Chapter 23 #2
Imanio shot them a look so sharp, they speed-walked in the opposite direction without a word.
He focused back on me, chuckling and shaking his head.
“Naji, you gotta chill. I know that’s easier said than done sometimes because most, if not all the time, you can’t control what comes out of your mouth. But you can’t be blurting shit like that out in the open… especially in an alley. Somebody gon’ think we’re kidnapping you.”
“Can’t do that; y-you already did!” I quipped, with a simpering smile.
That actually made him laugh.
“Yeah. Okay. Next time, I’m disguising yo’ ass as a nun and slippin’ you in through the damn laundry cart.”
I wiped my eyes, still giggling.
“T-Tell them I come with disclaimers—random outbursts, unpredictable twitches, and… and a tendency to say wild stuff at the worst times.”
I slid into the backseat, the plush interior instantly cooling my legs. The moment the doors shut, the tinted world of luxury swallowed us.
“I feel like I s-should be wearing shades and holding a Pomeranian with a d-d-diamond collar,” I mumbled.
Imanio reached over and gently adjusted my seatbelt. “Ms. Shirley got a toy version at the house if you wanna play the part.”
We both laughed, the tension of the visit finally fading.
“T-thanks for standing up for me, though.”
“No problem. I got you. I’m not about to let folks mess with yo’ head more than life already does.”
I raised a brow. “You mean… that sweet lil’ moment in there wasn’t about protecting your secret wife?”
“Maybe both.” Imanio replied, staring out his window.
I rolled my eyes. I knew better than to expect one hundred percent honesty from him. But then, as if he plucked the thought straight from my head, he turned to me—his voice low, steady.
“Naji, I can’t protect you from everything… but I’ll damn sure try. I don’t like seeing you treated like some fragile person. You’re not. You just need people who get it .”
“L-like you?” I asked, quiet but direct.
He held my gaze, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah… like me.”
I didn’t respond—not out loud. But something in me did. Loud and clear.
“Hmph—marry me again, but this time on purpose .” The words jerked out of me with a tic, my eyes blinking fast.
I closed my eyes in embarrassment, but when I peeked one open, he was still looking at me as if I was something to keep safe, not something to fix.
It was the evening of the much-anticipated dinner, and I found myself nestled in a plush chair in one of the elegantly decorated spare rooms, wrapped in a robe that felt a little too luxurious for my jittery nerves.
The fabric was soft and warm, yet the price tag lingered like an unwelcome reminder of the glamor that surrounded me.
I was in the midst of a transformation. Dessign had effortlessly summoned an entire glam squad, much like a fairy godmother on wheels. Their arrival was all thanks to Imanio’s seemingly bottomless bank account, which could make anything possible.
Hair, makeup, wardrobe—everything handled like I was some VIP on a tight deadline.
A woman I didn’t know stood behind me, curling my hair with quick, practiced hands.
I was nervous, and my thoughts wouldn’t sit still.
Every pass of the curling iron felt like another reminder that wasn’t just any dinner; that was the dinner.
The one where everything would change—where I’d meet the woman who raised Imanio, sit across from her and try to hold it all together without falling apart.
But under all that fear, tucked deep beneath the jitters, was something else too.
Excitement.
Not loud or bold, but quiet.
A part of me wanted to look good.
Not for them. Not even for Imanio. But for me.
To feel like I belonged in the space I was being brought into.
“All done!” the hairstylist announced ten minutes later.
The hairstylist spun me around so I could face the mirror..
Gone was the undone ponytail, the frizz, the stress tucked behind my ears. In its place was a sleek, side-parted sew-in—full, shiny curls cascading just past my shoulders. The style was elegant but still chill—exactly what I needed for dinner at his mama’s house.
“Okay, curls! Come through, bounce and body!” Dessign chimed in, spinning her wheelchair in a half-circle like she was hosting her own makeover show.
I gave her a nervous half-smile, lightly tugging at a piece of the curled sew-in. “It’s not too much?”
“Girl, no! Perfection at its best! It’s not too much, not too little—just enough to say, ‘Yes, I’m that wife. Respect-me-or-regret-me!’”
My head jerked once. “Wife—goals—microwave toes!”
“Okay.” Dessign nodded a bit confused. “That was the Tourette’s hyping you up. I approve. Now just wait ‘til we hit the face beat!”
She snapped her fingers, gaining the makeup artist’s attention.
Dessign was in the room playing event coordinator, glam team manager, and bodyguard all at once.
“Oh, honey! You’re already a snack, but once I’m done with you, you’re gonna be the whole damn charcuterie board!” the makeup artist declared, spinning a fluffy brush between his fingers like it was a magic wand.
He was flamboyant in the best way—lace-front laid, nails done, and lashes so long he probably had to blink in slow motion. But his energy? Sweet as iced tea in August.
I nodded stiffly, too nervous to speak. I had no idea what flawless looked like anymore. All I knew was that my stomach felt like it had a mini blender running inside it, and my brain wouldn’t stop spinning through worst-case scenarios.
“Remember, deep breaths, Naji!” Dessign encouraged with a teasing grin.
Dessign and I didn’t know each other that well yet, but she treated me like I wasn’t breakable. She made room for my tics, my trauma, and still joked with me like I was just another girl trying to figure shit out.
I took a deep breath, feeling a wave of calm wash over me as the makeup artist gently applied a cool primer to my cheeks. His fingers danced lightly across my skin, creating a soothing sensation.
“Gotta give the canvas some love before we paint the masterpiece,” he said with a wink.
Next, he focused on my brows, meticulously brushing them upward with a tiny spoolie. His head tilted in concentration, and I could see the precision in his movements.
“These brows are going to be sisters today, not twins—adorable sisters, like those who share clothes and rise above the drama."
I couldn’t help but smile, nerves still fluttering in my stomach but easing a bit under his gentle rhythm. But I sat still—well, still as I could—and watched my reflection transform in stages.
Neither he nor the hairstylist flinched at my twitches or when I paused awkwardly as a tic escaped, causing me to blurt out something completely off the wall. They had been thoroughly briefed about my condition—there was no pity in their eyes, no hesitation; just a quiet grace that put me at ease.
The makeup artist leaned in closely, carefully giving my face one final sweep with a soft brush, making sure every detail was flawless.
Then, with an air of theatricality, he reached for the setting spray, shaking the bottle vigorously, as if preparing to cast a spell that would hold my look perfectly in place.
I sat there, trying not to flinch, as a cool mist clouded over my skin.
“All done, love!”
“I’ll wait to look until I’m dressed,” I murmured, voice calm but stomach still doing flips.
“Fair enough! But just know… you’re about to cause a minor emotional earthquake when you walk in whatever room you’re about to tonight!”
I gave a tight smile.
As the thick mist settled around us, Dessign rolled up in her stylish electric wheelchair, squinting at me with an exaggerated expression of disbelief.
“I said to make her fine… not finer than me! Now I have to roll out of here and reevaluate my entire existence!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with playful drama.
The makeup artist waved her off with a flick of his brush.
“Girl, please! I have you looking flawless, too! Not to mention, you got enough lace fronts to host a hair convention, and a closet with enough fashion to sponsor New York Fashion Week! You’ll be alright!”
“And… you got the chair v-version of a Rolls Royce,” I added without thinking. “Them wheels shining harder than my future right now.”
Dessign gasped dramatically, hand flying to her chest like I stole her last breath.
“Not you giving compliments and shade in the same breath. I taught you way too well in just one week, huh?”
Everyone in the room shared a laugh, and for a moment, the nerves faded just a bit.
The final touch was the outfit. When the glam team finally stepped back and allowed me to see my reflection in the full-length mirror, I could hardly recognize myself—in the best way imaginable.
I had chosen a simple yet elegant black dress for the evening—knee-length, with a soft drape that skimmed my figure without clinging too tightly.
The neckline was modest—a gentle scoop that offered just enough femininity without inviting unnecessary attention, and the long sleeves gave it an effortless grace.
I paired it with diamond stud earrings and a thin silver bracelet, the kind of jewelry that whispered instead of shouted. My heels were simple—black, low, and classic.
Instead of feeling overdressed, I looked and felt appropriate—polished enough to meet his family, but simple enough that no one could accuse me of showing up like it was a gala.
It was the most “me” I’d looked in a long time.
Not to be mistaken, glam wasn’t anything new to me, but it had been so long since I had that runaway polished look, like a doll ready for my signature catwalk.
“I like! I like! I like!” Dessign approved, sipping from a wine glass that I was starting to think was just part of her brand.
“You look put-together, grown, and like you got peace on the horizon—even if we both know dinner might blow that up. This might be a dumb question but are you nervous?” she asked in a serious tone.
I nodded. “Y-yeah. Just… not sure how to act.”
“Naji, just be yourself… tics and all. Our mama? She gon’ judge regardless. You could float in wearing a halo and holding an 800 credit score, and she’d still find a reason to side-eye your existence.”
I blinked fast, suppressing an outburst bubbling up in my chest.
“Seriously,” she continued, elbow leaning on the vanity. “Mama might run the table, but we ain’t about to let her drag you across it. And if she gets slick, which I’m sure she will, just cough aggressively and mutter something about her being a bitch.”
My mouth twitched. “Did you-you just call her a b-bitch?”
Dessign popped her gum like punctuation. “Nah. I called her a bitch yesterday . She earned that. Tonight, I’ma try and be classy. If she say one wrong thing, I’m tossing a roll at her and blaming the ghosts. I’ll be like, ‘Mama, this house needs sage and silence!’”
That made me actually laugh—one of those weird, hiccupy ones that got stuck between a tic and a breath. But it helped.
A few seconds passed before my next tic hit.
“Biscuit bitch—bitch biscuit!”
Dessign howled. “See? You’re ready,” she said, her voice suddenly softer. “Even if you don’t feel like it.”
That part hit deep.
“She’s gonna h-hate me. I know it,” I whispered, picking at the sleeve of my shirt.
Dessign waved me off like I was talking nonsense.
“Girl, my mama hates everybody who ain’t rich, white, or wearing pearls passed down by Queen Elizabeth. She probably only tolerates me and Imanio ‘cause we're her kids—and barely that. It’s nothing personal. I swear that woman breaks out in hives around happy, poor, Black couples.”
“M-Maybe I should stay quiet.”
Dessign wheeled closer and gently placed her hand on my thigh.
“You could… but that might just make her hate you faster. Silence to her is either guilt or rebellion. She’ll probably accuse you of plotting her downfall.
Or—” she grinned wide “—you could let your tics do the talking and make damn sure everybody at that table remembers your name and your diagnosis.”
I couldn’t help the little laugh that slipped.
“Look,” Dessign continued, “you’ve survived being kidnapped, married off like you was in a mafia auction, living under Imanio’s watchful hawk-ass eyes, using tissue for pads like it’s 1994, and being monitored twenty-four-seven.
Oops! Did I say that?! Oh well. If you survived all that, you could definitely survive one evening with my bougie-ass mama.
Just show up, breathe, and eat. If things go left, let me or Imanio handle it. ”
I nodded.
I stepped out into the hall just as Imanio turned the corner.
He was dressed casually, but not in a sloppy way.
He wore black jeans and a soft charcoal Henley that hugged his arms just enough, with the sleeves casually pushed up to his elbows.
There was no jewelry or flashy watch—just a clean, effortlessly sharp look that made him stand out without even trying.
Imanio stopped mid-step when he saw me.
His eyes dropped slowly, taking in the hair, the makeup, my outfit.
“You look… good,” he finally said.
Imanio didn’t say what I saw in his eyes. I wasn’t sure he knew how to put it into words anyway.
“Th-thank you,” I replied, folding my hands in front of me.
“You ready?” he asked, offering his arm.
I nodded, looping mine through his. “As I’ll ever be.”
And with that, we headed out the door—toward the kind of dinner that could either break something or finally start to build.