Chapter 16 #3
Cameras powered down. Lights dimmed.
Giselle stood up slowly, clapping delicately like she’d just watched the birth of a legacy. After smoothing out her blouse, she practically skipped over to me in heels that didn’t even scuff.
“You did so well, son! I’m so proud of you!” she gushed, hands clasped like she was about to burst into tears she didn’t actually feel. “Even your response to that last question— flawless !”
I raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “You didn’t have a card for that one, did you?”
Her smile tightened just a touch. “Well, I was going to hold one up—something simple like ‘timing is everything’ or ‘legacy needs love’ —but I trusted you.”
“You mean you panicked, ” I said, loosening my tie. “Just admit it.”
She rolled her eyes but stayed smiling.
“Okay, I didn’t have one for that! So yes, I did panic…
a little! I seriously didn’t think she was going to dive into your personal life!
Then again, one can never be sure what interests these interviewers these days.
I’ll be prepared next time.” She patted my shoulder.
“But card or not, you handled it perfectly ! That pause you gave? Sexy! You gave them just enough mystery… and people love mystery; it makes you marketable. The people will eat it up!”
“Yeah,” I muttered, grabbing my phone off the chair. “That’s what I’ve always dreamed of being… marketable. ”
“Besides, I already have your future wife picked out. You remember Paris, right?”
My annoyance flared.
The girl’s name alone made my head throb. Paris Lattimore—daughter of Winston Lattimore, one of the richest commercial brokers in the city.
A real estate legacy.
That’s all my mama saw: legacy on top of legacy, like a tax-free merger wrapped in lace.
Paris was tall, pretty in a generic way, and about as interesting as unbuttered toast. Her idea of fun was discussing tax codes and asking waiters if their foie gras was grass-fed.
We had one date… one . And halfway through her saying, “I just find people who curse on social media so… low class,” I knew she was never gonna make it.
Giselle was still holding on to that dream like Paris was dipped in royalty and angel glitter.
I shrugged into my jacket and gave her a look. “Giselle, I’ve told you over and over again—stop trying to match me with women who think seasoning is a personality.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Paris got the sex appeal of a tax return. Just because her daddy got buildings doesn’t mean I want to build with her. ”
Giselle scoffed, clutching her bag like I had personally offended her sense of legacy.
“She comes from good stock, Imanio!”
“So does beef jerky,” I countered, coolly.
“Winston’s connections could?—”
“I am the connection,” I interjected. “I don’t need her money, daddy, her love or pussy. And I sure as hell don’t need to play Monopoly with my love life just to keep up appearances.”
Giselle stared at me, lips pressed thin.
I straightened my collar, then looked her dead in the face with a calmness that made it hit harder.
“The next time you want to play Cupid for me, pick somebody who doesn’t make me want to fake a heart attack mid-date. And if you just want to play matchmaker for fun, go bother somebody who’s desperate… ’Cause that nigga ain’t me.”
I watched her flinch at the word nigga like it physically burned her ears.
And I said it on purpose. Because no matter how many silk blouses she wore, how many country clubs she fake-laughed through, or how many times she corrected people on the pronunciation of “Kors” —Giselle was still the same woman who cooked “beanie weenies”, then brag like she invented the recipe.
She could reinvent herself for the world, but not for me.
Giselle clenched her jaw, eyes sharp like I’d just scuffed my father’s legacy with muddy boots.
“I’ve told you about using that word,” she gritted, her voice tight with disapproval.
“And I’ve told you to stop pretending like saying it makes you less Black,” I shot back, calm and direct.
Giselle gasped sharply, her lips parting like she wanted to argue—but nothing came out.
It didn’t matter; I wasn’t done.
“Giselle, you don’t get to pick your roots just ’cause they embarrass you now,” I continued, stepping in closer.
“You can parade around like you were born in pearls and privilege or wrapped in lace and lipstick, but when all that comes off, you’re still black…
and still Gigi from the Gardens. The hood never left you; you just stopped claiming it. ”
She turned her face slightly, blinking hard like my words were smoke stinging her eyes.
I stepped back, letting the fire cool off just enough.
“I’m not your project. You don’t get to shape my life to fix your past.”
I let that sit.
“I will have you know that I hired another publicist, so your services are no longer needed.”
“You did what?!” she shrieked, drawing the attention of a few crew members still packing up their equipment.
“You heard me. And lower your damn voice,” I said through clenched teeth. “There are too many people with cameras in here, just praying for a viral moment.”
“Well then, let’s take this somewhere private,” she snapped, turning on her heel and marching off toward the closed-off kitchen area.
Reluctantly, I followed.
Giselle barely let the door close behind us before she turned around.
“Now say that again—tell me what ridiculous shit just came out of your mouth.”
“I said I hired a publicist. On my own… without the Giselle Kors Executive Stamp of Approval .”
“Without me?!” Her eyes blazed. “You do realize I’ve been managing your image ever since the last girl walked out, right? I’m the reason half these people even take you seriously!”
“And I appreciate it. But it was time I hired my own crisis management—quietly. Without you micromanaging every damn thing I wear, say, or breathe.”
“So… so you’re firing me? That’s what this is now?”
“I didn’t say fired; I said… no longer needed,” I clarified with a slow shrug.
“Oh. So I’m just being phased out like some seasonal Macy’s hire?
! I take it this new publicist is going to double as your assistant too, huh?
! She better! Because who’s gonna dress you?
Lord knows you think black-on-black with a black hat is high fashion!
You wore a damn hoodie to a fundraiser, Imanio! ”
“And I raised more money than the guy in the $12,000 velvet blazer and bowtie. Closed on a $48 million condo the next morning. Try again.”
She folded her arms, still simmering. “So who is this new girl? And why isn’t she by your side at an interview this big?”
“Her son got sick. She had to go pick him up from school.”
Giselle reared her head back like I’d slapped her.
“Imanio, wait—are you seriously telling me you hired someone with kids ? I didn’t care much for the last publicist, but at least she didn’t have to leave meetings early to run to daycare or school.
Well, she got pregnant, sure —but that was toward the end.
At least she kept her priorities straight while she was here. ”
I stared at her… really stared. Then I took a step forward.
“You hear yourself right now? You’re dragging a woman for choosing her child over a damn interview? Over a camera? You think that’s weakness? Nah. That’s strength. That’s character, Giselle. That’s the kind of person I want managing my name—someone who knows how to balance pressure and humanity.”
She blinked, saying nothing.
“See, that’s your problem,” I continued, eyes locked on hers. “You treat people like tools…. accessories. You only value them as long as they’re useful to you . And if life gets in the way—if they get sick, pregnant, or God forbid, have kids who depend on them—you toss them like expired lipstick.”
Still nothing.
“You know, I used to think I was born cold… that I inherited it,” I added, voice tightening.
“But nah… I learned it. You taught it. You rubbed that heartless shit off on me over time. But here’s the difference between me and you—I know when to stop.
I know when to be human. And right now? I feel sorry for you.
Because the world you live in… it ain’t real.
And one day, it’s gonna be just you and that cold-ass echo of your own voice. ”
Giselle stepped toward me with a menacing glare. “You really think you can manage your image without me?” she sneered.
After everything I’d just said… that’s what she came back with?
I shook my head in disbelief. “Yeah, I do.”
“Fine!” she huffed. “Fire me! Replace me! But when you show up at the gala on somebody’s worst-dressed list looking like a secret society dropout, don’t call me!”
Giselle snatched her purse off the counter and stormed out of the kitchen, heels clicking and chin up.
“I wasn’t gonna call anyway,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.
I had respect for her and some of the things she had done, but sometimes family doesn’t need to bleed over into business. Dealing with Giselle was just too damn much. The dark parts of me she knew nothing was over her stuck-up antics.
A few minutes passed before the house started clearing out—PR interns, event coordinators, the camera crew.
I nodded here and there, gave a couple of forced handshakes, and even managed a smile when the youngest cameraman nervously complimented my watch.
But the second the last person stepped out, I exhaled deeply.
Silence.
I walked the perimeter of the house, checking each door and turning locks out of habit. The place still smelled like espresso, lavender cleaner, and whatever cologne the lighting tech had drowned himself in. I clicked off the lights room by room.
After that interview, I decided not to head back to the office until after lunch.
Instead of sitting through a forced meal with my staff—who still insisted on talking about work-related shit outside the building—or settling for something to-go, I took a detour to see one of the other women in my life who never judged or never questioned—m y grandmother.
If calm had a backbone and a side-eye, it’d look just like her. And if love had a smell, it was the scent of her warm kitchen— cornbread fresh out the oven, even when I swore I wasn’t staying long enough to eat.