Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
NAJI
F or three nights, I remained on the floor—buried in fear, wrapped in silence, and cloaked in the same stale hoodie, T-shirt, leggings, and undergarments.
I hadn’t eaten and I barely slept. My fingers clung to the same blanket like it could somehow shield me from the truth, though deep down I knew it couldn’t.
The illusion was all I had. I waited, for what I wasn’t sure—maybe for someone to come in and drag me out, or the moment I’d finally break.
With my back against the wall, I lifted my arms and took a cautious sniff. Instantly, my nose wrinkled. The stench of musk, anxiety, and three days of silence clung to me like a second skin—thick, sour, and unapologetic.
For the first two days, I didn’t notice any odor—probably because I usually kept a strict hygiene routine and ate clean, balanced meals at least six days a week.
That kind of discipline helps keep body odor to a minimum.
But the funk was creeping in. And even though I could feel it crawling all over me, I still couldn’t bring myself to shower. The thought of being completely naked in a space I didn’t control sent my heart racing.
What if there were cameras in there? Hidden behind the mirror, tucked into the corners, watching? No. I wasn’t taking that chance.
I had taken my anxiety pills—if nothing else—but the anxiety never left. Even when I did manage to drift off for a few minutes, I’d jolt back awake, heart hammering, mind racing. I was either dreaming about escape or death—there was no in between.
When thirst crept in, I didn't touch the bottled waters that sat on the dresser. Instead, I drank from the bathroom faucet. The water wasn’t dirty, which didn’t take me for a total shock—that was a rich man’s house.
Based on how spotless the bathroom was and the sleek, high-end faucet that looked like it belonged in a luxury spa, I was almost certain it had some five-star filtration system built in. It tasted clean… too clean, maybe.
The chef, Ms. Shirley, who offered me water and food, seemed kind.
She had that gentle and patient voice. But I wasn’t going to be a fool.
I’d seen enough kidnapping movies to know how easily someone could pretend to be the “nice one”—the kind of person who’ll bow their head to pray with you, then slip poison in your soup and Visine in your water before the amen’s done. ”
I wasn't about to be one of those fools who got comfortable and ended up in a ditch.
Not me.
Still, I drank from the faucet in small sips, convincing myself that at least the water came from a fixed source I turned on myself and not a bottle someone handed to me.
When the door opened, I leaped up from the floor and nearly screamed.
Gatez or Imanio —whatever name he was going by right then had entered. That was the first time he’d come into the room since I’d been brought there. And it wasn’t until I finally settled down that it hit me like a slap across the face.
I knew him.
He was Imanio Kors; one of the richest, if not the richest, men in the city—maybe the world.
His face had been plastered across billboards, magazines, Forbes covers, and news headlines for years.
He was the man people whispered about in luxury lounges and high-rise elevators—a man whose money walked into the room before he did.
And yet, I remembered thinking he looked grumpy, like someone who felt perpetually inconvenienced by life.
But a killer? No. Imanio Kors didn’t seem like the type to commit murder.
He gave off the vibe of a rich villain who might sue you into the ground, not someone who would actually take your life.
But that Gatez version? That was different.
That man wasn’t about lawsuits or paperwork.
And he obviously didn’t settle scores in boardrooms; he ended them in blood.
Same man, two faces. And I couldn’t decide which one terrified me more.
I found myself curious about what kind of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde situation I had gotten myself into.
Before I could make sense of it all, my body reacted on its own.
A sharp tic shot through me. My shoulders snapped upward like a broken puppet string. My left foot stomped the ground—twice—like I was trying to call a demon out the floor. Then it came—the outburst.
“ Cupcakes and consequences! The crusty ones from the gas station, not the ones with the swirls!” I attempted to shout, my voice a little hoarse from days of barely speaking.
I clapped my hands twice, then grabbed the hem of my shirt like it could somehow rewind the moment.
Imanio’s brows lifted slightly.
Not dramatically. Not judgmental. Just a subtle tick of interest.
He didn’t laugh, flinch, or pretend like he didn’t hear me blurt out something that sounded like a hallucination from a candy-fueled fever dream.
Imanio walked in slowly, like I was some spooked deer he didn’t want to startle.
There was something careful about the way he moved—like he was used to power but not interested in using it to frighten me.
Not right then anyway.
And then he did something I didn’t expect: He touched my arm.
The second his hand landed gently on my skin, my tics stopped. Although my body relaxed, my mind didn’t. It was almost like it didn’t know what to do with gentleness.
I blinked again… slower that time.
“Calm down. I’m not here to hurt you. You okay?”
I nodded slowly, even though it was a lie.
Imanio cocked his head slightly. "Your three-day-old clothes, uneaten food, the bags under your eyes, and the way you keep looking everywhere but at me tells me differently."
I chewed on my thumbnail, blinking rapidly. My leg bounced so hard it made the floor vibrate. I tried to answer, I really did, but another flare-up ripped through me before I could help it.
“Back up, America’s Most Wanted!” My voice had risen an octave and dipped halfway into opera before crashing into a whisper.
My mouth dropped open slightly in fear, and I slapped my hand over my mouth.
“S-Sorry,” I stammered immediately, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m… I’m scared,” I admitted, the words trembling out of me like a shiver I couldn’t shake.
My throat burned, and tears pricked the back of my eyes.
“I don’t know this place! I… I don’t know you! I didn’t know what y-you’d do if I left this room! Yogurt lids and panic buttons! ” I blurted, hugging my arms to my body.
“I told you I wasn’t gonna hurt you… and I meant that.”
Although there was a hint of sincerity in Imanio’s tone, his following words caused me to tense again.
“But we gotta make some quick decisions.”
My heart sprinted ahead of my brain.
“W-What kind of decisions?” I asked.
My voice cracked mid-sentence, and my body gave in again. Before I could stop it, the panic erupted from my mouth in a burst of emotion.
“Birdseed! Don’t touch the biscuits!”
My face flushed with embarrassment.
“S-Sorry again!”
Imanio didn’t react with confusion or disgust; he just leaned in so I could hear him clearly.
“There’s an option we need to talk about,” he announced. “Marriage.”
My mouth parted like I wanted to respond, but nothing came out… just another twitch. My fingers fluttered, and my head gave the tiniest shake, like a doll with a loose screw.
"Hell no—choke on a crayon ! "
The words flew out before I could catch them. My head tilted to the side, almost like my body was trying to physically reject what I’d just said—as if denying it might undo it.
Imanio’s eyes flicked to it, but again… he said nothing in response to my uproar—like he was mildly curious, not surprised.
I blinked again. “I—I’m sorry. What?
“Marriage,” he repeated calmly.
"I’m… I’m not marrying you! That’s i-insane!”
A sharp tension shot through my shoulder, followed by an uncontrollable spasm that seized my muscles—then came the tic, sharp and sudden, firing out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Waffle wedding! Nope, no rings! Toast and run!”
Imanio waited until the tic passed before stepping closer; his voice even and quiet but firm enough to still the room.
“I’m not asking you to love me; I’m not even asking you to like me, but I’m giving you the truth.”
“I won’t do it!” I stated with finality, trying to shrink back into myself. “Y-You can’t make me marry you!”
He gave a slow nod, voice calm. “I won’t make you… but I need you to understand what happens if you don’t . If you leave here and decide to talk to anyone—that’s my life on the line. You get that?”
"But I’m… I’m not a threat to you!"
“And I believe you. But believing you doesn’t erase possible consequences.
” He sighed. “Look, I protect my life as well as the image I’ve built.
Marrying you means that, legally, no one could make you testify against me.
It gives me a layer of safety… and you as well.
Because if somebody else finds out what you saw, they won’t talk about options; they’ll just erase the problem. And that problem would be you.”
I went silent. The room felt heavy with the weight of his words.
“I’m giving you a day to decide what kind of story you want to be a part of; that’s more than I give most people who get involved in my world. You’ll be joining me for breakfast in the next fifteen minutes and we can talk more then,” he said more as a command and not a question.
My right shoulder twitched and my neck jerked to the side.
“More ransom than romance,” I grumbled, as an involuntary whisper escaped my lips.
I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, he was still staring.
Imanio leaned down just slightly, lips inches from mine—but not touching.
“I could’ve left you in that spot for someone else to find.
Or… I could’ve let you run wild and hope for the best. But I don’t do hope …
I do control, precision, and damage control when needed.
And if I’m offering you my last name, it’s not because I see potential in you as my wife; it’s because it fixes a narrative that could ruin me. ”