Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
NAJI
I woke up that next morning feeling different—rejuvenated in a way I hadn’t felt in weeks.
My body didn’t ache, my head wasn’t clouded, and my heart—though still cautious—wasn’t racing like it usually did when I opened my eyes in unfamiliar places.
And that’s when it hit me—I had slept almost twenty-four hours.
My first reaction was annoyance.
Why didn’t anybody wake me? What if I missed something important? What if they thought I was being lazy?
Then again, maybe they didn’t wake me because they knew my body needed it. Maybe they saw the exhaustion I’d been trying to fight off. And maybe, just maybe , they let me rest because they cared.
That thought sat heavy in my chest… but not in a bad way.
When I sat up in bed, the first thing my eyes landed on was my teddy bear and phone, sitting right next to my portfolio. All three had been carefully placed near my pillow like they were sacred—because to me, they were .
I frowned softly, my fingers brushing over the worn leather cover of my portfolio.
It was still intact. Every photoshoot, runway composite, tear sheet, and casting call memory was inside—the pages of who I used to be.
Images frozen in time where I looked confident, powerful, and unshakable.
But those pages didn’t show the panic behind my eyes, the forced stillness of my body during tic surges, or the nights I collapsed from pretending to be perfect.
I wasn’t even sure how Imanio knew to grab it. Maybe he didn’t realize what it meant to me—how much of my old self was stitched between those glossy sheets.
Or maybe he did.
Either way, I was thankful.
I tapped my phone screen, and to my surprise, it flickered to life.
Daphnee was probably frantic, worried sick about where I had disappeared. I quickly navigated to her contact information and hit "call," but instead of the familiar ringing sound, I was greeted by the voice of the operator, indicating that her phone was likely off.
Panic began to creep in. I wondered if my own phone was malfunctioning.
I dialed her number again, but there was nothing—no ringing, no response.
Feeling a sense of urgency, I decided to send her a quick text, hoping that at least the message would go through.
When it failed to send, my frown deepened.
In an attempt to troubleshoot, I switched to one of my coworkers' contacts and sent a message.
Unfortunately, I received the same discouraging outcome.
Confusion washed over me. I had just paid my phone bill recently, so I was certain there shouldn’t be any issues. The sinking feeling in my stomach told me that something was wrong, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what it could be.
Why was my phone acting up?
With a deep breath, I set the phone aside, figuring I’d deal with it later.
I slid out of bed and moved toward the bathroom. My legs felt a little wobbly at first—probably from the long rest—but after a stretch and a yawn, I was good.
I went through my morning routine slowly. I let the steam from the shower melt some of the tension out of my shoulders. By the time I wrapped myself in a towel and wiped the fog from the mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back at me.
Less puffy eyes. Less sadness. Still quiet. Still guarded. But… softer somehow.
After lotioning up and slipping on a clean pair of black leggings and an oversized gray T-shirt that fell off one shoulder, I moved to the mirror and pulled my hair into a simple, sleek bun.
My go-to.
Then I caught it—the aroma of breakfast.
My stomach grumbled like it had a voice and was ready to cuss me out for ignoring it for so long. Still, I didn’t move right away.
I stood at the bedroom door, hand on the knob… listening.
I wasn’t sure who I’d run into first.
Imanio? The chef? Ms. Shirley? Someone new?
So I moved carefully and quietly like a thief sneaking through a house that didn’t belong to them. I tiptoed into the hallway, heart lightly thudding in my chest, alert mode fully activated. Every creak in the floor, every faint voice from somewhere made me pause—not out of fear.
Okay… maybe a little.
But more out of habit. I wasn’t used to safety yet, and I damn sure wasn’t used to feeling seen.
I wasn’t even sure how many square feet the house had, but I was already learning that the kitchen felt like its own tiny restaurant—complete with staff.
I paused in the doorway, almost too nervous to step in.
That’s when I saw her.
Ms. Shirley.
She stood at the stove, graceful and composed, flipping something in a cast-iron skillet like a woman who knew her way around both food and wisdom. Her silver-streaked bun was pinned up neatly, apron tied tight, and she wore pearls like it was Sunday morning.
She turned and smiled the moment she noticed me—a big, warm, mama-type smile that felt familiar even though I didn’t know her.
“Good morning, sweetie. You hungry?”
“Y-Yeah, I-I could eat.”
Especially after being drugged into a peaceful sleep. Those were my thoughts, though.
My head jerked lightly to the side, and I blurted out, “Eat-eat-a tree! Sorry!”
Ms. Shirley didn’t make a face. In fact, she just laughed—a rich, deep sound that filled the room like music from an old jazz record.
“Mmm. That sleep cocktail I slipped you in that juice?” she said, as if she had a backstage pass to my thoughts. “It’s been putting grown men out for years.”
“So it… it wasn’t Ambien?”
“Ambien?” she chuckled. “Is that what Mr. Kors told you? No, it wasn’t Ambien, sweetie, but nothing harmful either; just something herbal and gentle. I figured your body needed a reset, and Lord knows you looked like you hadn’t slept since gas was under three dollars.”
I let out a shy laugh, even as my tics twitched again. One shoulder jerked, and I mumbled under my breath, “Sleep, sheep, creep— damn. ”
Ms. Shirley acted like she didn’t even hear it. “Have a seat, dear. I’ll bring you a plate right over.”
I nodded, still shy, and walked over to the island, pulling out a chair slowly. The stool was high, but I managed to climb on without tripping over myself or my own anxiety.
As I glanced around the room, I noticed something—or rather, someone—was missing.
“W-Where’s Imanio?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended. Another tic slipped out: “F-fuck—where’s the shark, huh?”
“Oh, sweetie, he left a bit early this morning; he said he had to get a head start on work since he missed out yesterday.”
I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.
Dang.
I didn’t know why I felt disappointed or why I wanted to see him before he left.
Naji, what are you doing? That man kidnapped you; this ain’t a rom-com.
I shook the thoughts off and focused on the plate that Ms. Shirley slid in front of me.
It was beautiful.
The eggs were perfectly scrambled with peppers and spinach, turkey sausage links stacked like little towers, and steaming cinnamon apple waffles. A glass of fresh orange juice sat beside it, beaded with condensation.
“Oh, and I can’t forget about your tea,” Ms. Shirley said with a proud little smile, reaching over to pour it gently into the ceramic mug in front of me.
A stuttered breath caught in my throat. My face tensed, eyes blinking faster than I could control.
“T-Tea time. T-thank you. Thank you—damn, yes ma’am.”
Ms. Shirley smiled like she heard everything, understood it all, and loved me anyway.
“You’re most welcome, sweetie,” she replied, giving my shoulder a soft pat like I’d known her my whole life.
Ms. Shirley wiped her hands on her apron. “Now, I don’t know your likes and dislikes yet, so if there’s anything on that plate you don’t eat, just let me know. I don’t offend easy.”
I picked up my fork, still feeling a little bashful.
“N-normally, I—I eat healthy… plant-based sometimes. No fried foods. No red meat. But… F-Fridays?”
“ Fridays ?” she quizzed with raised brows.
I grinned a little. “Fr-Fridays I cheat. Eat an-anything—chicken wing, side of sin—shit!”
Ms. Shirley let out a light laugh, like a chuckle from the soul.
“Well, I hope you’ll consider today an honorary Friday,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Lord knows if I had a waist like yours, I’d eat like it was Friday every day.”
We shared a laugh—the kind that made the kitchen feel just a little less foreign… maybe even safe.
I wasn’t ready to admit that out loud yet, but my smile said it anyway.
“Have... you’ve worked for Imanio a long time?” I asked, my voice soft, almost hesitant—like I was asking about someone who didn’t like being spoken on unless he was in the room.
Ms. Shirley took a seat next to me, crossing her legs neatly. Her perfume—light and floral—floated between us, the kind only women over sixty wore and wore well .
“Four years,” she said with a proud nod. “Four great years.”
I glanced down at my tea, stirring it gently even though she had already added just the right amount of honey.
“Does he… treat y’all good?”
The question slipped out like I was asking about a secret society—one with money, power, rules, locked doors, and a code of silence that punished curiosity.
“Believe it or not, he does,” she replied, her tone calm but sure.
“Better than most would. Not to be mistaken, he’s sharp, expects a lot, and doesn’t tolerate mess or laziness.
But he pays on time—good at that—never looked down on us or disrespected us and never asks for loyalty he doesn’t earn.
Mr. Kors just likes things done clean, precise, and on schedule.
Which, honestly, should be expected in a position like his. ”
Her gaze landed on mine again, more pointed this time.