14. Miles
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
The Lush Chronicles didn’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 at lightning 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 too busy 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.
I kept trying to figure out if I was fixing what they broke or just stalling until I could build something that’s actually mine.
What would that even look like?
The Kings had skyscrapers, university wings, whole city blocks with their name carved in stone. They were the legacy. The gold standard.
We were one of the founding families too. Whitmores helped shape this town, just like they did. But somewhere along the line, they kept climbing and we started coasting. Got comfortable.
And now? I was cleaning up the mess. Trying to prove we’re still worth something.
Did I want the company to survive? Of course I did. It was all I had left of my grandfather. Of the version of my family that didn’t fall apart.
But I was starting to think survival wasn’t the goal.
Reinvention was.
And then there was Serena.
I was batting a thousand—married to a woman who hated me, partnering with a family that would rather bury me, and living in a condo that smelled like eucalyptus, espresso, and her skin.
It hadn’t even been a week, and I’d caught her walking around in a silk thigh-length robe, loose at the chest, no bra. A sliver of lace panties peeking when she turned too fast for the oat milk in the fridge. Hair slicked back from the shower. No makeup.
She was doing that shit on purpose. I knew it.
People loved to act like Serena King was all brains and boardrooms. All logic and silence.
But I knew better.
She was a fucking temptress when she wanted to be.
I turned my car toward the gates of Mrs. Fontaine’s place and shot up in my seat.
Victor stood at the edge of the driveway, cigarette dangling, head tilted in thought. He hadn’t changed much—still wore those tailored suits with large-ass handkerchiefs in his pocket.
Stepping out of my car, I looked over my shoulder, hoping none of Mrs. Fontaine’s gardeners were paying attention as I made my way down the driveway. The gravel crunched underfoot, and I tried to steel my beating heart as I drew closer to him.
Fuck, why did I take the money?
“You’ve grown up,” Victor mused. “Last time I saw you, you still had hope in your eyes.”
“Life beats the shit out of you,” I said.
Victor laughed.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, voice low.
“Is that the warm reception I was looking forward to?”
“I didn’t realize we were still on speaking terms,” I said, checking over my shoulder again. Serena was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.
Victor blew out smoke, slow and smug. “We were never off speaking terms. You just stopped answering my calls.”
“Must’ve been bad reception,” I said, forcing a smirk. My hands were still in my pockets, but I curled my fingers into fists. “Or maybe I figured we were square.”
I hadn’t known what I was walking into back then. I was twenty-seven, Pops had just been arrested, the accounts were frozen, and no one in Lush would touch the Whitmores with a ten-foot pole.
Victor was the only one who said yes. No paperwork. Just numbers and a handshake. And I was too desperate to ask the right questions.
“You’re not here just to be a blast from the past. What do you want?” I asked.
“There was an…incident with a business of mine,” he said. “It was ruled an accident, but you know how people talk.”
“So sorry for you.” I crossed my arms. “What do you need from me?”
“Well,” he said, glancing around like someone might be listening, “I started hearing your name again. Some merger talk. A little press. You’re getting invited back to the table, yeah?”
I gritted my teeth.
“Figured it couldn’t hurt to stop by, see how the golden boy’s doing. Maybe ask for a little help, the kind that makes the right questions go away.”
“Help,” I echoed. “From me.”
“I just need a place to sit some money?—”
“You want to launder your shit through my company?” I asked, my voice sharp now.
He chuckled. “That’s such an ugly word. I’m offering a partnership, Miles. You hold some money from me while I have a few deals go through. I get a little cover. I cut you a check in the end.”
“And when the Feds come knocking, should I play dumb?”
Victor’s smile didn’t falter. “You’re smarter than that.”
“I can’t do that, Victor.”
“You can.” Victor shrugged. “Emails. Texts. A few creative ledgers. It’s not hard to make it look like you were deeper in than you were when you took my money.
If someone starts digging…well. You’d be surprised how convincing a paper trail can be.
” He smiled, slow and oily. “People might even think you’re a real criminal. ”
“You’re threatening me now?”
He stepped in, close enough for me to smell the smoke on his breath.
“Do what the fuck I say,” he said. “Or I make sure your pretty new wife and her family find out exactly who you are. Who you’ve always been.”
I didn’t blink. “What am I, Victor?”
He laughed. Not loud—low and cruel.
“You’re your father’s son.”
That landed like a slap.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck ? —
“Let’s meet at that new office of yours?
The one with the protestors? How about ten o’clock tonight?
I’ll bring the champagne for this new partnership.
” Victor grinned at me. A car I hadn’t noticed creeping up behind us stopped, and he opened the passenger side door.
“Tell your wife I said congratulations.”
Then he turned and got in the car. I didn’t breathe until he was gone.
A car honked loudly, and I jumped. I turned to find Serena in her Range Rover giving me a look.
“Why are you standing out here? Are you coming in?”
I turned to glance back down the road Victor had just been.
“Miles?”
I schooled my face into something that wouldn’t raise questions and motioned toward the mansion.
“Let’s go.”