Page 205 of Invisible Bars
“I d-don’t wanna seem like I made all this up,” I said nervously, fingers threading through each other on my lap.
“That’s exactly why we’re doing this,” Saroya replied. “To prove you didn’t. Once that picture goes up, it sets the tone. It turns whispers into confirmation, confusion into clarity, and speculation into silence.”
She folded her arms and leaned back slightly. “People will still talk, but after that, they’ll be talking about thetruth… onyourterms.”
Saroya glanced at her phone for a moment, then looked back at me. “And while we’re on the subject… I noticed you haven’t posted on any of your platforms inyears. You have a following, Naji… a real one. People still ask about you. I think it’s time.”
Before I could say anything, Imanio cut in. “Nah.”
“No?” Saroya retorted.
Imanio leaned forward. “I don’t want her dealing with that shit again. The trolls, headlines, or muthafuckas picking apart her looks, her past. She doesn’t owe the world anything.”
“I get it, Imanio; you’re territorial, and I respect it,” Saroya tried to reason, smirking with just a touch of challenge in her tone. “But Naji isn’t one of your buildings; she’s aperson. And people need to be able to scream when they’re being disrespected. Naji has a voice, and not letting her use it doesn’t protect her, it silences her.”
His jaw tensed, but he said nothing.
“I’m not here to steer either of you wrong, and you know that. I’m trying to help both of you move in the right direction.”
Saroya focused on me again, her tone softening.
“Naji, you can show up without explaining everything. You can reclaim space without reliving pain. You don’t need a comeback; you just need toexiston your own terms again. You don’t have to speak on anything today, but maybe soon.”
I nodded, her words lodging somewhere deep, not just in my mind—but in the parts of me that had stayed quiet for too long. I wasn’t ready right then, but maybe… maybe soon would come.
“I will say… you handled yesterday better than most women could’ve,” she continued. “And I don’t just mean in public; I meanafter. The internet can be ruthless, but you’re still here… still standing.”
I looked up at her with tired eyes.
“Survival has been my job for the last t-twenty-nine years of my life. It’s the peace that don’t wanna stay.”
Her gaze lingered on me, eyes filled with knowing. “Then make it stay… both of you… together.”
Imanio finally nodded, slowly. “Aight.”
Saroya took a deep breath, stood, and straightened her posture.
“Good to know we’re on the same page. Now, Imanio, I need you to call your sister, tell her we need theentire nine yardsat this house in the next hour. That means racks of designer dresses in neutral and bold tones for Naji—silks, satins, fitted gowns, modern two-pieces. Undergarments. Jewelry. Heels in every shade. As for you—I want tailored suits, crisp button-ups, rich earth tones, or classic black. Keep it fitted, nothing loud. I want both of you sitting next to each other looking like legacy in the flesh.”
Saroya stood then started toward the sunroom doors, leading to the outside, heels clicking confidently.
“And since I had to rush over here in a damn panic, I didn’t eat,” she added over her shoulder. “So have one of your chefs prepare me somethinglight—grilled, clean, nothing greasy… and some coffee. I’m stepping out into this beautiful backyard of y’all’s to make a few calls. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
Then she was gone—with the grace of a queen and the steel of a hitwoman.
I chuckled under my breath. “You definitely picked the right publicist.”
“She aight,” he smirked, then included, “Nah, she’s good. Let me call Dess.”
Within three hours, everything changed—not just how I looked, but how Ifelt.
There was no peace that morning.
No soft piano music or birds chirping outside the window—it was organized chaos.
Saroya and Dessign had called in a full crew. The photoshoot, however, wasn’t going to take place atourhome—it would occur at the one Imanio used for photo shoots, press junkets, and brand deals.
Upon arrival, Imanio and I were ushered into different prep rooms like we were starring in a fashion film instead of just trying to defend our marriage from internet gossip. Stylists rushed around me—pinning, fluffing, brushing, and adjusting. Hair dryers hummed in one room while steam rose from irons in another. Luggage-sized makeup kits were cracked open like treasure chests, and the soft buzz of wardrobe stylists checking hangers could be heard over the shuffle of feet moving through the house like a mission was underway—because it was.
