, more authenticity. This isn't a wave―it's a reckoning. And we can either be part of it, or we can be drowned by it."

More than a few of the executives murmured, seemingly in agreement with Helen. Then silence.

Bob's face turned red.

For a second, Millie thought he might actually explode.

Instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, pushing himself up from his chair. "We're pausing this discussion," he growled. "New meeting. End of the week."

He stormed out, his footsteps thudding heavily down the hall.

Millie glanced at Helen, who sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly. She'd single-handedly stalled the man.

Tytus?

He just smirked, like he had expected all of this.

Millie, however, wasn't so sure.

Because while Bob was predictable, there was still one person who hadn't said a word.

Millie turned to her mother, watching her carefully.

Trisha Lucas remained still, her expression unreadable.

But the tension in the air?

It felt like a storm was coming. Millie knew it was coming for her, so she ran out of the room before she got caught in it.

Millie couldn't take it anymore.

Whatever the small victory had bought them, the meeting had been a disaster―the arguments, tension so thick it could choke her, and her mother's icy, silent fury hanging over everything like a guillotine.

She needed to get out. She needed air.

Millie barely registered the hallways as she hurried away, heels clicking against the tile floors, ignoring the confused glances from passing employees.

Then, she saw it―the women's restroom.

She slipped inside, the cool, sterile air wrapping around her as she rushed into the furthest stall, shutting the door behind her and locking it with trembling fingers.

Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, and before she could stop herself―

The tears came.

She pressed a hand over her mouth, forcing herself to stay quiet, to keep it together, but her shoulders shook as the weight of everything pressed down on her.

The exhaustion. The constant fight for her dreams. The feeling of being trapped between what she wanted and what everyone else expected of her.

And her mother―

God

, her mother.

Millie squeezed her eyes shut, leaning against the cold metal of the stall.

Just one minute. She just needed one minute to breathe, to let it out before she had to go back and deal with all of them.

Then―

The restroom door creaked open.

Millie's stomach dropped.

Shit.

She sucked in a sharp breath, instantly lifting her feet off the floor, tucking her knees against her chest so it looked like the stall was empty.

For a second, she didn't move.

Didn't breathe―despite her desperate need to.

Her heart pounded in her ears as the footsteps echoed against the tile.

Was it her mother?

Had Trisha followed her?

Millie bit her lip, holding perfectly still, waiting for whoever it was to make a move.

Millie kept her breath locked in her chest, every muscle in her body tense.

The footsteps had stopped just outside the stalls, and then―

A man's voice.

Deep. Smooth. Familiar.

Tytus.

Millie's eyes widened in shock, her heart slamming against her ribs.

And then―

A woman's soft, flirtatious laugh.

Helen.

Millie's stomach flipped as realization hit her like a freight train.

They were here together.

In the women's restroom.

She stayed completely still, barely daring to breathe as their voices drifted through the thin metal divider.

"Damn," Tytus murmured, his tone laced with amusement. "That was one hell of a speech in there."

Helen giggled, the sound light and teasing. "You liked that?"

Tytus chuckled. "Liked it? I almost stood up and clapped."

Helen laughed softly again, her heels clicking slightly as she shifted her weight. "Well, I want you to know that I meant every word."

Millie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will herself invisible. Then she heard the sound of Tytus's suit pants being unzipped and opened her eyes. Through the opening under the stall, Helen's knees had very clearly dropped to the floor in front of Tytus.

"I

really

did," Helen continued, followed by a wet slurping sound. "Now after a meeting like that, are you ready to blow... Mmm... Some

steam

off?"

She had not planned on hiding in a bathroom stall while listening to Tytus and Helen fool around―but now? She was stuck.

"You were on fire in there," Tytus resumed, his voice dropping just slightly as more wet kissing and slurping sounds emanated from the stall. "Didn't know you had that in you. I'm just glad I brought you around to my side of things."

Helen hummed. "Mmm... You bring out the best in me."

Millie felt her entire soul cringe. She felt like a dirty pervert listening in on Helen obviously giving a blowjob right next to her. She would have bet money that there had been nothing between them before last night.

How had Tytus convinced Helen to do something this lewd? Or... maybe Helen was more of a

slut

than Millie had thought.

This was so not what she needed right now. But why then was it making her feel so hot?

She had stormed in here to escape the tension of the meeting, to breathe, to collect herself before facing her mother's inevitable wrath.

And instead?

She was trapped in a stall while Tytus was busy facefucking Helen.

That was the wrong thought to have just then.

The moment it had passed through Millie's head, her mind began filling in the blanks, imagining Tytus with his big

Black

cock out while Helen greedily worshiped him with her mouth.

Just like in Millie's porn videos, except she was a front row audience to the act. Without thinking, she swiftly jammed a hand down her pants, biting her lip as she felt how slick her slit already was.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Millie thought. Maybe I'm really a

dirty slut

too.

Millie paused, unsure why she had just mentally degraded herself. But the sounds from the stall kept getting hotter and messier.

Helen must be giving him some real sloppy head, Millie thought again as she resumed rubbing her clit.

She started justifying her actions, telling herself that she needed some stress relief too, so why not do a little cumming herself while she was here anyway?

There was no harm in that, right?

"Damn, girl!" Tytus moaned. "You know just what I need."

Helen giggled again, her tone playful. "Well, I figured you could use a little... stress relief after all that."

Tytus let out a low chuckle. "Oh yeah? You know what would really give me some relief...?"

Helen's eyes sparkled with mischief as she stood, her panties slipping down her legs, landing with a soft thud on the floor. "Gee, I wonder what that would be?" she teasingly asked, her voice dripping with sweetness.