Page 32 of Invisible Bars
“Good morning, Mr. Kors,” came the familiar voice of Ms. Shirley.
I glanced up and gave a respectful nod. “Good morning, Ms. Shirley.”
Ms. Shirley had been my chef for the last four years—Black, skilled, and ran my kitchen like it was a Michelin-starred war zone. And yes, my mama hated that. Not because she couldn’t cook—hell, the woman made oxtails so good they could settle street beef—but because of how it “looked.”
See, all my staff wereBlack… every damn one of them. My housekeeper, my chef, my security, my driver, even my gardener. And for reasons I never respected or agreed with, that made Giselle uncomfortable. She’d whisper slick comments about how it might “send the wrong message” to investors or high-profile guests. That it lacked a certain...polish.
But I didn’t give a damn what it looked like to outsiders. That was my crib—not some corporate showroom for appeasingfragile egos. I wasn’t about to surround myself with people who didn’t understand me, my roots, or my rhythm. Those weren’t just employees; they were professionals I trusted, people who earned their position, and reminded me of home, of truth, of hard work. And if that made anybody—including my own mama—squirm in their seat? That was their problem, not mine.
“I just came to check on you, Mr. Kors. You’re usually up and downstairs by now.”
I looked up from my laptop. “I appreciate you for checking on me, Ms. Shirley, but I’ll be working from home today.”
Her brow lifted ever so slightly, but she didn’t question it.
That’s why I kept her around—old-school manners, no nosy tendencies. Still, Ms. Shirley always noticed more than she let on—sometimes. There were times when she would even call herself telling me about myself.
“Oh, okay,” she replied softly. “I just wanted to make sure your breakfast is hot for you.”
“And I appreciate that as well, Ms. Shirley. I’ll be down shortly.”
Ms. Shirley hesitated, fingers curling around the edge of the door frame like she was debating whether to say what was really on her mind.
“Okay. But… what about the young lady?”
I didn’t respond immediately.
“I… I must say that I’m concerned a bit. She still hasn’t eaten,” Ms. Shirley continued, voice lowering like she was afraid to step out of line.
I sighed, heavy and tired, and set my laptop down on the nightstand beside me.
It was Monday… which meant two full days had passed since I’d broughtNajito my crib—'cause technically it was after midnight when I killed Blu. Still, no food, no sleep, and noshower on her end. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if she’d said a full sentence that wasn’t a panicked outburst.
Naji stayed holed up in that guest room like the air outside would eat her alive. And the thing that started to irritate me the most wasn’t just her silence, it was the waste of untouched food, the same clothes, and the worry on Ms. Shirley’s face every time she updated me.
Naji’s mental state? Fine. I could respect a shutdown. But the lack of cleanliness and the refusal to eat? That wasn’t gonna fly for much longer under my roof. Her cleanliness was bothering me more than I think it was bothering her.
"Okay. I’ll go have a talk with her."
"Alright then. Let me know if you need anything. I waited to prepare breakfast until I spoke to you first, so I’ll be starting in a few. Something light, maybe a fruit tray to coax her appetite."
I nodded, already pulling the covers off. "I’ll be down in about thirty." Then I added, with more force and certainty than I felt, "And she’ll be joining me, so go all out."
Ms. Shirley nodded and gave me that skeptical grandma side-eye before she exited the room, leaving me sitting there wondering what I’d stepped into and how the hell I was supposed to handle it right.
After a quick stretch, I hit the bathroom to handle my hygiene routine—brushed my teeth, washed my face, and all that other necessary shit. Then I walked over to my custom-mounted camera system and keyed in the password to peek in onher.
Naji was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped tightly around them like she was trying to hold herself together. The bed remained untouched. The tray of food on the nightstand from the previous night sat cold and untouched. Her bag, still zipped, sat next to her.
The way I became aware of Naji’s name was when I was in her room. I noticed the photos.
Modeling. Framed headshots. Editorial shoots.
I did my research once we arrived at my crib.
It turns out that Naji was popular. Her name pulled up in spreads, commercials, interviews—even a profile inGlowSkin Weekly. I had no clue before then that she was a model. Fashion had never been my thing. If it wasn’t tied to real estate or crime, I wasn’t checking for it.
But one headline stood out:Model Naji Ali Let Go After Onstage Tourette's Outburst.They tried to dress it up with soft statements and PR fluff, but the truth was clear as day—Naji had a full-blown tic attack during a high-profile runway show, and the brand dropped her with the quickness like yesterday’s trend. They issued a vague “we wish her the best” and moved on without so much as acknowledging the condition she never asked for.
