Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
IMANIO “GATEZ”
T here was a soft knock at my bedroom door.
“Enter,” I said without looking up, my back propped against the headboard, scrolling through unread emails on my laptop.
“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 were Black … 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 appeasing fragile 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 brought Naji to my crib—'cause technically it was after midnight when I killed Blu. Still, no food, no sleep, and no shower 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 on her.
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 in GlowSkin 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.
One minute, she was the rising face of their campaign, and the next, she was discarded like a defective product that no longer served their image. All that poise, beauty, and potential—reduced to a headline and a closed door.
Six years of grinding, only for her to get embarrassed in front of flashing lights and cameras.
It had to be something major that happened for her to be able to fly under the radar for six years with a huge outburst, especially in the modeling industry, where everyone lives off whispers and scandal.
People could speculate all day, but I wanted the truth. The real story… straight from Naji.
"Damn," I muttered as I stared at the screen.
Even though I told myself that Naji was just a liability, part of me didn’t believe that anymore. Not when she looked like that… not when I could feel her pain like it was leaking through the screen.
I had spent the past forty-eight hours diving into every article, medical journal, and blog I could find on Tourette syndrome.
The tics. The triggers. The anxiety.
I’d even watched two documentaries. One was about a girl who twitched every time someone touched her shoulder. Another followed a kid who couldn’t finish a sentence without cursing, proof that everyone living with that condition experienced it differently. It made me wonder—how bad could hers get?
I reached over, grabbed my phone, and scrolled through notes I’d made.
Avoid loud noises. No sudden movements. Don’t crowd her. No caffeine. No artificial dyes.
I made sure Mr. Shirley prepared everything mild and soft for Naji. I even ordered the peppermint tea in bulk she mentioned that night. I was just waiting for it to arrive. But none of that mattered if she wouldn't eat or drink.
I heard the elevator in the hallway chime, then moments later, my door opened without a knock.
Chi strolled in like he paid the bills and dared somebody to question him. Behind his ear was a vape pen tucked like a blunt.
Chi made it a habit to come through at least three times out of the week before heading to ‘work’. He claimed it was to holla at me, catch up on the previous night’s events—but I knew better. The nigga came for a free breakfast plate. He was consistent—I’ll give him that—like clockwork… or hunger.
“What’s up, big boss! Why you still in chill mode? You supposed to be getting ready to go out into the real world—shaking hands, selling overpriced condos, and convincing rich folks they need walk-in wine cellars in houses they don’t even live in.”
Chi flopped onto the chaise, already helping himself to a piece of fruit from the tray.
His eyebrows shot up. “ You … took off work?” he repeated, surprise thick in his voice, like the words themselves didn’t make sense coming out of my mouth.
“For Naji,” I clarified.
“Damn, she must got that silent-but-deadly emotional chokehold. Has she ate anything?” He asked, looking at the screen.
“Nope.” I shook my head.
“Bro, it’s been what—two days? This will make the third. At this point, she’s either in hibernation mode or she gotta be fasting… one of the other. And, nigga, stop answering me with these dry-ass responses like I’m the unwanted guest at the cookout! If I’m not welcome here, just say that!”
“ Nigga, if you weren’t welcomed, you’d already be buried under the grill,” I made known.
Chi’s mouth hung open for a second, then he coughed out a nervous chuckle.
“ Okay… damn. Noted. Remind me to never ask for ribs at your cookouts.”
I didn’t crack a smile; I just focused on Nija like I hadn’t just threatened to barbecue my best friend’s corpse.
Chi zoomed back in on the monitor.
“What is she doing now, though? It looks like she’s meditating…. maybe mourning. Or… she could be in that bitch plotting yo’ murder like a quiet lil' assassin.”
I tore my eyes from the screen to glare at him.
Chi lifted his hands like a damn preacher surrendering to the Lord.
“Aight, aight, my bad. Touchy subject. Sensitive area. Got it.”
“And, nigga, if she’s plotting on me, she’s plotting on yo’ ass too. You kidnapped her right alongside me. Not to mention, this whole kidnapping thing was your brilliant ass idea,” I reminded him.
Chi scratched the back of his neck, not even trying to deny it.
“True… but you’re the one who she saw kill Blu’s ass and this yo’ crib. So technically I’m more like... a witness.”
“Nigga, you’re not a witness; yo’ ass is a willing accomplice.”
Chi squinted like he was trying to do the math.