Page 81 of Invisible Bars
He sat without being asked.
That was strike one.
Chi leaned back slowly, arms folded, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he was already annoyed.
I didn’t say a word at first… just stared, watching how he moved. The confidence in his stride wasn’t earned, it was practiced.
Arrogant. Performed.
Like he thought walking into a room full of Black men with degrees of power made him a diversity hire hero.
“I’m Carter,” he said smoothly. “First, I want to say, it’s an honor. I’ve done extensive research on your company’s expansion—especially your early moves. Brilliant strategy. Especially for someone… self-made.”
I didn’t blink. “Self-made?”
He nodded. “I mean, I couldn’t find much about your background, but based on your demographic, your tone, your image… well, you’re clearly not the typical Ivy League executive. Which is what makes your success even more inspiring.”
Strike two.
Chi’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t speak.
Carter leaned in a bit, trying to sound buddy-buddy. “I just think with the right positioning, we could reframe some of your harder edges. Make you more appealing to the broader market. You know—clean up the mystery a little.”
Strike three.
I stood and instructed, “Get up.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, stunned.
I moved closer. “You heard me. Get. Up.”
He rose slowly, confusion flashing across his face.
“See, you don’t know me. You don’t know where I’m from. You don’t know what I’ve done or what I haven’t. And yet, somehow, you decided I needed to be ‘repackaged.’ You want to clean up a mystery you don’t even understand.”
He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak.
“You walked in here thinking you could polish me into something marketable for white audiences. You saw me as a project—not as a partner or a brand. Just a Black nigga with a platform you thought needed your stamp of approval. Let me explain something to you…”
I took one step closer, lowering my voice until it carved through him.
“This ain’t a makeover show. This is a legacy… built off discipline, vision, and blood—none of which you had anything to do with. You might not know where I came from, and that’s fine. But understand this—you’ll never be allowed to define me, muthafucka.”
His eyes stretched.
I stepped over and opened the door.
“You can leave.”
“Mr. Kors, if you just give me a chance to clarify?—”
“Clarify it somewhere the fuck else,” I cut in, each word slicing through his little corporate delusion. “Oh, and you can run and tell that shit to yo’ lil’ white social club friends—‘Imanio Kors cursed at me!’ Yeah. I sure the fuck did. And I’ll do more if you don’t get the hell out of my office.”
Carter blinked, pale and shaken, looking like he’d never been spoken to like that in his life.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Matter of fact, let it.” I pointed to it. “Move.”
He stumbled back, scrambling to gather his folder and pride off the floor as he backed out of the room, mouth half-open like he wanted to report me to the nearest boardroom or blog.
