Page 16 of Mane Rival in Store by Milly Taiden

The nickname landed differently this time. Not a barb. Not a challenge. An olive branch wrapped in a nickname.

He nodded. Turned. Walked out of her store and back into his own, where the air was cool and the lighting was exacting and Dekel was leaning against the counter with the expression of someone who had witnessed the entire exchange through the glass gap and would be dining out on it for years.

“You told Gerald Fontaine—Gerald Fontaine, who has spent four hundred thousand dollars with us—to shop in Oslo.”

“He was being rude.”

“He’s been rude his entire life. You’ve never cared before.” Dekel’s grin spread slow and wide. “You cared today because he was being rude to her.”

Rune turned to the counter. “Gerald will return. His collection dependency outweighs his ego.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“It’s a market analysis.”

“It’s a man who walked into a store full of villain lipstick to defend a woman he’s known for five days, and his hair is still standing up.”

Rune pressed both palms flat against the display case. His hair was, indeed, still elevated. His lion paced in long, satisfied circuits behind his ribs, radiating a warmth that bordered on smugness.

He had no defense. He had market analysis and courtesy and the cease-and-desist letter sitting in his desk drawer, and none of it explained why Gerald Fontaine’s condescension toward Lark Coleman had triggered a protective response more visceral than anything he’d experienced in twelve years of alpha leadership.

“Dekel.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Don’t.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Dekel’s grin said otherwise. “I’m texting Aspen, though. She’ll want to know about the hair.”

FIVE

LARK

The music war started by accident.

Lark hadn’t cranked the volume on purpose. Grand opening week demanded energy—foot traffic was up, the selfie wall was generating a steady stream of Instagram posts, and the afternoon crowd needed bass to browse by. She’d bumped the playlist to seventy percent for the post-lunch rush. Standard retail calibration. The shared wall, however, had the acoustic integrity of wet cardboard, and seventy percent inside Villainette translated to a low, persistent thrum inside Sterling & Mane that she didn’t realize was carrying until Breezy pointed it out.

“His side can hear everything above sixty-five percent,” Breezy said on Tuesday afternoon, tilting her head toward the wall. “I tested it during lunch.”

“How did you test it?”

“I stood on his side of the glass and listened. His store sounds like a library that’s being haunted by a DJ.” Breezy tapped her tablet. “You’re at seventy. The bass carries. His classical music is a response.”

Lark paused with a lipstick display in her hand. Through the wall—the plaster-over-brick that stopped a foot short of the storefronts—came the unmistakable sound of strings. Precise. Aggressively serene.

“Is that Bach?”

“Cello Suite Number One. He’s counter-programming.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Lark stopped. Pressed her palm flat against the wall. The bass from her speakers vibrated left to right. The cello from his vibrated right to left. The two frequencies met somewhere in the plaster and produced a tonal collision that was, objectively, unlistenable.

And a little bit thrilling.

She dropped the volume to sixty-five. The bass softened. The Bach continued—quieter now, without the combative edge, filtering through the plaster like a second heartbeat under her playlist.

“Better?” Lark asked the wall. The wall did not respond. The Bach, however, dropped a few notches in kind.

“Look at that,” Breezy said. “Détente.”