Chapter 11 #3
Chi joked a lot, but when a woman flirted with him—no matter how fine she was—he shut that shit down quick .
I wasn’t sure if he only did that when I was around because Dessign was my sister or if he genuinely respected her that much—probably both.
Either way, he didn’t mind hurting a feeling or two if it meant making it clear: he was taken and he didn’t play about Dessign.
The second the door clicked shut, I didn’t waste any time tossing her application in the trash.
I reclined in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
“Good help is so damn hard to find.”
“I felt like I was her damn parole officer doing a background check on her,” Chi joined in after retaking his seat.
“That’s probably what I need to start doing before the interviews. This shit is out of control.”
Chi turned to me, still grinning. “Aside from her ugly ass trying to flirt, I think she lowkey might shake things up if you hire her.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, shake up my damn sanity.”
“Dawg, you can’t say she didn’t come prepared to fight the blogs for you, though?”
“Nigga, I’m not hiring for a Twitter beef coordinator. If she walks in swinging, she ain’t learned how to strategize. Besides, I don’t fight the blogs; I feed ‘em just enough to starve ‘em later. My publicist has to move the same. Next applicant.”
The fourth candidate was beautiful and bad as fuck.
Model-type. Legs for days. Walked in like she owned the lighting and the moment.
Chi leaned in and whispered, “If you pick her, yo’ ass gon' be in the blogs by next week."
“Miss Jones,” I said, nodding slightly as I reviewed her application. “You’re very qualified… probably overly qualified. Impressive background.”
That was true.
She had three degrees—marketing, business, and public relations. Ran campaigns for two celebrity athletes and a fashion label that rebranded overnight after a scandal. She knew how to spin fire into perfume and was the kind of woman who made chaos look strategic.
But that was the problem.
If I hired her, I was afraid it wouldn’t just be my brand she was managing.
With her looks, her confidence, and that poised, camera-ready smile, the public wouldn’t know if she was my employee or my next scandal.
And I didn’t need that kind of confusion tied to my name—not with everything I had going on behind the scenes.
Knowing Naji, the minute she saw a viral clip of me standing next to that woman on a red carpet… she’d flip.
I could already hear the stuttered outburst: “Oh, so y-you trying… trying to hire Ms. P-pose-n-Provoke now?”
I chuckled at the thought.
Miss Jones smiled. "Thank you. I love helping powerful men shape their image. I’m also single, so… you never have to worry about me being too busy for you.”
Nope!
“Thank you for your time, Miss Jones. I’ll be in touch.”
She blinked rapidly, caught off guard. “O-oh, okay. I must say, I thought there would be more questions.”
“This was just a brief screening. If you get selected for a second interview, we’ll dive into the major questions,” I responded.
“Right! Of course!” She stood quickly. “Thank you again. I hope to hear from you,” she slyly flirted.
As the door closed behind her, Chi turned to me with a smirk.
“Yo’ ass just lied like a preacher at a side chick’s funeral. You know damn well you ain’t gon’ call that girl back… at least not to discuss her coming in for another interview. You were feeling, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, she was fine and all, but she gave me clingy vibes and you know I try to stay far as hell away from those kind of females, especially in my position.”
“In other words,” Chi drawled, “you wouldn’t hire her… but you’d fuck her—from the back, blindfold on, just so she wouldn’t know it was you.”
“That part,” I confirmed. “No face, no case.”
Chi shook his head, already heading to the door. “I’ma go ahead and get the next person before you give the order… Boss .”
I chuckled low. “You know the drill—don’t stand around too long or I’ma start thinking you applying too.”
The door creaked open, and in walked candidate number five.
White dude. Mid-thirties. Hair gelled back, pale blue tie too tight at the collar, and a cheap smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Me and Chi exchanged a glance with the same thought.
Nope.
Truth be told, I never planned to hire a white publicist.
Not for my brand… not with the kind of legacy I was building.
But to make sure I didn’t look “biased” or catch heat for being “too Black,” I’d accepted a few white applicants.
Optics. Paper trail. Nothing more.
He sat without being asked.
That was strike one.
Chi leaned back slowly, arms folded, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he was already annoyed.
I didn’t say a word at first… just stared, watching how he moved. The confidence in his stride wasn’t earned, it was practiced.
Arrogant. Performed.
Like he thought walking into a room full of Black men with degrees of power made him a diversity hire hero.
“I’m Carter,” he said smoothly. “First, I want to say, it’s an honor. I’ve done extensive research on your company’s expansion—especially your early moves. Brilliant strategy. Especially for someone… self-made.”
I didn’t blink. “Self-made?”
He nodded. “I mean, I couldn’t find much about your background, but based on your demographic, your tone, your image… well, you’re clearly not the typical Ivy League executive. Which is what makes your success even more inspiring.”
Strike two.
Chi’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t speak.
Carter leaned in a bit, trying to sound buddy-buddy. “I just think with the right positioning, we could reframe some of your harder edges. Make you more appealing to the broader market. You know—clean up the mystery a little.”
Strike three.
I stood and instructed, “Get up.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, stunned.
I moved closer. “You heard me. Get. Up.”
He rose slowly, confusion flashing across his face.
“See, you don’t know me. You don’t know where I’m from. You don’t know what I’ve done or what I haven’t. And yet, somehow, you decided I needed to be ‘repackaged.’ You want to clean up a mystery you don’t even understand.”
He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak.
“You walked in here thinking you could polish me into something marketable for white audiences. You saw me as a project—not as a partner or a brand. Just a Black nigga with a platform you thought needed your stamp of approval. Let me explain something to you…”
I took one step closer, lowering my voice until it carved through him.
“This ain’t a makeover show. This is a legacy… built off discipline, vision, and blood—none of which you had anything to do with. You might not know where I came from, and that’s fine. But understand this—you’ll never be allowed to define me, muthafucka.”
His eyes stretched.
I stepped over and opened the door.
“You can leave.”
“Mr. Kors, if you just give me a chance to clarify?—”
“Clarify it somewhere the fuck else,” I cut in, each word slicing through his little corporate delusion. “Oh, and you can run and tell that shit to yo’ lil’ white social club friends—‘Imanio Kors cursed at me!’ Yeah. I sure the fuck did. And I’ll do more if you don’t get the hell out of my office.”
Carter blinked, pale and shaken, looking like he’d never been spoken to like that in his life.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Matter of fact, let it.” I pointed to it. “Move.”
He stumbled back, scrambling to gather his folder and pride off the floor as he backed out of the room, mouth half-open like he wanted to report me to the nearest boardroom or blog.
Once the door closed behind him, Chi gave a slow whistle, arms folded like he’d been waiting on it.
“Man… when Gatez gon’ come back out to play? We might just have to visit ol’ boy after hours… knock a little humility back into him.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just sat down, staring at the empty chair, stewing in the silence.
“You might be right,” I finally muttered, my voice calm but dangerous. “That nigga didn’t walk into work for me; he walked in to try to redefine me. And I don’t play that shit.”
Chi shook his head. “Some interviews end with a handshake… others end with a warning.”
“For him?” I leaned back slowly, heat still riding the edge of my voice. “ A death wish . How many more interviews?” I asked, not in the mood for anymore of Chi’s humor.
“Two,” he answered, glancing at the clipboard. “You ready for the next one, or you need a minute to cool off, so the next person don’t end up catching your wrath by association?”
“I’m good,” I replied tightly. “The quicker we get this shit over with, the better. And for their sake…” I paused, voice dipping lower, eyes locked on the door.
“I hope they’re not white. As a matter of fact,” I added, fixing Chi with a look, “if there’s anybody else white on that list, tell ‘em I got sick or some shit and we gon’ have to reschedule. ”
Chi gave a slow, crooked grin. “Say less. I’ll hit ‘em with the ol’ Mr. Kors had a sudden case of ‘hell no.’ Real tragic.”
I didn’t laugh.
I couldn’t deal with another white presence that day—not after that entitled bullshit. I was liable to really spazz the fuck out, and me fully displaying Gatez in the daytime? That wasn’t good for nobody.
Not for business. Not for my image, and damn sure not for the next muthafucka that thought my silence meant softness.
The next candidate swaggered in with that loud kind of confidence that made my eyebrow twitch on sight and me sit up straighter.
He was Black, tall, broad across the chest, like he played ball in another life.
His navy suit was sharp and probably custom, hugging his build just enough to make a point.
The loafers? Clean. Shined. He even had a fresh lineup—the kind barbers only pull off when a nigga tips heavy or books in advance.
Even his damn pocket square matched his socks.
Adding to that, he smelled like money and arrogance wrapped in a clean resume.