Page 8

MILLIE

The buzzing starts before the sun's even all the way up.

It drills straight through my dream and into my skull, sharp and persistent like a fire alarm set to "ruin your life" mode.

I groan into the pillow, face mashed against it, hair tangled and dry from too little sleep and too much tossing.

My hand scrambles across the nightstand until it finds the culprit—my phone vibrating like it's having a panic attack.

The screen blinds me, white and sharp and cruel, and I squint as I drag a finger across the screen to silence it.

Notifications. So many I can't even see my lock screen.

Text messages, missed calls, a few DMs from people I haven't talked to since high school, which is never a good sign. The group chat with my sisters is blowing up. There's a flurry of blue bubbles from Harper, too—sent late, probably after I passed out on the couch.

But it's my family that hits first.

My lips twitch. Even half-asleep and overwhelmed, it still makes me smile. Classic Mama. Protective to a fault, fierce as hell. There are three more texts right after it:

I type back, Yes. Please. Coffee. And something I can throw against the wall.

I haven't even opened the apps yet. Haven't dared look beyond my texts. But I can feel it, this swelling pressure in my chest, like the weight of the entire internet is pressing against my ribcage, waiting for me to see what they've made of me overnight.

Another buzz.

I bark out a laugh. God, I love that man.

Julian and Theo have been married forever.

At least, it feels that way. They met through my moms back when Mama and Julian still played, and somehow ended up building a life together.

There are more messages. My sisters, each of them a different flavor of furious, confused, or worried.

Friends checking in. My cousins sending memes.

Miles texts me a GIF of a wrecking ball smashing through a wall and captions it: You, on live TV.

And then I make the mistake of opening Twitter.

It's already trending.

MillieBennett

Ungrateful

FireHer

ProtectMillie

SheSaidWhatWeWereAllThinking

I scroll.

There's a split.

Some people—strangers, mostly—are coming out swinging for me.

Standing up. Calling out the misogyny, the homophobia, the absolute bullshit that spewed out of that interviewer's mouth yesterday.

They post clips of the way I stiffened, the flash of rage in my eyes, the sharpness in my voice when I said, "You don't get to talk about my moms like that.

" They're editing it into TikToks. Highlight reels. Turning it into a battle cry.

Others? Not so much.

"Disrespectful."

"Unprofessional."

"Spoiled brat with a chip on her shoulder."

"Should've known she wasn't raised right."

That one makes my blood turn to ice. I stare at the words for a long second, my breath caught in my throat. Not because I believe them—but because it's the one thing I knew they'd go for. It's the most obvious knife to twist.

They think because I didn't bow my head and smile sweetly while a man dragged the people I love through the mud that I must be broken.

That my moms didn't raise me right. That love, in its fiercest, most radical form, isn't enough to shape a good woman.

And still, somewhere in the pile, there are bright little lights—fans and strangers, women who grew up with two moms, or one, or none at all.

People who say thank you. People who say me too.

I scroll until I can't anymore. My thumb is shaking.

My pulse is in my ears. A video pops up.

A slowed-down clip from the interview. Right at the part where I say, "If standing up for my family makes me the villain, then so be it.

" The caption reads: Millie Bennett, the only player brave enough to speak the truth.

And I know the call is coming.

Right on cue, the screen lights up again—this time with a name I don't even need to read to recognize: Jaz. My PR manager.

I sigh, stretch my neck side to side like I'm about to walk into a boxing ring, and answer.

"Bennett, hi," she says, brisk and bright in a way that makes my stomach twist. Like this is a perfectly normal morning and not a five-alarm fire.

"Hi, Jaz." My voice is rough. I don't bother pretending otherwise.

She doesn't waste time. "So. First off—I want you to know we're on top of this. The narrative is moving fast, but we're shaping it. We've already got people out there backing you up, reframing the moment, reminding everyone of your record, your charity work, your background."

"My background," I echo, already annoyed.

"You know what I mean," she says smoothly. "You're someone with values. A strong upbringing. Close family ties. That matters. It's going to be important we keep reinforcing those points."

"Reinforcing," I say. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"Millie," she says, dropping the chipper tone. "You're not in trouble, okay? Nobody's mad at you. In fact, internally, you've got a lot of support. But we're in damage control mode. People are—reacting. Some are impressed. Others are... not."

"They're calling me disrespectful," I say flatly. "They're saying my moms didn't raise me right."

Jaz sighs on the other end. I can picture her now—sleek bun, espresso in one hand, her second phone in the other. "Yeah. That's ugly. But that's also the internet. We can't control everything people say. What we can do is change the conversation."

"And how do we do that?"

"That's why I'm calling," she says, tone shifting. "We're going to pivot. Reframe. Soften some of the rough edges without walking anything back. That's important—you're not apologizing. You're not backing down. But we're... presenting a more 'complete' image."

I'm already bracing. "Meaning?"

"A little visibility. A little vulnerability. A little romance." She lets that last word hang in the air like it's supposed to charm me.

I blink. "I'm sorry—romance?"

"Yes," she says gently, like I'm the one being slow. "We need to show the world another side of you. Someone warm, relatable. In love."

I sit up straighter, the sheets pooling around my waist. "You're telling me to get a girlfriend? Worse— A boyfriend?"

"Not necessarily," she says quickly. "We're exploring all options. It doesn't matter what gender, Millie. It just matters that it feels authentic. Sweet. Human. Someone who softens you."

Softens me.

"I'm not doing this," I say immediately. "I'm not faking a relationship to win public opinion."

"It wouldn't be fake," Jaz says, voice syrupy. "It would be curated. Managed. Mutually beneficial."

"Oh my god," I mutter, rubbing both hands down my face. "This is bullshit. This is actual bullshit."

"I get that it sounds strange—"

"No, Jaz. It sounds manipulative. Gross. I don't need to hold someone's hand and smile for cameras to prove I'm a good person."

"Millie, we're not saying you're not a good person. But you are a public figure. And right now, the story isn't working in your favor. People are angry. People are digging. And if we don't give them something else to talk about—"

"Then what?" I snap. "They'll cancel me? Fire me? Ruin my career because I defended my mother on live TV?"

Silence stretches for a second too long.

"You know it's not that simple," Jaz says finally. "This league is political. It always has been. This is optics. And right now, it's our best option."

I feel sick. I swing my legs out of bed, standing barefoot on the cold hardwood. My heart's hammering. I pace, trying to breathe through the fury building in my chest.

"And I don't even get to know who you're setting me up with?" I ask bitterly.

"It's still being finalized," she says calmly. "We're vetting a few potential names, but we wanted your reaction first before we moved forward."

"Well, here it is: no. I'm not being paraded around like some PR puppy. If I'm going to fake date anyone—which I'm not—it's going to be someone I choose. Someone I trust."

Another pause. Then, carefully, "And... do you have someone like that in mind?"

I freeze. Because I don't. I don't trust anyone. Not with this. Not with me. Not when the world's looking for cracks to pry open.

But the words tumble out of me anyway, shaky and loud.

"I got someone."

There's a beat of silence on the other end. Jaz, for once, caught off guard.

"Okay," she says. "That's great. That's really great. Who?"

Shit. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

"Millie?" she asks again. "Who is it?"

"I—I'll tell you soon," I say, voice breaking just a little. "Just... give me until tonight."

I hang up before she can say anything else.

And then I just stand there in the quiet, my phone still in my hand, my whole body vibrating with panic.

I just lied to my manager.

I just told them I have someone.

And I have absolutely no idea who the hell that person's supposed to be.

────────── ???? ──────────

"I'm not doing this, Mom. It's... gross. It feels like I'm using someone. It doesn't feel right."

I'm still in sweatpants and my hoodie, hair in a messy bun that's halfway to collapse, but I feel like I'm standing under a spotlight, center stage, bare. I hate it.

Mom perches on the edge of the armrest, legs crossed, a coffee mug cupped between her hands.

Her red hair is up in a silk scrunchie, blue eyes watching me quietly over the rim as she sips.

"No one's saying you have to do anything, honey," she says softly.

"We're just trying to help you sort through what's on the table. "

"What's on the table," I scoff, pacing near the kitchen, "is pretending to be in love with someone for clicks. For forgiveness. So people think I'm sweet and marketable and not a threat."

"You are a threat," Mama says from the window, where she's been watching the city like she's waiting for it to challenge her. Her arms are crossed, green eyes focused, voice like steel. "That's the problem. You're better than most of the guys in the league, and they don't like that."

"I don't give a shit what they like," I snap, rubbing a hand over my face. "I didn't come this far to play house with some stranger so I can keep a brand deal. This isn't me."

Aurora sits on the floor with her back against the couch, phone in hand but clearly not texting. She's watching me like I'm a skittish animal. "It's not about pretending forever, Mills," she says. "It's just a temporary move. A distraction while this cools off."

"Temporary?" I laugh, dry and humorless. "I can't even stand being in group photos, Rory. You want me to let someone fake-love me on Instagram? Sleep next to them? Let them into my life? My apartment?"

Summer, sprawled in the armchair with a chocolate bar in one hand and a latte in the other one, raises a brow. "You let Harper in."

"That's different," I say, too fast.

They all pause.

"She needed a place," I add quickly, waving them off. "She's not part of this. She's not a prop."

No one argues, but the silence is thick enough to bite through.

Mom leans forward, setting her coffee down. "You're allowed to say no. If this isn't right, we'll figure out something else."

"I don't know what's right," I admit, voice cracking just slightly. "That's the problem. I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore. They talk like I'm broken, like I lost control, like I'm dangerous."

"You are dangerous," Mama says again, this time turning toward me. "And I say that with pride. But you have to learn how to be strategic with that danger. Timing matters. Choosing your moments matters."

"Does anyone even care what he said?" I ask suddenly, almost yelling.

"Did anyone actually watch the damn interview and listen?

He said you were a joke. That my whole career was a PR move built on your name.

He said I was a hothead raised by a dyke and a washed-up goon.

And when I told him to fuck off, I'm the one that gets buried. "

Mom exhales like it hurts. Aurora looks away. Summer mutters something about punching the man's teeth in. And Mama... she doesn't flinch. Her jaw tightens, but she holds my stare.

"I'd do it again," I whisper. "I'd snap again. I'm not sorry. I'm not fucking sorry."

"Then don't be," she says. "But be smart. Be angry on your terms."

I sit down on the arm of the couch, suddenly boneless.

"And how exactly do I do that? Jaz said they've already got someone in mind.

They want to choose him. I don't even get a say.

It's a boy! They want me to fucking fake date a boy to go with their narrative, and I'm not even straight, Mom! This isn't me. I can't do this."

Mia leans forward from the armchair, concern tightening around her eyes. "Did you tell them that?"

"I told them I had someone," I mutter, the words tasting like cardboard on my tongue. "But I don't. Where the fuck would I find a secret girlfriend? In my pockets?"

Before I can say anything else, the front door slams. Too loud. Too sudden. The sound cuts clean through the air, makes every head in the room whip toward the entryway. I swear my heart actually skips a beat.

Harper's standing just inside the apartment, dripping wet, rain still clinging to her in beads along her hoodie sleeves.

Her short dark hair is plastered to her forehead, her jeans soaked halfway up her calves.

She doesn't seem to notice all the faces turned toward her at first—she's too busy untangling her key from the rack next to mine, fingers shaking slightly.

Doesn't she have a damn car? Why is she walking in this weather?

"Jesus," I mutter, already moving, instincts overtaking embarrassment. "You're soaked."

I'm across the room before I realize it, grabbing the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrapping it around her shoulders before she can argue. Her skin is freezing where I brush her arm. I click my tongue in disapproval.

"You're gonna catch a cold," I say, voice dipping lower, more urgent than I mean it to be. "Why didn't you call me? I would've picked you up."

Harper blinks, eyes wide, clearly startled by the sudden attention and even more startled when she seems to register we're not alone. Slowly, her gaze shifts around the room.

"Oh," she says quietly. "Hi."

I glance back at my family. Right. Shit. I forgot for a second that there's a full audience.

I glance back and all four Bennetts are watching me like I just grew a second head.

Or like I've just revealed one. Summer's eyebrows are at her hairline.

Aurora has her lower lip tucked between her teeth like she's holding back a comment, and she's not even subtle about it.

Mama looks... intrigued. Mom looks like she wants to coo.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Mom asks Harper, like I haven't already interrogated her half to death.

Harper nods, trying to give them all a polite smile despite the fact that her socks are probably wet and her cheeks are turning pink for more reasons than just the cold. "Hi. Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't," Mama says, rising to her feet with the kind of presence that could silence a whole arena. "We were just talking about how PR wants to turn Millie's life into a reality show."

"Mom," I hiss, glaring.

But Harper only smiles, small and understanding, and I think I might melt into the floor. She brushes a strand of wet hair out of her face. "Sounds about right."

"I'd say welcome officially," Aurora says, standing now too, "but I guess it's official now that you've walked in on a Bennett family crisis. That's kind of how it works."

Harper laughs softly, eyes darting back to mine like she's asking if it's okay to engage. I nod. It's okay. It's more than okay. But still—

"You need to change," I say again, softer this time. "Go take a shower or something. I'll get you dry clothes."

"I have clothes," she says, a little laugh in her voice now.

"I'll make coffee," Mom offers, already heading to the kitchen. "You want something to eat?"

Harper nods, still visibly touched by the warmth radiating from the room—even if she's still soaked. "Thank you."

As she disappears toward the hallway, I hover by the couch, running both hands down my face and groaning softly.

Summer's the first to speak. "So. That wasn't subtle."

"I'm just making sure she doesn't get hypothermia," I mutter, not meeting anyone's eyes.

Aurora leans forward, elbows on knees. "Right. That's all it was. Totally normal amount of concern. Not suspicious at all."

"Shut up."

Mama pats the couch beside her. "Sit down, baby."

I do, because she says it like a coach giving a command, and it's still somehow hardwired into me to listen. Mom walks past with two mugs of coffee, clearly having heard everything. "I like her."

I blink. "You just met her."

"She's polite. Made eye contact. Didn't flinch at your sister's sarcasm. That's a good sign."

Summer hums in agreement, curled on the armchair like she lives here too. "She already lives here. Might as well get to know her."

"And you clearly care," Aurora adds, grinning.

"I don't," I mutter, tugging a blanket over my lap like I'm trying to hide in it. "She's Audrey's friend. She needed a place, I have room. That's it."

"Oh, so the room just magically tidied itself? New bed and everything?" Summer quirks a brow.

I groan. "Can we please talk about what the fuck I'm supposed to do?"

"Language, Amelia," Mom says, not even looking at me as she sits down on the arm of the couch across from me. Her blue eyes cut to me. "You're still our daughter, not a pirate."

I laugh, "You tried so hard to keep me innocent," I mutter. "And yet my first word was 'shit' because some rookie wiped out in front of our driveway."

"Your first word was actually 'puck' and you pronounce it as fuck," Mama corrects. "Then came 'shit.' Then 'snack.' We had to reevaluate our parenting strategy."

That makes everyone laugh. Even me. The moment stretches, warm and golden, like sunlight in a snowstorm. The chaos of the world outside—my name trending for the wrong reasons, the calls from PR, the pressure to smile when I want to scream—it all feels distant here. For a minute.

And then the silence settles again. Not uncomfortable. Just... thick. Full of the things we haven't said yet.

Summer leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. "So. What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know," I admit quietly. "They're expecting this whole fake relationship thing, and it's supposed to 'humanize' me or whatever the hell that means. They want to make me more likable."

Aurora scoffs. "You're already likable. You're just not fake."

"Exactly. And now I'm stuck. They want to pick him for me. A guy, obviously, because God forbid they lean into who I actually am."

Mom runs a hand through her red waves, eyes narrowing. "And you told them no?"

"I told them it felt gross. Like I'm using someone. Like I'm lying about my life."

Mama exhales slowly, tapping a finger against her coffee mug. "What if... you didn't have to lie?"

I look at her. "What?"

She shrugs. "You already told them you had someone. So, give them someone. Someone you trust."

"I don't trust anyone," I say immediately, too sharp, too loud. Then softer, "Not with this. Not right now."

There's a pause. Then, Mom lifts a brow, almost playful. "What about Harper?"

I blink.

Summer makes a surprised sound like she just found a plot twist in her favorite novel. "Oh my god."

"She's already here," Aurora adds, "And you clearly trust her if she's here."

I ignore the way my heart is trying to burst out of my chest. "I don't trust her. I trust Audrey. There's a difference."

My mom ignores me, "She's kind," Mama says gently. "And smart. And pretty. She's the kind of girl that PR wants for you."

"I'm not going to—" I start, but then the door clicks open again and Harper walks in.

She's wearing different clothes now, dry ones—baggy jeans and a hoodie that looks three sizes too big. She has her damp hair twisted into a clip, little strands sticking out like soft feathers around her face. She pauses when she sees all of us watching her.

"Oh," she says. "Should I... come back?"

"No," Mama says kindly, patting the seat beside her. "Come sit, sweetheart."

Harper looks at me like she's checking if it's safe. And maybe it's but I find myself nodding anyway. She shuffles forward, her steps quiet, her presence even quieter.

"Harper," Mom says warmly, the way she says it when she already knows she likes you. "We've met, but I don't think we've met. I'm Mia." She gestures with her coffee mug toward the couch. "That's Luna, my wife—and our daughters, Aurora and Summer."

Harper gives a polite nod, a small, quiet smile on her lips. "Nice to officially meet you."

"And me," I say, throwing in a hand gesture. "Hi. I live here. I'm also their daughter. I'm Millie."

That earns me one of Harper's soft, breathy laughs—the kind that sort of escapes before she can stop it. It tugs at something inside my chest I immediately try to shove down.

"Nice to officially meet you too, Millie," she teases, and my stomach flips like an idiot.

Summer doesn't miss a beat. "You're adorable," she says, not even pretending to be subtle.

Harper blinks, startled. "Um. Thanks?"

Aurora, from her spot with a leg curled under her, raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "You single?"

"Aurora!" I hiss, cheeks blazing. I feel like I'm sixteen again, trying to survive a team dinner where someone's dad starts talking about prom.

"What?" she shrugs, like she hasn't just lit my entire nervous system on fire. "Just checking if there's already a line."

Harper's cheeks are pink now. She fidgets with the edge of the blanket still draped over her lap, eyes wide. "I... am," she admits, then tilts her head at Aurora. "Aren't you married?"

"Oh, fuck, yeah I am. I'm just asking for a friend."

Her blue eyes flick to me. Not subtle. Not even a little bit.

"I swear to God," I mutter.

"Language," Mom calls as if on cue.

"Yeah, yeah."

"You look more comfortable now. You okay, sweetheart?" Mom asks Harper.

Harper nods, fingers threading through damp strands of hair as she tucks them behind her ear. They curl just slightly at the ends, still clinging to her cheeks. "Yeah. Just wasn't expecting, um... the whole Bennett welcome parade."

"That wasn't the parade," Summer quips with a crooked grin from where she's standing near the door. "You're just getting the pre-show."

"She's kidding," I add quickly, maybe too quickly, eyes flicking to Harper. "Mostly."

Harper gives a small laugh, quiet and polite, and I can tell she's trying not to look overwhelmed. She's surrounded by Bennetts, after all. It's like being dropped into the middle of a fast-talking, sharp-eyed tornado made of opinions and affection.

Mom rises first, stretching the way she does when she's about to go back to work. That stretch that means, okay, enough now. She grabs her bag from the armchair. "Alright, girls," she says, her voice calm and final. "We're gonna get out of your hair."

I blink. "But—"

Mama's already in front of me, stopping me mid-sentence with a hand on my shoulder. Her green eyes soften, but there's a weight in them too—something unspoken, something that settles like a stone in my stomach.

"It's going to be okay, baby," she says, her voice low and sure. "I promise. Just do this one thing, and it'll all be okay. Think about what I said, yeah?"

I don't answer.

Mom appears beside her, always in sync. "We're here, Millie. Always. You're not alone, not for a second. And we know who you are. You care deeply about your career, and your people. You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

Her words land softly. Like falling leaves. I want to believe them.

"This world is..." she trails off, eyes flicking briefly to Harper, then back to me. "It's complicated. But don't make it harder on yourself than it already is. Just be smart. Do what you have to. Live your life and be happy. The noise will quiet down."

"Mom..." My voice cracks a little, and I swallow hard, blinking back tears. "I didn't think it'd ever be like this."

She cups my face, thumb brushing just under my eye. "It's going to pass. All of it. The press, the PR mess, the garbage people say about you. Hurt people hurt people. You know that. Don't let them twist you up."

They both lean in, and I'm pulled into a double hug—tight, grounding, familiar. I breathe them in, trying to memorize the feeling for later, when they're gone and I'm left alone in this apartment with my spiraling thoughts and my very beautiful, very inconvenient roommate.

They let me go eventually, slowly, like they're reluctant to. Like they know I need the support more than I'm willing to admit.

Aurora comes in next, tugging me into a hug that smells like vanilla perfume and strong opinions. "It's going to be okay, baby sis," she murmurs, brushing her hand over my hair the same way she used to when I scraped my knees as a kid. "Whatever you decide, I'm behind you."

Summer leans in after, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "Do the right thing," she says, her voice low but pointed. And then, quieter, with a wink: "Ask her."

My face heats instantly. "Oh my God," I groan, eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

She just laughs, like the older sister she's always been—too confident and too right for her own good.

They leave in a flurry of hugs, murmured I-love-yous, and the familiar sound of Mama reminding Aurora to text her when she gets there, don't forget again.

And then, just like that, the apartment is quiet.

I turn slowly, and Harper's still there. Still seated on the couch, still holding her mug with both hands, shoulders slightly hunched like she's unsure whether she should stay or disappear.

She meets my gaze. Offers a small, nervous smile. "Your family's... really something."

I sit on the other end of the couch with a thud, sinking back into the cushions. "They're a lot."

"They care," she says softly. "You can tell."

I glance sideways at her. Her expression is open, honest. There's no judgment in it—just quiet understanding.

And something else. Something careful. Curious.

I nod, then drop my gaze to the floor because I can feel it building—this horrible, itchy discomfort crawling just beneath my skin.

The pressure of everything I haven't said yet. Everything I can't say.

She's right. They care. My family always has, fiercely, loudly, and sometimes in ways that make you feel like you're standing center stage under a spotlight you never asked for. And now, they've handed me a script. All I have to do is perform.

Easy.

Except it's not. Not when Harper's sitting a foot away from me, warm mug tucked close to her chest like a barrier, eyes still glancing my way like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop. And not when every part of me is screaming that this is so unfair.

I can't ask her. I can't.

It's a ridiculous idea. Selfish, even.

Harper moved in three days ago. We've exchanged what—maybe four conversations?

She still apologizes every time she uses the wrong mug.

She takes up less space than anyone I've ever lived with, and not because I want her to—just because she's careful like that.

Careful not to get in the way.

And here I am, sitting two feet away from her, contemplating whether or not I should ask her to jump headfirst into a fabricated relationship, complete with cameras and headlines and fans dissecting every photo we take together like it's a conspiracy board.

I don't even know what her favorite color is.

I don't know what makes her laugh the hardest, or how she takes her coffee in the morning, or what song she puts on when she's in a bad mood.

All I know is that she's kind. And calm.

And quiet in the kind of way that makes me want to lean in.

I also know she just got out of a relationship.

And now I'm supposed to ask her to pretend to be in love with me?

I pinch the bridge of my nose, already feeling the headache bloom behind my eyes. My moms mean well. They always do. But this? This feels like dragging someone else into my storm just because they happen to be nearby.

Harper deserves soft mornings and quiet days. Someone who takes their time. Someone who doesn't come with a press circus and a PR team already writing their lines.

Not this. Not me. I bite my cheek and glance at her again. She's staring into her coffee now, but I can feel the question in her posture—like she knows something's coming but hasn't figured out the shape of it yet.

God. I really can't ask her. This is so dumb.

"You're thinking way too loud," Harper says suddenly, cutting through the silence, her voice gentle but amused.

I blink at her, caught. "I can't hear it," she adds with a soft tilt of her head, "but I feel it.

Whatever it is you're trying not to say—it's basically doing jumping jacks in here. " She taps the side of her head.

I laugh, kind of. More like a breath that escaped too fast.

She's still watching me—still gentle, still open. "You can say it, if you want. I'd been told I'm a great listener." she smiles brightly and my heart does a happy jump.

Yeah, no. I can't ask her this.