Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
IMANIO “GATEZ”
“ O h, goodness!” Saroya blurted, glancing at her ringing phone. “Give me a second, Imanio—I have to take this.”
“Handle yo’ business,” I said as she scurried out of the room.
We were at my other house—the one I used strictly for business.
Interviews, meetings, and the occasional forced photo op.
I never let outsiders near the place where I actually laid my head. That kind of access was earned, not handed out.
That day, it was an interview. I couldn’t decide what I hated more—interviews or photoshoots. Either way, both felt like a performance I didn’t sign up for.
I stared at my closet like it just told me “good luck” with a smirk and walked away.
Staring back at me were dozens of suits—charcoal, navy, brown, black, eggshell, pinstriped, double-breasted, Italian-woven.
All lined up like soldiers, arranged by color with a precision that felt more like control than style.
And I still hated every damn one of them.
Giselle, of course, had done it during one of her surprise visits—called it ‘helping.’ I called it another way to get under my skin.
Saroya wasn’t just there to prep me for the interview; she was supposed to help me pick out a suit that looked “the part”… something polished. But with her stepping out to take a call and my patience running on fumes, I grabbed one myself.
I sighed and pulled out a black suit with a silk lapel .
The expensive kind. The type of suit that looked like it had stories behind it… even if I didn’t feel like telling any.
“This interview is bullshit,” I muttered, tossing the jacket onto the bed before reaching for the shirt—also black, also stiff, also screamed ‘ask me invasive questions I’ll pretend to answer.’
I wasn’t one of them friendly billionaires. Never been. I earned everything I got by being ten toes down and twice as cold, and I didn’t talk unless it mattered.
“Oh, I see you found something!” Saroya exclaimed chipperly as she stepped back into the room.
“Yeah. Do you approve?” I teased, just enough to keep things light.
“Actually, I do! You’ve got good taste.” Her tone shifted a little—more cautious now.
“Um, Imanio, I know I’m just starting and this would’ve been my first interview with you, but…
I have an emergency. My son’s school just called.
He’s running a fever, and I need to go get him.
I promise things like this don’t usually happen.
My sister, who’s currently out of town, typically steps in for stuff like this when me and my husband and I are at work, especially with how demanding my job is.
Not that I’m saying I’d ever put my kids above my job, but?—"
I held up my hand—not to shut Saroya down, but to let her know she didn’t have to explain all that. I didn’t have kids, but I was still human.
“Saroya, it’s cool. I get it. I mean, I don’t have kids, but I understand. Shit comes up. And family should come first… especially your kids.”
She looked at me like I’d just told her I was about to hand over the company.
“You’re looking at me like you expected me to say something else. Want the ruder version? I could say, ‘fuck your kids, get back to work.’ Was that what you were expecting?”
“Well, no… not that harsh,” she said with a half-laugh. “But I didn’t expect you to be so… understanding.”
“I’m usually not… but I kind of like you…
as my publicist. And I’d do just about anything to keep my mama from stepping back into that position again.
And… I damn sure don’t have the patience to sit through another round of interviews.
That shit nearly killed me. So I’m willing to compromise.
.. on a few things… your child being one. ”
Saroya smirked. “I need to meet this wife of yours.”
“Why?” I raised a brow, instantly picturing Naji and wondering what the hell she was up to.
“I want to see if maybe she’s rubbing off on you. Making you a bit... nicer.”
I wanted to be honest and say something like “ maybe, but only toward her. Not the world… just her.” But I kept my face unreadable and my voice flat.
“Nah. I told you my reason.”
Even I didn’t sound convinced.
Saroya eyed me dubiously, one hand still clutching her phone like she was waiting for another call.
“Mm-hmm. Well, I’ma go. But let me leave you with a few tips for your interview.”
She stepped closer, professional mode kicking in even with one foot practically out the door.
“Okay, first—don’t fold your arms; it makes you look closed off.
Keep your posture relaxed but strong. Don’t lean back like you’re too cool to be there, and don’t lean forward like you’re about to interrogate them.
Keep your tone calm and don’t rush your words.
And if they throw something personal at you, breathe first, then answer. You know they love to twist quotes.”
While she talked, I moved around the room, pulling out a pair of black Italian loafers, a platinum watch, and a subtle pair of cufflinks that looked like they belonged to a man with a legacy, not a name stitched into blogs.
“Oh—and smile, but not that fake one you do when you’re annoyed,” she added, pointing at me like a warning. “The half-smirk is fine; just don’t look like you’re planning someone’s funeral on live TV.”
I smirked anyway, just to prove her point, then turned to face her.
“Is that all?”
“I think so! I really wish I could stay and help, but... mommy duties call.” She sighed, guilt tugging at the edge of her smile. “I promise I’ll check in as soon as I get him situated. Just promise me you’ll be nice.”
I nodded. “I usually play the ‘nice’ role for interviews… even if I hate putting on a facade. But go handle yo’ business. I got it.”
“Okay.” She grabbed her bag and started backing toward the door. “And seriously—I mean it. Thank you… for understanding.”
I gave her a short nod, nothing extra. “Go be a mom. We’ll figure the rest out later.”
She gave me one last grateful look before disappearing down the hall.
When Saroya left, a thought crossed my mind—one I didn’t usually entertain: Kids.
Would I ever have any? What would that even look like—me with a child?
I wondered how that would affect my career, my freedom, the way I moved through the world.
Would I be the type to drop everything for a phone call like Saroya just did?
Would I even know how to? And more importantly… who would their mother be?
I was married to Naji—technically. But would we ever get close enough for her to be the one to carry my legacy? If so... would they look like her? Act like her? Would they have her softness and my silence? Her empathy and my edge? Would they be sweet like her or stubborn like me?
I shook my head and brushed the thought off.
The way things were going between me and Naji, I was lucky if she let my hand graze her thigh—let alone imagined us having sex, let alone kids. That kind of closeness felt miles away. And maybe that was for the best… or maybe that was the problem.
I unbuttoned my undershirt and stared into the mirror. My tattoos peeked from my ribcage and disappeared into my waistband like hidden truths. I flexed my jaw, slicked back my hair and sprayed cologne I couldn’t pronounce but was told smelled like power.
The only thing that made me show up for those PR circuses?
The money. I didn’t play when it came to that.
I had built my side of the empire quietly but solid.
Strategic investments, real estate flipping, and a few high-profile flips in struggling districts that made me look like a neighborhood savior.
The reality? I gentrified half of the west side.
The press called me a “visionary.” The streets called me “That nigga not to be played with.” Both were true.
I fastened my Rolex, grabbed my phone, and headed downstairs to the living room where the crew was already setting up—camera guys adjusting lights, cords snaking across the floor, soft murmurs bouncing off the walls.
A makeup girl came over without a word, dabbing invisible powder on my forehead like I was already sweating through the professionalism.
I sat in silence, jaw clenched, counting down the seconds like I was waiting on parole.
Giselle had texted earlier saying she wouldn’t make it. “Conflict with scheduling,” she wrote like she was canceling brunch and not abandoning a national interview.
Good.
I didn’t need her present—not physically, not emotionally, not in any damn capacity. She included herself in everything. But that day? I definitely didn’t want her there.
The production manager came over and gave me the rundown.
“The interviewer is Mariah St. James. You’ve seen her—she’s sharp but polished. She’s going to focus on the brand, future expansion, and your legacy. The segment goes live next week, but we’re filming clean edits. Any questions?”
“Yeah. Can I pay y’all not to ask me dumb shit?”
The man laughed nervously. “I—uh—I’ll let her know to keep it professional.”
Just as I exhaled and took my seat, the door opened… and in she came.
Giselle Kors.
She floated into the room in a flowy white linen jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a gold belt.
Her shoulders were bare under a cropped lemon-yellow blazer , and her oversized sunglasses didn’t move an inch as she scanned the space like royalty.
Strappy gold heels clicked against the floor, and her skin glowed like she hadn’t aged a day in twenty years.
And in her damn hands? A giant stack of laminated flashcards.
I stared at her like she had just walked in carrying a purse full of secrets.
“I thought you said you weren’t coming.” That was my greeting to her.
No Hey, Ma. No hug. No fake smile. Just facts.
Giselle gasped dramatically, clutching her imaginary pearls. “Well, hello to you too, son! Goodness gracious! Sometimes I swear you have a twin, because surely this level of rudeness didn’t come from the child I raised!”