Page 6 of Mane Rival in Store

He placed an edition into the case. Adjusted its angle by approximately two millimeters. Stepped back. Studied it. Adjusted it again.

TWO

LARK

Lark watched this process longer than was professionally necessary.

“You’re staring.”

She pivoted. Breezy hadn’t looked up from her tablet. The woman had peripheral vision like a surveillance drone.

“I’m assessing the competitive landscape.”

“The landscape has good cheekbones.”

“Irrelevant.”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s the lighting.” Lark waved a hand at the purple neon. “The warm tones create a flushing effect on melanin-rich skin. It’s science.”

“It’s a man in a suit.” Breezy tapped her tablet. “Want me to look up who owns the store?”

“I know who owns it. Sterling & Mane International. Premium rare comics. They have locations in Oslo, London, and Tokyo.” Lark turned back to the lipstick display. “I did my research before I signed the lease.”

“You researched the company. You didn’t research the man.” Breezy’s gaze cut toward the glass gap at the front of the store. “The man is adjusting a comic book with surgical gloves. The man looks like a Viking who got an MBA. The man is a variable you did not account for.”

“The man is my neighbor, and I’m a professional.” Lark snapped the last lipstick into the display with more force than necessary. “Sybil, back me up.”

Sybil had migrated to the front of the store, standing at the glass gap where the shared wall ended, studying the man next door with the serene, unblinking focus of a woman conducting an appraisal. “He’s very pretty.”

“Pretty is not the word. He’s—” Lark stopped. “I’m not doing this. We open in three hours. Can we focus?”

“You described him as ‘not pretty’ with real passion, Lark.” Sybil’s smile was gentle and lethal. “That’s a strong opinion for a man you haven’t met.”

“I hate both of you.”

“You love us. Sound test?” Breezy tapped her tablet, and the playlist shifted—a new track, bass-heavy, the vocals low and smoky. The speakers pushed the sound into every corner of the store, the way Lark had designed them to. Immersive. Enveloping. A soundtrack for browsing with intent.

The bass thumped through the walls. Through the shared wall.

Through the plaster and old brick and into the gallery-lit, museum-quiet, white-glove-wearing temple of rare comics next door.

Lark glanced through the glass gap into Sterling & Mane. The man in the suit paused. His head turned—a slow, precise rotation, the way a predator identifies the direction of a sound. His gloved hand hovered over the display case. His jaw tightened.

“Oh no,” Sybil murmured.

“Oh yes.” Breezy didn’t look up. “Property dispute in three… two…”

The man set down his gloves. Buttoned his suit jacket with a single, controlled motion. Walked to the front of his store, through the door, and onto the SoHo sidewalk with measured strides, a man who had never rushed anywhere in his life and was not about to start for a bass line.

Lark straightened. Smoothed her leather jacket. Ran a hand through her hair—blown out straight today, sleek and swinging, because grand opening days demanded her best.

The door opened. A small brass bell chimed overhead—Breezy’s touch, vintage, charming.

He filled the doorway.

Not metaphorically. The man was six-three, minimum, and the door frame of the Villainette SoHo flagship was not designed for Scandinavian giants in bespoke suits. He stood on the threshold, and Lark’s store—her beautiful, chaotic, joyful store—suddenly had a new visual centerpiece, and it was a man who looked like a Renaissance painting had developed a noise complaint.