Chapter 8 #3
I shuffled awkwardly in place. “Definitely the first one,”
Imanio’s eyes didn’t challenge me. “Mm-hmm.”
He simply nodded like he accepted it, but that flicker of knowing in his gaze told me he wasn’t fully convinced.
“Care to explain why you’re—” he glanced at his watch, “—five minutes late. Were you testing me or…”
“I… I would’ve been on time, but you got it—polar bears doing yoga in the kitchen!” The words shot out sharp and absurd before I could stop them, one of those outbursts I never asked for and couldn’t control. My cheeks burned instantly.
“I assume that means it’s a little too cold for your liking. Well, I like it cold… easier to remind people where they stand with me.”
Who hurt this man for him to be so damn arrogant and insensitive? I thought, biting my tongue before a real response slipped out.
“Lucille, could you adjust the temperature a bit to accommodate our guest.”
Imanio never looked away from me as he spoke. Did he do that out of kindness—hard to believe—or just to remind me he controlled even the air I breathed?
“Yes, sir!” the lady, who looked to be the maid, replied sharply, scurrying off.
“T-Thank you,” I muttered, my voice small.
Imanio offered a simple nod.
“Come sit. Before you melt into the marble,” he instructed, motioning to the chair at his right.
I timidly strolled over and took my seat slowly. My eyes immediately scanned the food laid out.
The table was filled with scrambled eggs with herbs, Belgian waffles with berries and powdered sugar, turkey sausage links, grits, fruit platters, avocado toast, and croissants.
Once I was seated, my stomach growled like it hadn’t eaten in years—loud enough to make a few of the staff glance over. I pressed my hand to it like that’d somehow shut it up.
“You look… a bit renewed.”
It felt like he wanted to say more. Still, I didn’t know whether to thank him or run back to the shower. I just sat there, twitching before blurting out again—that time clearly from my Tourette’s.
“Hot damn ham hocks!”
The guy who I assumed was a butler coughed into a napkin to hide his laugh.
Imanio’s eyes stayed right on me like I was the most interesting thing in the room.
“I feel... better," I admitted once I composed myself. "Still a little uncomfortable, b-but cleaner.”
“Well, let’s see if that new look comes with conversation.”
Ms. Shirley approached, calm and motherly, and poured a steaming amber liquid into a mug that had been set in front of me.
“Wh-What is that?” I asked.
“It’s peppermint tea, sweetie.” She smiled kindly and then glanced at Imanio.
I turned to him, surprised. He didn’t meet my gaze.
“You d-drink peppermint tea?” I asked softly.
“I don’t drink tea at all,” he answered, still avoiding looking at me. “I had Ms. Shirley grab some during her grocery run after you mentioned it… that night.”
He remembered.
When I’d mentioned that I was heading down to get some tea before being yanked out of my routine—and my freedom. I couldn’t believe he’d remembered that random detail.
“I… I love it,” I said. “It’s my favorite.”
“Well, since you couldn’t get any then, I figured I owed you a cup,” he said it like it was no big deal.
But it was.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Imanio still didn’t look at me. It was like he was actively avoiding being seen as a decent man. It was almost cute.
“But go ahead and eat,” he added with a flick of his wrist. “It’s been days.”
That was true.
I wrapped my hands around the warm mug first, taking a few cautious sips.
It tasted fresher, richer—like the mint leaves were handpicked by bougie monks in a serene garden of generational wealth.
Then I reached for the food. My first few bites were hesitant, like my body didn’t trust it yet.
But after the third bite? I blacked out…
or maybe the hunger took over. Either way, I inhaled it.
My fork barely hit the plate before I was loading it back up again.
“Slow down. There’s more where that came from,” Imanio said.
I paused mid-chew, suddenly aware of how aggressively I was eating. I felt my cheeks heat.
“I smell betrayal and burnt toast! If they offer you pineapple pizza, say no! It’s a trap!” I blurted without warning.
Imanio—like the staff—didn’t pay me any mind. However, I saw the faintest tug in his cheek. He pretended to be focused on whatever was on his screen, but I saw the twitch.
We sat in silence for a few minutes after that, with only the clink of our forks and the soft shuffle of staff moving through the house. The quiet wasn’t awkward; it was thick with unspoken questions, like we were both waiting for the other to talk first.
Then, with a shaky breath and a tic twitch running up my neck, I pushed my plate slightly forward and said, “Can… can we talk? Popcorn and policies! ” I yelled, my hand smacking the table harder than I meant to.
I winced, more from embarrassment than pain.
Without directly answering me, Imanio calmly turned his head and told his staff, “I need privacy to talk to Naji.”
They immediately paused what they were doing and then filed out quietly and professionally like a well-oiled machine—no eye rolls, no whispers… just quick nods and respectful distance. It unnerved me… a little.
I studied Imanio as the room cleared, trying to read him the way I’d try to read a warning label.
What kind of boss is he? Does he demand their respect through fear or admiration? Is he secretly cruel or just cold?
I got nothing. His expression remained unreadable.
No smirk. No warmth. Just those sharp, heavy-lidded eyes—dark and assessing.
It was like he could cut a lie out of someone with a stare.
“You have the floor,” Imanio said, finally placing his phone down.
His focus shifted entirely to me, and just like that, the nerves returned—creeping up my spine like a cold hand.
“First… why… why are they so nice to me? Turnips and court dates!” I yelped mid-sentence.
My neck jerked to the side, and my lips twisted. I pressed my palm to my chest to calm my breathing.
“Y-Your staff?” I finished, clarifying.
Imanio’s brow ticked up. “What do you mean, why they’re nice to you? Do you want them to be mean to you?”
“Most s-strangers are,” I muttered, lowering my head like I was trying to sink beneath the table.
“Well, I don’t hire mean people; I’m the only one allowed to be that.”
Imanio took a sip from his mug before adding, “But I won’t be that to you… unless you make me.”
His tone dropped just a bit—stern but not cruel. More… promising.
“Not in a way where I’m belittling you or making fun of you,” he cleared, leaning back in his chair slightly. “In other ways.”
The thought of him ever being mad at me turned me on right then.
The way his jaw clenched just enough, the way his voice carried that low thrum of control—it shouldn’t have stirred anything in me…
but it did. My mind went places I had no business visiting; places where he was above me, behind me, inside me—claiming, commanding, conquering.
I shook myself loose from those lewd thoughts before they took over completely.
“O-Okay,” I stammered, my voice shaky and soft.
Imanio’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer than necessary, as if he somehow sensed the shift in my thoughts. Then, in his usual calm tone, he informed me, “Besides, I told them about your condition, so they’re aware.”
My eyes widened in surprise. “Y-You did?”
“Yes. If you’re going to be staying here, they needed to be. That way, they won’t accidentally trigger you. And if they purposely do… they’ll answer to me.”
A tremor worked its way through me—not from fear, but from something heavier, more potent. It dragged low, somewhere beneath the ribs, where nerves and knowing collide.
“Th-Thank you,” I murmured. “I usually don’t tic much around people I’m… comfortable with.”
“Then we’ve got some work to do.”
In that moment, I couldn’t tell if my nerves were spiraling out of control because of the situation or because of him… maybe both. Either way, I was in trouble.
We sat in silence for a moment until I bravely revealed, "I know who you are… the real you."
My tic flared again—my fingers flexed against the cushion, and my head gave the faintest jerk.
“Tsss. Tsss. Tsss. Danger detected!” I yelped.
Imanio appeared unfazed, like he was already used to my unpredictable outbursts.
“Do you now?” he asked, voice low and edged with curiosity. “Enlighten me on what you think you know.”
My breath stuttered. My fingers twitched against my fork. Then came the first tic—a sharp shoulder jerk, followed by a muttered, “Lobster claws!”
I flinched and tried to push through. “Y-You’re Imanio Kors,” I started, then stopped as another tic emerged. “Grapes got legs!”
His expression still didn’t change.
“You’re the CEO of Kors Luxe Development,” I forced out. “I’ve seen you in commercials… b-billboards.” Another tic. “Alexa works for the Illuminati, don’t act brand new!”
My lips smacked involuntarily, and I coughed once to reset.
“You’re thirty-five… I think. Your company has luxury real estate on… on three continents. You— spaghetti knees ! You launched a financial app that replaced three major b-banks in six months.”
I took a shaky breath, trying to calm my flaring nerves, even though my foot kept tapping under the table like it had a mind of its own.
“You don’t just own buildings; you o-own the companies inside of them.
You’re basically… a monopoly with a six-pack.
" I paused as my shoulder gave a sharp shrug and I muttered under my breath, “ Monopoly my ass !” I continued. “I didn’t recognize you right away the other night because… well, m-murder tends to cloud memory,” I explained, tensing again. “But you’re definitely him.”
A long silence passed between us before Imanio finally spoke.
“I must say… very impressive work,” he replied coolly, resting an elbow on the table. “I see you’ve done your research on me… as I have on you. But you seem to know an awful lot about your kidnapper.”