Page 111 of Invisible Bars
I wanted to be honest and say something like “maybe,but only toward her. Not the world… just her.” But I kept my face unreadable and my voice flat.
“Nah. I told you my reason.”
Even I didn’t sound convinced.
Saroya eyed me dubiously, one hand still clutching her phone like she was waiting for another call.
“Mm-hmm. Well, I’ma go. But let me leave you with a few tips for your interview.”
She stepped closer, professional mode kicking in even with one foot practically out the door.
“Okay, first—don’t fold your arms; it makes you look closed off. Keep your posture relaxed but strong. Don’t lean back like you’re too cool to be there, and don’t lean forward like you’re about to interrogate them. Keep your tone calm and don’trush your words. And if they throw something personal at you, breathe first,thenanswer. You know they love to twist quotes.”
While she talked, I moved around the room, pulling out a pair of black Italian loafers, a platinum watch, and a subtle pair of cufflinks that looked like they belonged to a man with a legacy, not a name stitched into blogs.
“Oh—andsmile,but not that fake one you do when you’re annoyed,” she added, pointing at me like a warning. “The half-smirk is fine; just don’t look like you’re planning someone’s funeral on live TV.”
I smirked anyway, just to prove her point, then turned to face her.
“Is that all?”
“I think so! I really wish I could stay and help, but... mommy duties call.” She sighed, guilt tugging at the edge of her smile. “I promise I’ll check in as soon as I get him situated. Just promise me you’ll be nice.”
I nodded. “I usually play the ‘nice’ role for interviews… even if I hate putting on a façade. But go handle yo’ business. I got it.”
“Okay.” She grabbed her bag and started backing toward the door. “And seriously—I mean it. Thank you… for understanding.”
I gave her a short nod, nothing extra. “Go be a mom. We’ll figure the rest out later.”
She gave me one last grateful look before disappearing down the hall.
When Saroya left, a thought crossed my mind—one I didn’t usually entertain:Kids.
Would I ever have any? What would that even look like—me with a child? I wondered how that would affect my career, my freedom, the way I moved through the world. Would I be the type to drop everything for a phone call like Saroya justdid? Would I even know howto? And more importantly… who would their mother be?
I was married to Naji—technically.But would we ever get close enough for her to be the one to carry my legacy? If so... would they look like her? Act like her? Would they have her softness and my silence? Her empathy and my edge? Would they be sweet like her or stubborn like me?
I shook my head and brushed the thought off.
The way things were going between me and Naji, I was lucky if she let my hand graze her thigh—let alone imagined us having sex, let alonekids.That kind of closeness felt miles away. And maybe that was for the best… or maybe that was the problem.
I unbuttoned my undershirt and stared into the mirror. My tattoos peeked from my ribcage and disappeared into my waistband like hidden truths. I flexed my jaw, slicked back my hair and sprayed cologne I couldn’t pronounce but was told smelled like power.
The only thing that made me show up for those PR circuses? The money. I didn’t play when it came to that. I had built my side of the empire quietly but solid. Strategic investments, real estate flipping, and a few high-profile flips in struggling districts that made me look like a neighborhood savior. The reality? I gentrified half of the west side. The press called me a “visionary.” The streets called me “That nigga not to be played with.” Both were true.
I fastened my Rolex, grabbed my phone, and headed downstairs to the living room where the crew was already setting up—camera guys adjusting lights, cords snaking across the floor, soft murmurs bouncing off the walls. A makeup girl came over without a word, dabbing invisible powder on my forehead like I was already sweating through the professionalism.
I sat in silence, jaw clenched, counting down the seconds like I was waiting on parole.
Giselle had texted earlier saying she wouldn’t make it.“Conflict with scheduling,”she wrote like she was canceling brunch and not abandoning a national interview.
Good.
I didn’t need her present—not physically, not emotionally, not in any damn capacity. She included herself in everything. But that day? I definitely didn’t want her there.
The production manager came over and gave me the rundown.
“The interviewer is Mariah St. James. You’ve seen her—she’s sharp but polished. She’s going to focus on the brand, future expansion, and your legacy. The segment goes live next week, but we’re filming clean edits. Any questions?”
