Page 231 of Invisible Bars
I stared at her hand, noting the vibrant red nail polish and the minimalistic silver ring she wore.
“Sorry. I don’t shake hands.”
Her smirk widened, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Yeah, you’re definitely his mom.”
“Excuse me?” I narrowed my eyes, unsure if I should be offended or amused by her audacity.
Saroya didn’t bother repeating herself. “Mr. Kors is in the back. He’ll be up here shortly,” she announced, dismissing me with a flick of her wrist as she turned her attention back tothe glowing screen of her tablet, as if I were merely a delivery confirmation, not a woman with her own achievements.
I continued to assess her closely.
No designer labels, no flashy jewelry, and no hint of class—just confidence mixed with cheap professionalism.
She looked to be one of those women who mistook boundaries for strength.
“Hmph! You don’t look like a publicist,” I remarked, emphasizing my point while crossing my arms, heightening the barrier between us.
Her smile tightened a notch, revealing the rehearsed Gen Z gloss—probably practiced in front of a mirror to perfect that blend of sassy and sweet. “
“Well, ma’am,” she replied with feigned innocence, “good PR is more about results than wardrobe. But if it’ll make this conversation easier, I can grab some pearls.”
The mouth on this one.
I gave her a long, unbothered stare, assessing the playful sarcasm that danced across her features.
She was cute, but I had no use for cute. Cute led to cockiness; a tendency to forget who was truly in charge, and it certainly didn’t endure in my world.
“You have quite a mouth on you,” I said, stepping closer, my irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “You talk as if you don’t realize who I am.”
“Oh, I knowexactlywho you are,” she quipped without a hint of hesitation. “You’re the woman whose son hired me… without your permission.”
“And that’s precisely the problem,” I countered, giving her a slow, deliberate glance as I took in her casual demeanor. “Imanio needs someone seasoned, a polished professional with years of experience. A married woman with children doesn't scream damage control.”
She chuckled. “That’s funny. During my interview, those very qualifications were what screamed stability, strategy, and results. Oh, and they’re what landed me this job!”
“He needs structure! He needs style! A woman with flair, for goodness’ sake! A little shoulder pad and some sparkle wouldn’t hurt either!”
Saroya raised an eyebrow in response, her expression unchanging.
“I’m here to manage Mr. Kors’s image, not choreograph a Soul Train reboot. If you want glitter, call a stylist. If you want control of a billion-dollar narrative? You’ve called the right person.”
The girl was clever, smug, and clearly used to being underestimated. I had to give her that.
A dangerous mix.
“I’m saying, when it comes to my son?—”
"With all due respect,” she interjected, her tone polished and unnervingly calm. I despised how collected she sounded. “Your son is a grown man… an entire billionaire. If he’s trusted to lead multi-million-dollar deals and close boardroom negotiations, I think he can survive hiring his own publicist without a permission slip.”
I blinked, caught off guard by her poise.
“So you think that just because he hired you, you’re untouchable?”
She responded with a smile—tight, sharp, like a finely honed blade.
“No, ma’am. I know I’m qualified… that’s what makes me secure."
