Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
NAJI
I sat on the edge of the bed, robe wrapped tight around me, bare feet brushing the rug as I re-read—probably for the fiftieth time—the statement Saroya had posted to Imanio’s page.
@imaniokors
Private, not hidden.
My wife, Naji Ali-Kors.
Beautiful. Brilliant. Fully mine. No games. No scandals. Just facts.
She’s the only woman I’ve ever chosen to build with publicly or privately.
The rumors circulating about her being abused and held at her will are false, reckless, and disrespectful. Let this serve as both confirmation and correction. We didn’t owe the world this post, but she deserves the respect her name carries. And now, you’ll give it to her.
From this point on, there will be no assumptions… only respect.
If you speak on her name, do it right… with facts and flowers.
If not? Let it be nothing… not even a whisper.
— I. Kors
The caption was up exactly how Saroya promised —c lean, powerful and final. Though, they weren’t her exact words, though. Imanio always wanted his words—his tone, his edge—stamped on anything tied to his name. If people were going to read it, they needed to hear him in every syllable.
Three hours after it was posted, I was still in awe. In just that short timeframe, the internet had exploded. my name skyrocketed to #1 trending globally, racking up 3.4 million views and counting.
Industry veterans, top stylists, and elite photographers quickly began reposting the photo, flooding timelines with admiration and intrigue.
Major fashion powerhouses like Vogue , Harper’s Bazaar , Models.com , and Elite Walk wasted no time headlining the moment: “Naji Ali Returns: The Fashion World’s Silent Favorite Is Back—and Married to Billionaire Mogul Imanio Kors. ”
And perhaps the most fitting, “Where Has Naji Ali Been? Fashion’s Priority Muse Reemerges in a Power Reveal.”
Some of the positive comments read:
@PrettyPrivileged: And just like that… y’all got humbled!
@luxelife: She is STUNNING! And that ring! This is how you pop back out!
@silentmoves: The silence now speaks volumes.
@truthhurts: This is how you clear a rumor—with grace and receipts!
@LipsAndLouboutins: So you’re telling me Imanio Kors bagged her and kept quiet about it????
@RunwayFiles: This is the first public pic of Naji Ali in HOW long?! And she looks even better! I’m sick!
@FashionWhispers: The beauty industry is in shambles right now! Ms. untouchable is BACK—and married to the boss of bosses!
@InMyLuxuryEra: This is elite silence. Graceful dominance. I’m studying this woman like scripture.
@KorsKult: “If you speak on her name, do it right.” And I will, respectfully.
Fashion circles were in a frenzy, old runway clips resurfaced like buried treasure, even fan pages that had been inactive for years suddenly roared back to life, and my name flooded Twitter, TikTok, and every celebrity gossip blog worth mentioning .
Naji Ali—the ghost of the fashion world—had returned. And that time, I wasn’t just a model; I was a message.
The screen lit up with a flurry of notifications—mentions, tags, direct messages, and names popping up on my feed. Some were instantly recognizable, while others were echoes from runway seasons long gone.
I didn’t care what Instagram and Facebook were screaming or the myriad TikToks dissecting my posture in the recent photograph.
Twitter was completely off my radar, and I wasn't even tempted to scroll through the endless stream of think pieces that filled my timeline.
My focus was trained on a single platform: Models.com.
I felt an urgent need to see what they had to say—the iconic figures from the industry who once held significant clout in defining beauty standards needed to know what they said. Their opinions mattered.
My thumb hovered over the screen before finally tapping to reveal their insights.
NAJI ALI RETURNS
The private muse reemerges in a stunning photo reveal alongside her husband, billionaire mogul Imanio Kors. One of fashion’s most respected faces is back—and still untouchable.
My throat tightened before I could swallow the emotion.
I clicked the article and my photo filled the screen… and there I was.
Glowing. Poised. Elegant.
Looking back at me was the same woman they all used to clamor to book, the same woman who stopped time on catwalks with a single look, and the same woman who vanished… but never disappeared.
And now… the world was talking again.
A tear slid down my cheek. I didn’t even notice it at first.
That’s when I heard the door creak open behind me. Footsteps padded softly into the room, and I knew the only person it could’ve been was Imanio.
Imanio didn’t say anything at first; he just stood in the center of the room wearing a black t-shirt and sweats, watching me stare at myself like I didn’t recognize who I used to be.
“You still looking at it?” he asked, finally walking closer.
I nodded.
“I… I didn’t know people still cared.”
“What made you think they ever stopped?” he asked, taking a seat beside me on the bed—close, but not crowding.
“I disappeared.”
“And they waited.”
I turned toward him slowly.
“I t-thought when I left, the world moved on… found someone bigger and better.”
“Well, you know that’s always gonna happen. Some people say one monkey don’t stop no show—and in a lot of these industries, they damn sure believe that.” He leaned back slightly. “But they tried it with you, and it didn’t work.”
I glanced back at the phone.
“I didn’t know I still looked like… her. ”
“You look like you , Naji. Quit doubting your worth and beauty,” he encouraged.
“You’re the same girl who walked for Chanel and wouldn’t take those heels off until your toes bled.
The one who made designers change their entire lineups just to fit your stride.
You were that girl then, and you still are now. ”
Imanio brushed his knuckle across the back of my hand.
“You’re Naji Ali… always were. And now… I just get the honor of standing next to you as your husband.”
I didn’t respond right away. Instead, I reached for his hand.
“You know… I t-thought being married to you would drown me,” I confessed.
“On some real shit, me too.”
“You’re not supposed to admit that.” I giggled.
“I’m not supposed to want peace either… but here we are.”
The silence rolled around again, but not the empty kind—the heavy, needed kind.
Imanio’s hand stayed on mine, thumb brushing in slow circles.
“Naji,” he said finally, “the real reason I wanted that post made today wasn’t just for image; it was because they tried to make you look like a liar, weak, and crazy. And they don’t get to do that—not with your name or mine attached to it.”
That’s when the tears came—not loud, not wild, but just enough for one to slip down without asking.
“Pig wedding—ahh—wedding napkins!” I muttered mid-breath, trying to catch the tic before it exploded.
I rubbed under my eye quickly—my hand trembling slightly.
Imanio reached up and wiped the tear I missed with the pad of his thumb. Then he leaned in and kissed me as if he didn’t mind my broken edges. I kissed him back and let my hands roam his shoulders as his slid to my waist.
Imanio shifted me gently, laying me back onto the bed without a word, pressing his palm flat against my stomach before sliding it up slowly.
I let him touch and have his way with me like I was brand new to him… but already unforgettable.