Chapter 11 #5
I leaned in, whispering low enough for only him to hear, “I’m never inviting yo’ ass to anything else with a dress code again.”
Chi clutched his chest like I’d just hit him with a cease-and-desist.
“So I crack one joke and now I’m the reason Black men don’t get invited to boardrooms? Bet.”
I glanced back at Saroya, half-expecting her to be halfway out the door, deeming the whole damn interview too unprofessional to tolerate.
Saroya actually laughed. “It’s cool. I was prepared for these kind of questions. But to answer your question, just traffic court. I cried. They let me off. But I know how to hold my own when it counts.”
Yeah… she might just be the one.
I didn’t just want someone who was intelligent, dependable, organized, loyal, could read the room, unshakable under fire, sharp enough to navigate a crisis with grace, but grounded enough not to unravel under pressure; I also wanted someone who didn’t take their job too seriously.
What I meant by that was, someone who could still laugh and put professionalism aside when the moment called for it and just be real.
I wasn’t looking for a stiff PR robot; I wanted a human…
someone who knew how to wear the role without letting the role wear them.
And judging by the way Saroya carried herself, with that calm confidence and no extra fluff… she might actually be that person.
Chi leaned back, pleased. “She got jokes and credentials. I like her.”
I nodded slowly and opened the portfolio she placed in front of me.
Her layout was clean, her analytics were precise, and the sample crisis response memo was damn near flawless.
“This is clean work,” I applauded, flipping through the pages like it was a restaurant menu. “Strong layout. Clear KPIs.”
I looked up, mildly impressed.
“You track long-term engagement strategy?”
“Yes! I don't just repair reputations; I cultivate narratives. I believe in building a brand people can trust before it ever needs defending.”
“Smart,” I replied, still reading. “You ever worked with a client who’s been… misunderstood? Someone the media tends to villainize, regardless of facts?”
“My last client had three baby mamas, two lawsuits, and a leaked sex tape. We got him a shoe deal.”
“Say the media's on fire, and your client refuses to make a statement. Do you push back or play safe? What’s your move when the brand’s reputation is slipping, and the person behind it is the problem? How do you protect the business without stepping on the wrong ego?”
Most people would've said, Hold on, you're taking me too fast. But surprisingly, Saroya didn’t flinch at a single question I threw her way, which had me nodding in quiet satisfaction. That told me one thing: she paid attention. And when a person worked for me, that wasn’t just a preference, it was a requirement.
“First, I assess the fire. Not every blaze needs a full water truck—some just need a fire blanket and silence. So I look at the facts, the narrative, and the emotional temperature. If my client refuses to make a statement, I pivot. Silence can be powerful when it’s intentional, not passive.”
She shifted her posture, poised but unshaken. “But if the damage is bleeding into the brand, I push. Not loud, not messy, but strategic. I come with options, not ultimatums.”
“Like?” I questioned.
“Alternatives that protect the client and the business. A recorded video instead of a press conference. A written statement crafted in their voice; a subtle move on social that says everything without saying too much.”
Then her focus sharpened just slightly.
“If the client is the problem—and sometimes they are—I don’t dance around it.
I address it privately, respectfully, and with receipts.
My goal is never to silence a voice; it’s to redirect it.
I make sure my client understands the cost of every word, every post, every pause.
I don’t force them to follow the PR plan; I make them want to. ”
She smiled, calm but serious. “And when it comes to ego… I study it first. Know what triggers it, what calms it, and what earns its trust. I don’t need to outshine my client. I just need to protect the light they’re standing in.”
Chi whistled low. “Damn. If you don’t hire her, I’m gon’ think you wanna stay in blog hell.”
For once, I didn’t have a slick comeback. Because he was right.
Saroya wasn’t just qualified, she was composed under pressure, sharp in her delivery, and smart enough to handle my brand without needing hand-holding.
She didn’t flinch or fold during questioning or answering.
And more importantly… she didn’t try to flirt.
She was the perfect match for my image, and the kind of presence that made noise without being loud.
Saroya turned to Chi with a raised brow. “I’m sorry—what exactly do you do here?”
“Oh, me? I’m moral support. Backup muscle. Resident truth-teller. Sometimes I pretend to answer emails.”
I shook my head and focused back on Saroya.
She seemed a little too good to be true, so I wanted to challenge her a bit.
“If I hired you today, what would be your first move if a scandal breaks about me tomorrow ?”
“Depends on the scandal. If it’s criminal—lawyer up first, then silence. If it’s salacious—buy time with a distraction story. If it’s personal—lean into transparency but control the platform.”
I gave a short nod, keeping my expression neutral but impressed.
“I keep scenarios ready,” she added. “You’re too powerful not to be targeted eventually. People love a villain until they need a hero.”
I stared at Saroya for a moment, letting the silence drag.
She didn’t fidget, blink fast, or try to fill the gap with fluff; she just waited.
I pressed the folder closed and shifted forward slightly like a judge about to deliver a verdict.
“I like you… for the position. If your background checks out, you might just be my new publicist.”
Saroya’s smile widened. “Really?! Oh, thank you!”
“Don’t thank me yet. We still have to run that clearance… and I don’t do half-assed background checks.”
“He ain’t lying,” Chi added, arms folded. “This man will find out if you cheated on a test in third grade or stole a Now hire her ass! If you don’t hire that woman, I’m calling yo’ mama and telling her you out here fumbling potentially good workers.”
I smirked. “Nigga, you hate my mama.”
“Facts! But I’ll make an exception this one time. That woman is PR gold! Adding to that, she doesn’t even want yo’ ass, which is rare. I’m telling you… you better hire her before the blogs do another piece on ‘Mysterious Mogul Kors Seen Brooding in All Black.”
I chuckled. “Shut the hell up!”
Chi loosened his tie. “I’m burning this damn suit the second I get to the crib. You owe me lunch, too, nigga. So where we going? I need a drink strong enough to erase the last interviews… before Saroya came along.”
“I got you,” I said, standing. “We can hit Prime Theory Steakhouse—that spot off Lenox.”
Chi’s eyes lit up. “That’s the one with the bar that don’t water down the drinks?
Oh, hell yeah! And yo’ rich ass is definitely paying for that expensive ass place.
I ain’t gon’ lie, though, that ribeye I had from there once was so damn good it made me damn near call my daddy just to say ‘thank you’ for nothing. ”
I chuckled again. “Nigga, you wild. But look, I gotta make a run somewhere first. I’ll meet you there around twelve-thirty.”
“Aight.”
“Although yo’ ass works my fuckin’ nerves, I appreciate you for coming through today. It’s rare we get to do business where nobody’s bleeding or we’re hiding bodies,” I said, appreciative of Chi for always having my back.
“Facts. But is that supposed to be sentimental?”
I grinned, holding my palms up, walking backward toward the door.
“That was my version of a Hallmark card. Take it or leave it, nigga.”
I had a meeting with a preacher —not for prayer, not for peace. I wasn’t seeking salvation or Sunday morning sermons; I needed to get married. Fast. No questions, no church bells; just a signature, a vow, and silence.
The church office smelled like lemon polish and old guilt.
I stood by the window, not looking out, just watching the glass fog slightly from my breath. Behind me, the door clicked shut as Reverend Ellis entered, hesitant steps echoing in the quiet room.
“Mr. Kors,” he greeted, clearing his throat. “I was told you wanted to meet privately?”
I didn’t turn around right away.
“I did,” I finally responded. “Have a seat.”
Reverend Ellis hesitated for a fraction of a second before lowering himself into the chair, his movements tentative.
He adjusted his collar nervously, the starched fabric crinkling under his fingers, and behind the thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, I caught the flicker of anxiety.
Although I wasn’t facing him directly, I could still see his movements out of the corner of my eye… and that was enough.
“So… wh-what are you seeking today, son? A confession? You’d like to join the church? Maybe looking to invest?” he chuckled nervously, wiping a bead of sweat that didn’t even have time to form yet.