All of that was insignificant.
Not while Miles was still standing there drenched in paint.
I dragged my thumb slowly along the line of his cheekbone, and he tilted his head just slightly—like he wasn’t sure if I was touching him to clean him off or to memorize the shape of his face.
“Are you alright?” I asked. My voice was steady, even if everything else in me was not.
Miles nodded, and he let me tug him toward the back of the room. Security guided us toward another exit, but when I looked up, I saw Mama standing there.
Her chin high, arms folded, and eyes burning straight through me.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The slow shake of her head said it all.
CHAPTER 14
Miles
The words “Art Gallery Chaos:Serena King & Miles Whitmore” flashed across my phone screen in neon.
At least they got a good photo of me.
I waited for Serena, stretching my cramped legs in the car, the smell of freshly cut grass drifting from Mrs. Fontaine’s yard.
That picture made me jump. Serena’s knuckles were white as she gripped my arm, her eyes wide with terror. I was covered in paint.
Serena King’s new hubby, Miles Whitmore, rescues her during gallery protest
TheLush Chroniclesdidn’t waste any time.
“Power couple or already breaking up?” I mumbled, rereading the article. “I figured we’d get a month before the divorce rumors started.”
They didn’t stop with the gallery mess.
“When did the Whitmores and Kings bury the hatchet? Or, more importantly, why? The two families spent years at each other’s throats, their once-close ties shattered by scandal. Now, out of nowhere, Serena King and Miles Whitmore are rumored to have had a secret wedding? Either love moves atlightning speed, or this ‘surprise’ wedding was in response to the controversial recent drama concerning King Developments and Whitmore Ventures.”
I clenched my jaw as I kept reading.
“Omar Whitmore’s scandal with former mayor Robert Johnson was the kind that rewrote history. Caught indulging in a drug-fueled night of ‘business negotiations,’ he didn’t just lose his reputation, he took down an entire administration with him. While Johnson disappeared into obscurity, Omar took a light sentence and stint in rehab after his car wreck. But rumors still swirl that the elder Whitmore never really got clean, making his son’s uphill battle for redemption that much steeper.”
Another article. Another podcast. Another backhanded think piece from people who didn’t know shit.
Can Miles Whitmore really revive the empire his father buried?
Like I haven’t heard that shit a thousand times before, remixed, sampled, played over and over till I wanted to fucking scream.
And the worst part?
I couldn’t even blame them.
For years, my grandfather led Whitmore Ventures solo. Pops and I were cool to just chill and go along with whatever came with the last name. The private schools, the golf clubs, the easy respect.
When Gramps got diagnosed with stage-four brain cancer, it was a punch to the chest. He didn’t last long after that.
Pops stepped in, but he didn’t have a fucking clue.
We thought the legacy alone made us qualified. That we’d just somehow inherit power and know-how by osmosis. I never studied the details. I never asked the hard questions. I was toobusy being the fun one. The one who charmed, cracked jokes, made people like me.
Then Pops got dragged out the house in cuffs, and boom—twenty-four hours later, I was CEO. Family provider. Public face.
