Page 6 of Invisible Bars
He backed off so fast he almost tripped over a lighting cable and damn near took out a reflector board.
“Imanio Zaire Kors!” Giselle shrieked like she just caught me snorting cocaine off a Bible and wasn’t used to me threatening people before brunch.
My mama stormed past a stunned assistant and marched right into the frame like she owned the damn set.
“Hold on—move!”she rudely demanded, fussing at one of the assistants. “You clearly don’t know my son’s angles! He needs to be shot from the left; his jawline’s rude on the right!”
Giselle spun me around like a damn rotisserie chicken and yanked my shoulders back with the strength of a woman possessed.
“Lift your chin! No, baby, not like that! Now you’re giving giraffe! Relax the jaw! You always clench when you’re irritated! And for the love of God, stop frowning! You got your father’s forehead—one wrinkle and you’re going to look like you’ve been through three divorces and a custody battle!” she muttered.
I wanted to tell her that if I was aging quickly, it was because of her.
I needed to hurry up and find another publicist… and fast. My mama was getting on my damn nerves, and I only had about two left.
The last one I had, Gina, she was solid—organized, sharp, minded her business, and knew how to keep the press off my back without making it look like she was doing damage control. She ended up having a baby, and during her maternity leave, she hit me up, letting me know her husband got a job acceptance to some corporate position in another city, so that was the end of her working for Imanio Kors. I ain’t gon’ lie, I hated that shit. At the same time, I wasn’t mad at her for choosing her family as a priority over her career.
Family comes first… at least the kind that isn’t constantly blowing up your damn phone every week asking for damn favors or with media complaints.
With Gina gone, I’d been stuck dealing with my mama and her nonstop damn theatrics for two years. Giselle was a stylist-slash-therapist-slash-PR guru nobody asked for. She called damn near every other hour with suggestions like I didn’t already have a million things on my damn plate. And at every photoshoot or interview I’d constantly hear, ‘Imanio, stand like this,’ ‘Smile more,’ ‘Don’t forget to wave to the sponsors,’—like I was a damn pageant contestant instead of a grown-ass man running an empire.
I could’ve been had a new publicist, but I was too lazy and too damn afraid I wouldn’t find another one like Gina—somebodywho just did their job, did it well, and made life peaceful for me. Gina didn’t care about rumors or headlines unless they cut into brand value.Thatwas the kind of peace I paid for.
Now—thanks to my mama—I find sitting in meetings talking about my tone, my expressions, my outfits, and my goddamn posture, like I need a rebrand when I built the empire off being me.
I loved her—probably more than she deserved—but sometimes blood will drown you faster than strangers, especially when business is on the line. So Ihadto set up some interviews to find new helpasapbecause if she hit me with that 'If one more blog calls you rude and mysterious, God gon’ revoke your blessings' line again, she was one dramatic headline from me revoking her access to my life… starting with her contact in my phone.
“Giselle, chill. I ain’t no lil’ boy,” I grunted, brushing her hand off me before she tried to adjust my soul too.
“I know that! But you’re my son, and this is an important shoot! And I told you to stop calling me Giselle… especially in the public eye,” she whispered sharply, glancing around like she was smuggling secrets.
“I also told you to stop sayingmymiddle name in public. People might start to think I give a damn.”
“As you should!” she shot back, then snapped her fingers at the photographer. “Now, darling! Before he turns back into a brick wall!”
Then, as if the day hadn’t already felt like a circus, another assistant—bless her clumsy lil’ soul—tripped over a wind machine cord carrying two iced coffees. One went flying and landed right on my mama’s vintage Dior purse.
Giselle’s gasp was so sharp the entire block might’ve heard it.
“Jesus, Mary, and Louboutin!” she shrieked. “Do you know what you’ve done?! This is a limited edition—Runway. Capsule.Fall/Winter ‘04! Do you even read labels?! This bag has been with me longer than some friendships!”
The assistant, face ghost-white, stammered, “I—I’m so sorry, ma’am! I didn’t mean?—”
“Oh, no, hunni… you meant to fumble! Clumsy isn’t just an accident; it’s a personality flaw of yours! You’ve turned a ten-thousand-dollar bag into a wet napkin with a logo!”
I turned my head from the camera, my expression tight with annoyance.
“Giselle, it’s a purse.”
“It’s not just a purse, Imanio; it’s astatement piece!” she countered, furiously, blotting it gently with a silk scarf like it was a newborn. “She wouldn’t understand! She’s still out here rocking Fashion Nova like it’s high couture! Tragic!”
“Are we done?” I asked growing impatient. “Or should I stand here another hour while mymotheremotionally recovers from a coffee homicide? I got other business waiting.”
The photographer gave a nervous, tight nod. “Just one more shot… maybe three.”
“Make it one,” I replied sternly, already loosening my tie.
“But we still need?—”
