Inglewood, Los Angeles — Maka's Boutique
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as he walked in.
Maka didn't look up. She was elbow-deep in silk fabric samples, her measuring tape slung across her shoulder, a pin gripped between her teeth. The summer heat danced through the open windows, carrying in the scent of street tacos and the sound of bass-heavy music from a passing car.
"Excuse me?" a deep voice said — smooth, clipped, expensive.
She glanced up. Briefly.
Tailored charcoal suit. Clean fade. Polished watch ticking from a wrist that probably cost more than her rent. This wasn't a customer. This was a problem.
"If you're lost, the bank's two blocks down," she muttered, going back to sorting through the fabric.
"I'm not lost," he said, stepping deeper inside. "I'm exactly where I need to be."
Now she really looked at him.
Dark skin. Clean-cut. Fine in that annoying, corporate way. The kind of man who always got what he wanted — and probably didn't know how to take 'no' without circling back with a better offer.
Typical.
He extended a hand. "Khalil Bennett. CEO of Bennett Urban Development."
She ignored his hand. "Maka. Owner of Maka Made."
He let the awkward silence sit for a second before retracting the handshake.
"I'm here about this building."
And there it was.
Maka sighed and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "Of course you are."
"I'd like to make you an offer. I'm planning a major revitalization project. I've already acquired the adjacent lots and—"
"Let me stop you right there, Mr. Bennett." She narrowed her eyes. "This boutique is staying right here. I built it here for a reason."
"I'm offering well over market value."
"I don't care if you're offering Beyoncé money. My answer's no."
Khalil smiled, slow and unbothered. "Everything has a price."
"Not me. Not this place."
She walked around the counter, facing him head-on. She didn't back down from men like him — moneyed, polished, used to buying up people's futures with a flash of cash and a fake smile.
"This shop is more than a business. It's a statement," she said. "My mama braided hair in this neighborhood. My aunty sold akara out of a cooler on that corner. And now, I design clothes for girls who grew up like me — who want to see themselves in fabric and glass and fire."
His eyes flickered. Maybe with respect. Maybe with calculation. Maka wasn't sure which was worse.
"I understand. I'm not trying to erase the culture—"
"You already are."
Silence. Thick and tense.
Then, Khalil pulled a sleek manila envelope from his inner jacket pocket and set it on her worktable.
"My number's in there. Think about it."
Maka picked up the envelope with two fingers like it was toxic and dropped it right in the trash bin behind her.
He blinked. "Message received."
She gave him the fakest smile she had. "You have a blessed day, sir."
He turned to leave, but paused at the door, one hand on the handle. "I'll see you around, Maka."
She rolled her eyes. "Not if I see you first."
He walked out, the door chiming gently behind him.
Maka stood still for a moment, heart thudding harder than she'd admit. She wasn't just mad.
She was intrigued.
Too intrigued.