Chapter 12 #3
I peeked at Imanio again, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing or crying—I wasn’t even sure which one wanted to win.
Imanio paused mid-step, hand on the car door.
“Damn, you gon’ cry for real?”
For a second, Imanio sounded like he regretted putting me in that position and hadn’t expected me to fold so fast.
“No! Maybe! The last p-part was a joke. Really.”
Imanio stared at me, expression unreadable, like he couldn’t decide if he believed me or if he was quietly waiting to see where I’d go with it.
“I thought you was on your healthy journey and Fridays are your cheat days. It’s Saturday,” he said.
“I am… and they are. Th-h-his can be an exception.”
With no further questioning, he nodded.
“Aight. I’ll get you a cake… even eat it with you. But don’t think that makes us a real couple.”
I smirked. “Oh, we’re not a couple; we’re a l-legally binding PR disaster with frosting.”
The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“Get in.”
Somehow, against all odds and logic—I had just said “I do”… to my captor. And now, I was riding shotgun with the devil wearing a sundress and asking for cake.
13. Imanio “Gatez”
Floor-to-ceiling windows let in bright Manhattan sunlight. A long walnut wood conference table stretched the length of the room, surrounded by a dozen high-level executives, analysts, and legal advisors.
Laptops open. Coffee half-drunk. Charts and reports glowing on a smart screen.
But me… I wasn’t looking at any of it.
I sat at the head of the table in a signature charcoal grey suit, one arm resting on the polished surface. My fingers idly traced the platinum band around my ring finger—new, smooth, heavy, like a contract signed in silence and a commitment no one in the room could begin to comprehend.
“We project a thirty-eight percent increase in international interest if we close the Dubai partnership by the fourth quarter,” someone said confidently.
I didn’t respond. My thumb was still brushing the ring like I couldn’t decide if it was a shackle or a trophy.
It had been almost a week since we got married—six to be exact. Things were... the same. Predictable, even. We hadn’t done anything that married people typically do, though.
No honeymoon. No photos on Instagram. No shared closet space.
Hell, we hadn’t even kissed. We just ate meals together like two strangers locked in the same orbit—sharing plates, silence, and the occasional awkward glances. And still, for some reason, I wanted more.
Not sex. Not yet, at least.
What I wanted was something I couldn’t name. Something heavier… realer.
I found myself listening to the way she whispered to herself when she was alone.
Watching how she organized her plate—how her peas never touched her rice.
How she twitched, muttered, and tried so damn hard to hide it, like her body was a battlefield, and she was always fighting to look calm in the chaos.
And even though Naji still tensed—sometimes—when I entered the room, she stayed, ate with me, and sat near me.
She laughed once or twice, even if it was by accident.
I couldn’t lie to myself. I wanted to know what made her laugh on purpose.
Maybe I’d ask her to watch a movie with me tomorrow. Not as a husband. Just… as a man.
“Mr. Kors?” Lydia’s voice asked cautiously. “Do we have your go on the overseas expansion?”
My eyes snapped up.
Focused. Sharp.
“For now. But let’s not rush just to look global. Vet that firm’s holding company again—I want to know if they’re backed by any unstable private lenders. Last thing I need is their debt drama becoming my drama.”
A few team members nodded and started typing.
“Also,” I added, “get a call scheduled with Shah Holdings. I want first dibs on the development rights for the next tech corridor. If I have to overpay, fine. But I don’t lose real estate to amateurs.”
“Yes, sir!” my assistant, Angela noted.
The conversation continued—acquisitions, branding, and a new partnership offer from a luxury car brand. But every few seconds, my attention went back to that ring.
An hour later, Angela called out from the doorway, “Sir, Mrs. Evergreen has arrived.”
I didn’t even look up.
“Send her in.”
Moments later, Saroya entered.
“Good morning, Mr. Kors.”
I gave her my full attention.
“Morning. You passed.”
“As I said I would.” She boasted with a chuckle. “I told you I cry my way out of traffic tickets, not background checks.”
I almost— almost —smiled.
“Have a seat. We need to lay some ground rules.”
Saroya nodded and sat across from me, placing a leather purse in her lap.
“First things first—this job is not for the faint of heart. You’ll be under NDA immediately. You’ll travel if I say so. Expect to work long hours, sometimes late at night. And I don’t do check-ins. I expect results, not conversations.”
“Understood. But just so we’re clear, if you want results, that does mean having a few conversations. PR isn’t magic; it’s strategy built on communication.”
I studied her, my eyes slightly narrowed.
“You always talk like that?”
She smirked. “Only when I’m trying to impress difficult billionaires.”
“Careful… flattery won’t get you far, Mrs. Evergreen.”
“It’s not flattery; it’s data. Every article about you says you’re difficult; I’m just confirming my sources.”
I tilted my head at that, almost amused. Saroya wasn’t afraid of me—and that was rare.
I leaned forward. “If we’re gonna work together, you need to know a few other things. I don’t do gossip, and I don’t respond to every hit piece. I just feel some battles ain’t worth fighting.”
“Agreed. But when your silence starts to write a narrative for you, that’s when I’ll step in.”
“You that bold with all your clients?”
“Only the ones who act like they run kingdoms.”
I reclined in my chair, folding my arms.
“What if I told you I do run a kingdom?”
“Then I’d remind you that even kings need someone to clean up the mess when the villagers start talking. This may be off-topic, and forgive me if it sounds like I’m prying, but I don’t remember you being married.”
Her eyes were locked on my ring.
I glanced down at it too.
“Can you keep a secret?” I asked, voice low.
She nodded without hesitation. “Yours? Of course.”
“I’m newly married,” I revealed, keeping my expression unreadable. “We eloped,” I lied. “But I’m not ready for it to be public… not yet.”
“Of course,” she replied with professional ease, though I saw the curiosity flash behind her eyes.
“Well, congratulations. But… since I’m your publicist now, I’ll give you this small piece of advice: if you don’t want people to know, you might want to keep the ring off.
Someone’s always watching. All it takes is one photo, one tabloid tip, and it’s everywhere. ”
I looked back down at the ring again.
Crazy thing is, Naji and I both wore our rings faithfully, when in reality, neither of us had to.
I never took it off since Naji placed it on my finger.
Meanwhile, I was sitting there debating whether I should take Saroya’s advice.
Sliding it off felt wrong… like betrayal. But I did it because Saroya was right.
I slipped the band from my finger and tucked it into my jacket pocket.
And just like that, I felt it again—that shift…
that familiar coldness creeping in like I’d shed more than metal and peeled off the part of me that still smiled at the sound of Naji’s muttering tics, that sat across from her at dinner and actually listened and made sure her tea was always nice and warm.
Without the ring, I didn’t feel like Imanio the husband; I felt like the meaner version of me… Gatez.
“You’re right. Speaking of being married, you said you were married, right?”
“Yes.”
“What does your husband do? I’m not asking because I really give a damn or trying to be all in yo’ business.
But knowing a nigga’s job can sometimes tell me a lot about him.
Like, if he’s a police officer, I know he’s nosy and thinks rules apply to everybody but him.
If he’s military, I know he’s disciplined but probably paranoid as hell.
If he’s a lawyer, I know he’s slick, always looking for a loophole.
If he’s a street nigga, I know he’s reckless and might just bring heat where it ain’t needed.
A job ain’t just a job; it’s a profile. And I need to know what kind of profile I’m dealing with. ”
She smirked. “My husband is a corporate actuary. He deals with numbers, risk assessments, retirement projections… things in that range. Makes great money, but he’s basically a calculator in human skin.”
“He sounds boring… and smart, and those the kind who play chess while everybody else is playing spades.”
“He’s peaceful . There’s a difference.”
“Fair enough. But you sure he ain’t crazy?
Insecure? The type to follow you around, leave death threats on sticky notes, blow up yo’ phone all night or pull up with a pistol and a prayer if you don’t text back quick enough?
I don’t deal in domestic drama. I’m telling you now, if he even thinks about pulling up here on some bullshit, like trying to slash my tires or blow my shit up because I need you to stay over a few hours, he’s leaving in an ambulance, a hearse, or a coroner’s van.
So, tell me… is he built for peace or problems? ”
I wasn’t trying to be rude or scare Saroya off, but I’d had an employee whose boyfriend was on that type of time.
Let’s just say I had to let her go—and he disappeared not long after.
Saroya seemed cool, though, so I just wanted to give her a fair warning that if anything like that ever happened, not to take it personal.