Page 94 of Invisible Bars
Imanio paused mid-step, hand on the car door.
“Damn, you gon’ cry for real?”
For a second, Imanio sounded like he regretted putting me in that position and hadn’t expected me to fold so fast.
“No! Maybe! The last p-part was a joke. Really.”
Imanio stared at me, expression unreadable, like he couldn’t decide if he believed me or if he was quietly waiting to see where I’d go with it.
“I thought you was on yourhealthyjourney andFridaysare your cheat days. It’s Saturday,” he said.
“I am… and they are. Th-h-his can be an exception.”
With no further questioning, he nodded.
“Aight. I’ll get you a cake… even eat it with you. But don’t think that makes us a real couple.”
I smirked. “Oh, we’re not a couple; we’re a l-legally binding PR disaster with frosting.”
The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“Get in.”
Somehow, against all odds and logic—I had just said “I do”… to my captor.And now, I was riding shotgun with the devil wearing a sundress and asking for cake.
13. Imanio “Gatez”
Floor-to-ceiling windows let in bright Manhattan sunlight. A long walnut wood conference table stretched the length of the room, surrounded by a dozen high-level executives, analysts, and legal advisors.
Laptops open. Coffee half-drunk. Charts and reports glowing on a smart screen.
But me… I wasn’t looking at any of it.
I sat at the head of the table in a signature charcoal grey suit, one arm resting on the polished surface. My fingers idly traced the platinum band around my ring finger—new, smooth, heavy, like a contract signed in silence and a commitment no one in the room could begin to comprehend.
“We project a thirty-eight percent increase in international interest if we close the Dubai partnership by the fourth quarter,” someone said confidently.
I didn’t respond. My thumb was still brushing the ring like I couldn’t decide if it was a shackle or a trophy.
It had been almost a week since we got married—six to be exact. Things were... the same. Predictable, even. We hadn’t done anything that married people typically do, though.
No honeymoon. No photos on Instagram. No shared closet space.
Hell, we hadn’t even kissed. We just ate meals together like two strangers locked in the same orbit—sharing plates, silence, and the occasional awkward glances. And still, for some reason, I wantedmore.
Not sex. Not yet, at least.
What I wanted was something I couldn’t name. Something heavier… realer.
I found myself listening to the way she whispered to herself when she was alone. Watching how she organized her plate—how her peas never touched her rice. How she twitched, muttered, and tried so damn hard to hide it, like her body was a battlefield, and she was always fighting to look calm in the chaos. And even though Naji still tensed—sometimes—when I entered the room, she stayed, ate with me, and sat near me. She laughed once or twice, even if it was by accident.
I couldn’t lie to myself. I wanted to know what made her laugh on purpose.
Maybe I’d ask her to watch a movie with me tomorrow. Not as a husband. Just… as a man.
“Mr. Kors?” Lydia’s voice asked cautiously. “Do we have your go on the overseas expansion?”
My eyes snapped up.
