Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
NAJI
I stood in front of the mirror, sweating like a sinner in Sunday school.
And I wasn’t even in a real wedding dress; just a soft ivory sundress Ms. Shirley had steamed like it was designer couture.
It hugged my small curves gently, the fabric light and innocent—something I wasn’t sure matched the circumstances.
My hair had been pulled back into a low puff, but a few stubborn strands kept springing loose like they had minds of their own.
My palms? Slicker than a politician’s handshake in election season.
I cleared my throat, then immediately had a tic.
My shoulder rolled sharply and my fingers flicked against my thigh in a staccato rhythm.
This is really happening. I’m really about to marry the man who kidnapped me—sort of.
Imanio was also the same man who tucked me in when my body shut down from anxiety, who brought me food when I refused to eat, retrieved my teddy bear like some vigilante Build-A-Bear agent with a violent streak and a soft spot, and who hadn’t asked me to marry him but basically told me I was going to.
My head jerked suddenly at the sound of the door creaking open. I tried to breathe evenly as I turned toward him.
My stomach did a somersault.
Imanio stepped into the room and stood a few inches away, dressed in all black—no tie, no boutonnière—like someone who didn’t know the difference between a wedding and a funeral.
But somehow, it worked. His attire consisted of a black turtleneck, black slacks, and some ridiculous cologne that kept floating into my nose every time he moved.
Imanio stared at me like I was a damn miracle.
The kind you don’t pray for out loud because you’re afraid God might take it back.
My brow twitched and my lip jerked. “Is… Is something wrong? D-Do I need to do my hair a different way?” I asked quickly, bracing myself for criticism.
His eyes didn’t waver. “No. You look… perfect.”
Perfect? Coming from him? That’s unexpected.
A blush crawled up my neck before I could stop it. I dipped my head and fiddled with the edge of the sundress, muttering a tic under my breath. “Hot damn—I mean, thank you.”
He gave the tiniest smirk. “You ready?”
“As ready as a h-hostage bride can be,” I mumbled sarcastically.
Imanio hadn’t told me where we were going. That wasn’t some fairy tale, so I knew it wouldn’t be held at a church and damn sure not a courthouse.
Before we stepped outside, Imanio paused and turned to me. I knew that look—calm but layered.
“Naji,” he said, his voice low but edged with command, “I know we don’t know each other that well…
but understand this; I’m doing this for both our protection.
So hear me clear: don’t try nothing crazy while we’re out.
Don’t try to make a scene or run. Because if you do, I promise you won’t like how I handle it. ”
My body twitched before I could respond.
“I-I won’t!” I rushed out.
Imanio studied me longer than necessary, then gave a slight nod.
“Let’s ride.”
I slipped into the back of his Rolls Royce Phantom and tried not to shrink into the plush seats. My fingers danced restlessly against my knees. I stared out the window; the buildings passing like blurs. The silence between us sat heavy… until I noticed his phone.
It kept buzzing… once… then again… and again.
Imanio never answered or silenced it; he just stared out the opposite window like none of it mattered.
I side-eyed him. My mouth moved before I could filter it.
“Y-You tell your women you were getting married today?” I joked awkwardly.
“I don’t have women… much less a woman ,” he replied casually, not even turning his head.
My brow jumped. That answer caught me off guard, and for some reason… I didn’t like how it made me feel.
Then what will I be to you?
I didn’t say it; I just pressed my lips together and looked back out the window. Another tic buzzed in my throat, a muttered curse barely audible. My hands curled into themselves, trying to ground me.
That week had flipped my whole damn life upside down. One minute, I was in my space that I called my room, sipping tea and watching reruns—bored, but peacefully. Next, I was playing house with a chef who could cook a mean steak and a man who could crush my bones with probably one snap.
And now I was on my way to marry him.
Imanio said the only people in attendance would be me, him, the officiant, and two witnesses—who he refused to name. But he did make one thing very clear: “ One of them isn’t Chi.”
As if that was supposed to calm my nerves.
However, the fact Imanio even felt the need to clarify that, let me know Chi had probably volunteered—loudly and more than once.
Still, something about none of his friends or family being there gnawed at me more than I cared to admit.
It wasn’t like I wanted a bouquet toss or bridesmaids in matching dresses…
but a part of me couldn’t shake the weirdness of it, and that part wanted to know if it was at least real.
I was about to sign my name to something huge ; something that could end up temporary, or permanent, and nobody who knew him—or me—would even be there to witness it.
That made the whole thing feel less like a ceremony and more like a secret.
Even if it wasn’t built on love, I believed it deserved more than silence.
Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe I was still a prisoner… just in a prettier box. Maybe I was a secret meant to be locked up forever and never spoken about.
We arrived at a house—a small, secluded one tucked into the trees, like it had been hidden there on purpose.
The driveway was long and curved, flanked by trimmed hedges and a low wrought iron gate that creaked slightly as it opened.
The exterior was warm beige stone with dark wood shutters, the kind of place that whispered money but didn’t scream it.
A single black SUV was already parked out front, engine off but still warm.
Our driver got out and opened the door for us. Imanio stepped out first, then extended his hand toward me. I hesitated before taking it, tensing as his fingers closed around mine.
“Relax,” he said softly. “You’re not walking into a trap… at least not today.”
“Y-You suck at c-comfort speeches.”
“Wasn’t trying to be comforting.”
We walked toward the door, and I noticed cameras—small ones, almost invisible. That’s when I realized that wasn’t a house someone lived in; it was a safe house.
I must say, I wasn’t expecting a string quartet or rose petals leading to an altar, but damn… he could’ve at least lit a candle. Even criminals light a damn candle when they’re trying to make things sentimental. That felt like a hostage trade, not a marriage ceremony.
When we entered the room where I assumed the ceremony would take place, my eyes immediately locked on two people sitting near the far wall—a black couple, who looked like they’d just wandered in from a subway bench.
The heat hadn’t been kind to them .
The man’s tattered denim jacket hung open over a sweat-drenched T-shirt, the neckline stretched and stained like it’d lived through too many summers.
His mismatched shoes—one worn-down sneaker, one busted dress shoe—looked like they’d been battling the concrete for years.
Sweat beaded along his temples and ran down the side of his neck as he dabbed himself with a crumpled fast-food napkin that wasn’t helping anybody.
The woman fanned herself weakly with a laminated takeout menu, her faded floral dress stuck to her thighs.
Her slip-on sandals flopped every time she shifted in the chair, and her bra strap peeked out like it too, had given up.
They both looked nervous, sweaty, lost… and a little scared too—just like me.
I glanced at Imanio, who stood beside me, composed and chill, like that wasn’t even the weirdest part of his day.
“Who a-are these people?” I whispered, clinging to him.
His voice didn’t even dip w8hen he responded, “The two witnesses.”
I pulled back. “Y-You know them… personally?” I was still talking in a low tone.
Imanio stared at me like I’d just asked if he wore wigs on weekends.
Without giving me a yes or no, he replied flatly, “You’d be surprised what people will do for a few hundred dollars.”
My eyes flew wide. A whistle escaped before I could stop it, followed by a burst—“Street justice in stilettos—w-what is this? Purple pickles in the courtroom!” I jabbed a finger toward the two unknowns, my body jerking in small, sharp spasms.
“Naji… chill,” Imanio gritted.
“I c-c-c-can’t help it!” I hissed, cheeks burning. “I told you I d-d-don’t do good with new faces!”
His face softened, the sharp lines eased as if some hidden version of him slipped through for half a second.
My eyes wandered to another guy—an older short Black man, dressed in a dark gray suit, who I took to be the officiant. He stood near the fireplace, stiff as a statue. His eyes flicked nervously between Imanio and me.
Oh, God. This poor man has definitely been threatened.
“Blink twice if you’ve been threatened! Bark like a seal if you need backup! Spit if you’re hiding a body under the pews!” The words tumbled out, nonsensical and loud enough to draw stares.
That wasn’t a real tic, but I made it resemble one by twisting my face and twitching my shoulder right on cue, just to sell it.
I rarely faked tics—my condition wasn’t a joking matter, and I’d spent years trying to separate myself from the stigma of it.
But sometimes… sometimes it was almost like a blessing and a curse.
Because when the moment called for it, I could use it to my advantage—disguise a question, deflect attention, or in this case, plant doubt without anyone being able to accuse me of lying outright.
The guy’s mouth dropped open just a little, eyes stretching wide like he’d accidentally walked into church naked.