Page 117 of Invisible Bars
Still nothing.
“You know, I used to think I was born cold… that I inherited it,” I added, voice tightening. “But nah… I learned it. You taught it. You rubbed that heartless shit off on me over time. But here’s the difference between me and you—I know when to stop. I know when to be human. And right now? I feel sorry for you. Because the world you live in… it ain’t real. And one day, it’s gonna be just you and that cold-ass echo of your own voice.”
Giselle stepped toward me with a menacing glare. “Youreallythink you can manage your image without me?” she sneered.
After everything I’d just said…that’swhat she came back with?
I shook my head in disbelief. “Yeah, I do.”
“Fine!” she huffed. “Fire me! Replace me! But when you show up at the gala on somebody’s worst-dressed list looking like a secret society dropout, don’t call me!”
Giselle snatched her purse off the counter and stormed out of the kitchen, heels clicking and chin up.
“I wasn’t gonna call anyway,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.
I had respect for her and some of the things she had done, but sometimes family doesn’t need to bleed over into business. Dealing with Giselle was just too damn much. The dark parts of me she knew nothing was over her stuck-up antics.
A few minutes passed before the house started clearing out—PR interns, event coordinators, the camera crew. I nodded here and there, gave a couple of forced handshakes, and even managed a smile when the youngest cameraman nervously complimented my watch. But the second the last person stepped out, I exhaled deeply.
Silence.
I walked the perimeter of the house, checking each door and turning locks out of habit. The place still smelled like espresso, lavender cleaner, and whatever cologne the lighting tech had drowned himself in. I clicked off the lights room by room.
After that interview, I decided not to head back to the office until after lunch. Instead of sitting through a forced meal with my staff—who still insisted on talking about work-related shit outside the building—or settling for something to-go, I took a detour to see one of the other women in my life who never judged or never questioned—mygrandmother.
If calm had a backbone and a side-eye, it’d look just like her. And if love had a smell, it was the scent of her warm kitchen—cornbread fresh out the oven, even when I swore I wasn’t staying long enough to eat.
Chapter Seventeen
NAJI
Chi had long gone, but Dessign was still there—knocked out on the couch, though. She’d made me promise to wake her the moment I heard Imanio arrive; said she couldn’t get caught ‘sleeping on the job’.
In the time I’d gotten to know her, I found Dessign to be easygoing, surprisingly cool, and refreshingly accepting of who I was. None during our conversation did she make me feel awkward about my tics or talk around them like most strangers did. And if neither ever told me, I never would’ve guessed she and Imanio were siblings. They moved differently… talked differently. She was warm where he was ice; laughed where he brooded. They felt like opposites orbiting the same last name.
I sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed. The oversized T-shirt I wore swallowed my frame.
My phone rested in my palm, thumb gliding idly over the screen. I wasn’t really scrolling with purpose—just tapping through old photos, letting memories find me instead of chasing them.
A younger version of myself during my modeling days smiled up from the screen—glossy lips, strong cheekbones, lashes fluttering like I had no care in the world. But I remembered thatday… the photoshoot. My hands had been trembling between takes and my jaw was sore from clenching to suppress my tics.
I swiped again.
There I was in Paris, walking the cobblestone streets with a cup of espresso and a scarf wrapped around me like I belonged there. Another swipe—Milan, rooftop party, flutes of champagne. Another—me and a group of models backstage, all fake smiles and stiff arms. They'd laughed for the camera. But I remembered the tension in the room. The glances. The whispers. The comments were just loud enough for me to hear.
My thumb paused mid-swipe when a familiar face filled the screen.
Ambria.
My breath caught in my throat.
There she was—full smile, dimples flashing, long curls cascading past her shoulders. We were standing outside a venue in New York, arms wrapped around each other. Me in all black, Ambria in some over-the-top pink fur coat and platform boots she swore made her feel like Diana Ross.
The caption read:
“Still rising. Still glowing. Still ours. #RunwaySistersForever”
My hand trembled slightly as I held the phone closer. I hadn't looked at that photo in over a year.
