Chapter 25 #2
We also joked about my grandmother’s obsession with soap operas—how she never trusted anyone with a deep voice or a leather jacket on TV. He told me about the time he snuck out to meet a girl in middle school and got chased by a raccoon. I laughed so hard.
Somewhere between his stupid raccoon story and him asking what tea I wanted stocked on the yacht for next time, I realized something.
I was comfortable… not just in the car, but with him .
I found myself leaning against him, body relaxed. I didn’t have to brace for judgment or side-eyes. My tics had slowed; not completely—but enough that I noticed.
Imanio glanced over at me. “You good?”
“Yes,” I said, voice low. “Actually... I think I am.”
He gave a small nod.
“Good. You deserve a night that’s just about you.”
And that was the thing—Imanio didn’t say it to impress me; he said it like a promise.
When we arrived at the docks, his private yacht sat glowing against the water, lights twinkling like a floating palace. Imanio helped me up the walkway, guiding me onboard.
I’m ready to see where this version of us might go. Because for once, I’m not scared of what came next.
The breeze off the water was softer there—gentler than the night we’d just survived.
A candlelight flickered between us, casting gold against Imanio’s sharp jawline and danced across the silver trays of crab legs, grilled oysters, and buttery lobster tails.
The yacht swayed just enough to remind me that we were floating far from judgment, far from Giselle.
I cracked a claw with practiced fingers, then dipped the tender meat into warm garlic butter. But my appetite wasn’t all the way there and Imanio could tell.
He leaned back slightly, watching me, then reached for a shrimp skewer.
“You keep looking out like the water gon’ tell you something. You good?”
I nodded. “Yeah… just taking it in.”
We ate in a stretch of silence after that. Unspoken things floated between us. I tried to focus on the taste of the lobster. But my fingers kept tapping against the linen napkin, the wine glass stem, and my thigh.
Imanio wiped his hands on a cloth, his eyes never leaving me.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“If you don’t feel like talking about this tonight, I understand; no pressure. But what’s the deal with your parents? You kind of brushed the topic off last time.”
The pause was instant.
My eyes fell to my plate, and the waves outside felt louder all of a sudden.
With a loud sigh, I began to tell my story.
“My grandparents raised me. I mean… you probably figured that.”
“I did. But you never said why.”
I sucked in a breath and then experienced a light tic.
“When I was sixteen,” I began, voice soft but cracking at the edges, “My grandmother sat me down and said she needed to talk. I thought it was just a normal day. She was making puff-puff and h-hibiscus tea…”
Imanio didn’t interrupt; he just leaned closer, letting the yacht’s hum fade into the background.
“She told me I was born in Nigeria. I… I already knew that. But the story I grew up hearing was that my mom and father couldn’t afford my medicine, so they sent me to the States, to Mississippi, to live with my grandparents so I could get the proper care I needed.”
Another tic surged. My shoulder rolled, and I blurted: “Ghosts with government names!” My voice was wobbly, but I continued.
“But the truth? They sent me away because I wasn’t what they wanted.
I was... Too noisy. Too twitchy. Too much.
My grandmother found out after they told her in some half-shameful confession.
They didn’t want to raise a child who would embarrass them. ”
A tear slipped down my cheek.
“Damn,” Imanio muttered, his tone sharpened with disbelief and quiet rage. “When is the last time you spoke to them?”
“I haven’t spoken to them since finding that out… not once. They used to call the house phone from time to time, trying to talk to me. But Nana Li never made me. Eventually, they stopped asking. As far as I’m concerned… t-they don’t exist.”
Another outburst came mid-sentence. “Surprise! Your origin story’s trash! Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Imanio said instantly. “You don’t owe me quiet; you owe yourself peace.”
I finally looked up at him. “It still hurts… especially knowing they went off and had another daughter. But it doesn’t hurt as bad as it used to, though.”
“Where’s yo’ sister?” he asked.
“S-Still with them, f-far as I know.”
The words sat heavy between us, and for a moment I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting.
“I th-think about having a family of my own one day. I wonder what I’d do if my child came out like me—tw-witching, blurting c-crazy things and misunderstood.
Would I love them the way I never got loved?
Would I f-f-fight for them the way my parents didn’t fight for me?
Or would I fall into the same cycle and b-break them the way I’ve been broken? ”
Imanio stood and walked over, crouching beside my chair. He took my hand gently, pressing it to his chest.
“You would,” he stated confidently. “You already love harder than most people I’ve met. And I don’t care what your people back in Nigeria thought they saw; they missed out on knowing one of the best woman I’ve ever met.”
I blinked fast, jaw ticking again.
“And they’ll never deserve you. But I do,” he added.
“Is… is that your way of saying I’m stuck with you?” I sniffed, half-smiling.
“Nope,” he said, kissing my knuckles. “It’s my way of telling you I’m not going anywhere—even when you tap a beat on the table like you’re about to summon a demon.”
I laughed through a tear, nudging his shoulder. “You’re silly.”
“But you’re smiling.”
“I’m… I’m trying.”
“And you’re doing damn good at it.”
We leaned into each other, forehead to forehead, with the smell of lemon butter and saltwater drifting between us.
Imanio retook his seat.
“You good now?” he asked.
I nodded slowly, then turned my gaze back to the ocean.
Imanio tilted his head. “You’re not, but I ain’t gonna press… not yet.”
We fell into a silence only broken by my curiosity.
“So tell me about your l-life before you became ‘Imanio Kors, The Billionaire’. How did he come about?” I kidded.
Imanio’s facial expression changed not in laughter, but almost sadness. He leaned his elbows on the table.
“You ever wonder what people would be like if money never touched them?”
I frowned, a little thrown. “Sometimes. Why?”
He sighed and glanced out at the water.
“I used to live in the hood. Like, really live there—before the suits, yachts and getting called ‘sir’ everywhere I go. Corner-store dinners, the sound of gunshots doubling as lullabies, sirens singing backup, and roaches playing tag in the kitchen… that was my normal. And my mama? Nothing like the woman she is today. She used to be caring and funny. She used to hug me and Dess, cook us breakfast in a robe with one slipper on and rollers in her hair. Our favorite was pancakes—burnt edges and all. She used to hum old Anita Baker songs and call us her ‘babies’ even when we got tall.”
He popped a shrimp into his mouth, chewed, then continued.
“But we didn’t move outta that environment until I turned thirteen.
That’s when everything changed. It’s like the moment my Pop’s bank account got too many commas, she stopped being our mama and started being someone else's idea of power. Money?” He scoffed, voice low but laced with frustration.
“That shit ain’t just paper; it’s a damn potion.
It doesn’t just change a person’s pockets; it changes their posture, their voice, their whole identity.
It turns warm hands cold, love into performance, and family into business associates.
In so many words, it shifts an unhumble person’s whole spirit. ”
I could hear the ache underneath his words.
I stayed quiet, letting him have the floor.
“Giselle traded softness for social clubs and laughter for legacy. We used to be poor but happy. And now?” He lifted his eyes to me again. “We’re rich… but hollow, well, she is.”
Imanio looked down at his plate like the memory lived there.
“Why do you call her Giselle instead of mama or mom ? ”
“ Mom is earned. She cashed that title in when she traded hugs for handbags and family for facades. So now she’s just Giselle.”
“Do… do you ever miss who she was?” I asked softly.
“I used to. Now I think that’s who she’s going to be. Unless life humbles her… I don’t see her changing anytime soon.”
“So how was school for you when y’all moved?”
“Of course, she threw us into some pretentious-ass prep school. I could count the number of Black students on two hands —and that’s being generous. The rest were white, or mixed like me and Dess.”
He paused, eyes flickering toward the water.
“People used to call me ‘Pretty Boy’,” he continued with a bitter laugh.
“I hated that shit… still do. People assumed I had it easy ’cause my pops was white…
and had a lil’ money at the time. Teachers let me slide on certain assignments, the girls liked me before I even spoke, and dudes hated me just for walking in the room.
I think all that had to mainly do with my looks, though,” he boasted.
A small, knowing smile cracked through for a second—but just as quickly, it vanished. It was like he didn’t trust it to stay… like the memory didn’t deserve joy.
Imanio leaned back, fingers drumming the edge of his glass.
“But even being mixed didn’t feel like a pass,” he continued.
“I was too light for the Black kids to trust me, and too ‘hood’ for the uppity white ones to understand me. I didn’t fit nowhere…
not really. I spent most of that first year figuring out which version of me made people the most comfortable.
And eventually... I just stopped trying. ”