Page 160 of Invisible Bars
Everyone was smiling… until they saw me. Then every laugh died in mid-air.
Naji stiffened next to me.
Giselle stood. “Oh, there’s my son! Always fashionably?—”
Her voice trailed off the moment I pulled Naji closer to me, bringing her into view, my hand resting on the small of her back like a declaration.
“—late,” she finished; her words clipped, her smile tight, and her expression caught somewhere between confusion and rage.
“Daddy, can you pass me the lemonade? You know my arms are short,” Dessign said, acting completely unfazed.
“Sure, baby,” Pops replied casually, as if the tension in the room wasn’t hanging over in the air like thunder.
Those two were way too calm; which meant they already knew what was about to go down, and they were just waitingfor that moment.
Giselle turned toward us, her smile reloaded with that slow blink women give right before they throw verbal hands.
“And who might this be?” she asked, her voice dipped in silk and disdain.
Her eyes dragged across Naji like she was a scuff mark on high-gloss marble—unwelcome, offensive, and out of place.
Naji took a soft breath and opened her mouth to answer, but?—
“Heaven ain’t got no chill, ma’am!” she blurted, her shoulder jerking with a sudden tic that pulled her posture off center for a second.
The silence dropped like a brick.
Paris’s mom raised a slow, judgmental eyebrow. Her father blinked like he just saw a ghost glitch. And Paris? She didn’t sneer or laugh; she just stared—lips slightly parted, a confused kind of softness in her expression, like she didn’t quite know how to feel. Almost like… pity.
Giselle’s lashes fluttered. “What was that?!”
Naji quickly adjusted the strap on her dress.
“Sorry. That was a tic. I—” She cleared her throat, tried again. “I’m Naji.”
Giselle waved her hand with a scoff, cutting her off like background noise.
“I’m speaking to my son.”
That was it.
My jaw locked so hard it clicked. I stepped forward.
“Don’t do that.”
Giselle’s brows rose. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t fuckin’ dismiss her like she doesn’t exist! I brought her in this house—with me! So youwillshow her some respect.”
Her mouth opened, but I wasn’t done.
“You wanna know who she is? Thisbeautifullady is mywife.”
The room froze again—that time, so heavy, the centerpieces were probably sweating.
Paris blinked, her head slowly turning my way. Her mom made a noise like a dry cough. AndGiselle? She clutched her chest as if someone had just whispered“Section 8”in her ear.
“Y-Your… wife?” she repeated, barely above a whisper, like the word was allergic to her tongue. “You’re… you’re married?”
