Page 182 of Invisible Bars
“That’s because she has Tourette’s, dumbass! Not sticky fingers!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Do you even know who she is? Clearly not. This isNaji Ali.Former runway model. Media whisperer. She walked Paris Fashion Week with a tic disorder and still shut it down.”
The cashier and manager both opened and closed their mouths like broken animatronics as the realization hit them. I could feel the weight of people staring—phones slowly being pulled out, camera lenses aimed like weapons.
Paris leaned forward and pointed her perfectly manicured nail at both men.
“You two made abigmistake today. And trust me, her husband is going to hear about it. And when he does?”
A grin crept across her face slow—like the Grinch right before he ruined Christmas. Except she was wearing heels, a trench coat and highlight.
“You better start praying your business got flood insurance—‘cause he’s known to drown disrespect,” she finished, then drew back.
The silence in the room was suffocating.
My face burned, my throat felt like it was shrinking and my hands trembled like they’d forgotten how to exist without panic.
Then Paris turned to me, softer now. Her voice shifted like a warm towel after cold rain.
“Hey, you okay?” she asked, gently placing her hand on my shoulder.
I nodded slowly, though my mouth was dry.
“Ye-Yes. I need to c-call Imanio. My phone is dead.”
“You can use mine,” she offered easily. “But let’s step outside. You need air.”
We walked past the line of quiet onlookers. I didn’t look at them—I couldn’t. The embarrassment stuck to my skin like honey in summer.
Outside, I inhaled like I hadn’t breathed in ten minutes.
“Thank you,” I expressed once we were outside. “Pancake—ugh. Pancake betrayal.Tic. I… I don’t even know what that means.”
Paris chuckled, amused and unbothered. “Don’t worry about it. I like a little crazy.”
“You do?”
That caught me off guard. I took her as the bougie, stuck-up type; like she drank cucumber water and judged people with neck tattoos.
“Between me and you? I never wanted a guy like Imanio; his mama just assumed I did… my parents, too. It was like I was picked out the catalog to be his wife or something.”
“Y-You don’t find him attractive?” I asked out of curiosity.
“Girl, yes! No disrespect to you since you’re his wife. But let’s be real… that man isfine-fine. The kind of fine that makes a woman forgive a lie she hasn’t even heard yet.”
We laughed in unison.
“Seriously, though, I want someone who didn’t have it easy… probably still doesn’t. Someone who still knows what struggle tastes like. I’ve had luxury since birth; I don’t need more of it… I need balance. I always believed opposites attract. Two rich people who were born with silver spoons in their mouths?Boring.Give me somebody with scars and a story,” she explained.
I was stunned. I’d assumed she was my competition. Turns out, she wasn’t even in the game.
“Wow,” I murmured. “I g-guess that’s why it’s not always good to judge a book by its cover.”
“Nope,” Paris sighed. “Because sometimes the prettiest covers got the ugliest stories. And the ones with creases and coffee stains? They’re the ones worth reading twice.”
I didn’t know what Paris had been through, but I could tell—something in her eyes, in the way her voice dipped just then—that it wasn’t all champagne and shopping sprees. Whatever it was, it left marks. And in that moment, I realized…
Having money doesn’t mean a person has peace, happiness, or even love. Sometimes it just means they have better things to hide behind.
“That’s true,” I said. “C-Can you call Imanio? I’m shaking too bad.”
