Page 223 of Invisible Bars
There were no laughs, only solemn nods and hushed expressions of admiration from the audience, the weight of his words resonating deeply. His expression softened just a fraction, revealing the affection he held for me.
“I don’t post about my love life. But just know, what I have with Naji is real. And I stand beside her proudly, in this room, in this life, and in front of every camera to let that be known.”
His words hung in the air like an oath—final and unshakable.
“We are stepping into a new era,” he continued, lowering the microphone slightly, “as a business… and as a family. I thank everyone of you willing to walk that path with us.”
Imanio ended with a nod and stepped back from the mic.
The crowd rose to their feet, applauding him, but I remained seated, feeling a profound sense of safety and support, knowing he had already stood up for me in that moment.
In that instant, I understood that no matter what whispers circled around us, no matter who didn’t comprehend the nuances of my tics or my presence at his side, I possessed the only voice that truly mattered, and it was already speaking louder than all the others combined.
I bit my lip, overwhelmed.
All those cameras, all those people, all that weight—lifted by his words like he’d been planning that speech since the day we met. I was trying not to get emotional, but my heart was beating like it was clapping for him inside my chest.
“I didn’t know you were gonna say all that,” I whispered, eyes still shiny.
“I meant every word,” he murmured, tugging me closer.
“You’re going to make me cry in d-designer lashes,” I said, laughing through the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
“You deserve to be seen,” he replied, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You always will be.”
And somehow, I believed him more in that moment than I ever had.
After that, dinner was served, and my appetite finally decided to show up. We aterealfood; not that fancy nothing-on-your-plate nonsense they usually serve at galas—Imanio had made sure of it.
The macaroni was baked, the chicken was seasoned, and the greens had turkey in them… even the cornbread had nerve. I felt like somebody's grandma made it in the back and dared them to say something.
“Y’all always late,” Imanio called out to Dessign and Chi, his voice playful.
“And still shut it down,” Dessign replied, flipping her curls over her shoulder.
“I see that y’all dressed alike,” I kidded.
“Hewasn’twith it at first, until Imadehim,” she said, cutting her eyes at Chi.
“Y’all, this girl said I was gonna be catching the bus to the gala if I didn’t change,” Chi snitched.
“And I meant that,” Dessign replied.
We all laughed, and just like that, the energy shifted—lighter, warmer. The night started to feel less like a legacy event and more like a real celebration, with real people…mypeople.
While Imanio and I were enjoying each other’s company, a girl stepped into the scene like she’d been invited to steal it.Although I wasn’t familiar with her, it was evident she knew Imanio.
She appeared to be in her mid-twenties and stood tall. Her rich, chocolate skin glowed under the soft light, and her hair fell straight, seeming almost vacuum-sealed to her scalp as if it had been expertly styled just for that moment. She wore a pristine white cotton gown that clung to her figure, with a daring thigh-high slit that seemed to shout, “Look at me!” even though her look was givingabsolutely nothing—compared to me. The dress attempted to whisper elegance and sophistication, but the desperation etched across her features was louder.
But it wasn’t her outfit that caught me off guard… it was the way she looked at Imanio. Her expression radiated a sense of familiarity, as if she had shared countless nights with him, perfectly aware of how he preferred his eggs—scrambled with a hint of pepper and a dash of salt. Or the kind of knowing look that suggested she could easily find the spare key hidden beneath the welcome mat by the front door, a detail that spoke to their intimate routine and shared history.
“Imanio!” she purred.
An instinctual tension gripped me—not out of fear, but from a slow-burning anger that coiled tightly behind my teeth, ready to unleash at the sight before me.
Imanio faced her, his expression polite but cold—the kind of cold only reserved for people who used to have access but lost the password.
“Aaliyah,” he addressed her.
