Page 20 of Mane Rival in Store by Milly Taiden

Breezy didn’t need to scroll. “‘Villains are more fun than heroes, and anyone who disagrees hasn’t met the right villain yet. If my store’s music keeps his customers on their toes, consider it a public service. Nobody needs to browse in silence—it’s unnatural.’ Attributed to Lark Coleman, Founder and CEO of Villainette.”

“I sound fun.”

“You sound fun. He sounds like a press release. The comments section is already a bloodbath.” Breezy turned the tablet around. The article’s comment section had split into warring factions—Team Sterling (“high art deserves respect”) versus Team Villainette (“she’s right, silence in a store is creepy”)—with a growing centrist coalition demanding a collaboration. “Your sales are up fourteen percent since the article published. His foot traffic is down.”

“Down?” Lark stopped stocking. “Why would his foot traffic be down?”

“Because the article makes him sound like a snob, and people don’t walk into stores that feel like museums unless they already know what they’re buying.” Breezy set the tablet on the counter. “Your quote makes Villainette sound accessible. His makes Sterling & Mane sound exclusive. Exclusive is great for retention. Terrible for discovery.”

A knot tightened in Lark’s chest. Not satisfaction. Guilt. She’d been witty on the phone because witty was her default, because she sold villain-themed lipstick for a living and her brand voice was playful provocation. She hadn’t been trying to undercut him. She’d been trying to be quotable.

But the article had turned her quotes into weapons and his into a punchline, and the internet—hungry, bored, endlessly hungry—had piled on with the enthusiasm of a crowd that had found a new thing to have opinions about.

She pulled out her phone. Opened the article on her own screen. Read the full piece, including the sections Breezy hadn’t quoted. The blogger had described Rune as “the impossibly handsome Scandinavian owner who curates his store like a royal treasury and appears to regard the neighboring Villainette with the warmth of a man discovering gum on his shoe.” There was a photo of him through his window—profile, jaw sharp, expression severe—captioned “Sterling & Mane owner Rune Sterling, who declined to be interviewed in person.”

He didn’t decline because he’s a snob. He declined because he’s private. Because he processes the world through curation, not conversation. Because giving a phone interview to a lifestyle blogger is about as natural for him as walking into a villain cosplay store and making small talk.

The realization landed sideways, without permission.

She’d spent the better part of two weeks watching him through the glass gap. Because she’d heard the way his voice warmed when he talked to the teenager about the Joker print. Because he’d walked into her store and defended her to his own customer without raising his voice, then left without expecting a thank-you.

The man in the article wasn’t the man she was beginning to know. The article had caught the mask. Not the man behind it.

“Lark.” Breezy’s voice cut through. “Two more media requests. A podcast and a local news segment. They want you for both.”

“What about him?”

“What about him?”

“Did they invite him too?”

Breezy checked her tablet. “The podcast invited both stores. His PR team declined. The news segment only invited you—they want the ‘fun’ angle.”

Lark chewed the inside of her cheek. Fourteen percent sales increase. Comments calling her store “the future of retail.” Media invitations stacking up. This was winning. This was exactly the kind of organic press that marketing teams spent six-figure budgets chasing.

It tasted wrong.

“Accept the podcast. Decline the news segment.”

Breezy’s fingers paused over her tablet. One eyebrow rose—the Breezy equivalent of a jaw drop. “You want to decline a local news segment.”

“It’s a puff piece designed to make me the hero and him the villain. That’s not the story.”

“It’s free marketing, Lark.”

“It’s free marketing at his expense. Decline it.” She straightened a row of eyeliner with more force than the display required. “And see if the podcast will give him a second invite. Through me, not his PR team. He’ll never say yes to a cold call from a producer. He might say yes if I ask.”

Breezy studied her for a long moment. The kind of long moment that preceded Breezy’s most surgical assessments—the ones she delivered without inflection and without mercy.

“I’ll make the call.” Breezy typed three words on her tablet and turned back to the inventory. She didn’t comment. Which meant she had plenty to say and was choosing to hold it, and that was worse than any observation she could have made out loud.

The group chat weighed in by noon.

Sybil: The article is everywhere. You’re hilarious in it. He sounds like a museum brochure. How are we feeling?

Lark: Conflicted.

Sybil: Conflicted how?