Chapter 34 #2
I eyed her in disdain. “Too bad I can’t say the same,” I shot back harshly. My neck jerked once. “Crackhead fashion! Suck a pinecone! Pinecone!”
Tyla tried to smile through the burn. “Wow. I guess I deserved that. But you still got that, huh? The, um… Tourette’s.”
Wrong move.
I felt Imanio shift beside me, ready to react, but I held up a hand to stop him.
I stepped toward Tyla slowly, glowering at her with malice.
“And you’re still a hateful b-bitch?”
“I didn’t mean it in a disrespectful way,” she backpedaled, her tone suddenly cowardly.
“Pill thief!” I shouted out of anger.
Her smile faltered instantly. “I didn’t?—”
“You stole my meds d-during Fashion Week! Ad-dmit it!”
Tyla’s gaze dropped to the floor, shame seeping into her silence before she finally exhaled.
“You’re right. I did. I was jealous—immature. You were getting all the attention, and I… I just wanted the spotlight back, even if it meant taking you down.” Her voice wavered, thin as paper. “I was going through a lot back then…”
I laughed bitterly, no humor in it. “So was I… so were a lot of us. But you—” My head jerked and hand fluttered up before I spit another tic. “Sabotaging bitch!—pigeon feet!—sorry not sorry!—you chose cruelty!”
“Naji, I’m not that person anymore.”
I took Tyla in—disheveled, hollow, trying to claw her way into some version of peace I knew she didn’t deserve from me.
I looked her dead in the eye. “Good. Because t-that person? The one you were? I hated her.”
“I just thought maybe we could?—”
“You t-thought what? That we’d play catch-up like old friends? That I’d let you sit at my table after you tried to p-poison my plate? No. You d-d-on’t get access to me. Not now… not ever.”
She flinched.
I felt Imanio’s hand at my waist again, steady. He didn’t say a word, but I could feel the pride humming in his body— not because I was angry, but because I stood in it… owned it.
I looked at Tyla—really looked at her.
Karma.
Funny how it always circled back. Not on our time, but always right on schedule.
I used to pray for moments like this—to see the ones who hurt me down bad.
And now here she was, frizzed-up and damn near unrecognizable, begging for scraps of my kindness.
But I didn’t feel joy or feel peace; I just felt.
.. nothing. No sympathy. No satisfaction — just confirmation that the universe heard every sob I choked down alone, that the pain I wore like a second skin backstage wasn’t forgotten and that every tic, every tremor and every cruel whisper from people like her was logged, documented and answered.
“Naji, I’m sorry,” Tyla whispered, eyes pleading.
“Sorry won’t heal what you broke. S-Sorry won’t erase the nights I shook in my own skin because of you. Sorry is just a band-aid on a wound you carved with intention. Chopstick soul—karma, karma, karma! ”
Before Tyla could respond, I felt the warmth of Imanio’s presence behind me. He leaned close, his voice low, a whisper meant for my ear alone.
“Let’s wrap this shit up, baby. Don’t forget who you are.”
His words snapped me back. Right—who I was now.
Not the girl they once mocked, not the broken model, but a wife… someone’s protected woman… someone with a new name and a new life.
I knew damn well the blogs were waiting—hungry.
Paparazzi didn’t care about truth; they cared about clicks.
One wrong move, one photo of me snapping in public, and the next day’s headline would read: “Imanio Kors’ wife caught spazzing in the streets.
” They didn’t need context; they needed chaos.
And Tyla? She wasn’t worth feeding them.
I wasn’t about to hand them my crown just to let her play victim.
She could keep her pity… I’d keep my peace.
I was about to walk away until she blurted, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Ambria.”
That name alone nearly brought tears to my eyes, slamming into me like a punch I wasn’t ready for.
Ambria. My friend. My sister in the industry. The girl who’d laughed through the pain while quietly killing herself to stay on top.
“It’s crazy to know she was doing all that to her body and suffering in silence,” Tyla murmured, shaking her head like she suddenly found compassion.
I swallowed hard, but my voice cut sharp.
“We all suffered in silence in our own way. The difference is, you judged people for the same s-shit you were doing behind closed doors. You pointed fingers at me while hiding your own c-c-cracks. Don’t pretend her death made you righteous now. Don’t come n-near me again.”
With nothing else to say, I turned my back and walked to the car with my husband, leaving her looking dumbfounded. I didn’t look back… not even once.
As I slid in the passenger seat, I shut the door a little harder than I meant to. Imanio’s eyes were already on me, his jaw locked like he was still debating whether or not to get out and handle her himself.
He leaned slightly, voice low. “Who was she?”
I buckled my seatbelt and stared out the window for a moment before answering.
“Some model I used to work with. Back when I thought f-fashion week meant sisterhood—chicken nugget nipples! ”
He cocked his head, waiting.
“She’s the o-one who stole my meds that day. She knew I had Tourette’s… knew I needed them to function!”
His face darkened instantly. “And that bitch just walked up like she forgot all that?”
I nodded. “Yup.”
“You want me to handle her? You know I will. Just say the word.”
I let out a small chuckle at his thoughtfulness, shaking my head.
“ No, b-babe. It looks like life has already dragged her. And when God humbles somebody, you don’t interfere; you just step aside and let the lesson finish teaching .”
Sometimes I wanna mirror people’s disrespect—throw it right back at them—but then I see how life already treats them, and honestly? That’s punishment enough. I didn’t need revenge or to stand around and watch Tyla unravel. I had peace. I had him. I had a name again. And that was more than enough.
The car pulled up slowly, a quiet hum beneath the thick layer of luxury.
Outside, the red carpet shimmered under the bright spotlights, casting warm glows on the jubilant faces of guests.
Photographers—eager and loud—shouted names and captured every moment, their camera bulbs flashing in rapid bursts like miniature fireworks.
It was a sea of black ties, high dresses, flashing cameras, and envy—all wrapped up in luxurious satin and high-end fashion.
Inside the car, I remained motionless, a quiet storm brewing within me. My fingers knotted tightly around the slit of my dress, anxiously bracing for impact—the kind of grip that said run , even if my heels said walk tall .
A tic tugged at the corner of my mouth—a silent one, but strong enough to pull at my jaw.
I fought to suppress it, pressing my tongue firmly against the roof of my mouth, willing my body to calm down.
I didn’t want to start the night twitching and snapping like a loose wire, drawing unwanted attention.
"I can stay in the car," I murmured softly, not really addressing Imanio but rather speaking to the version of me that once faded into the background—the girl who had counted the ceiling tiles to survive countless school assemblies, the one who flinched at prolonged stares from strangers.
But I looked up, and of course, he was already watching me.
“You could,” he replied calmly, buttoning his jacket with ease. “But you won’t.” Imanio leaned in closer, his voice a low murmur that felt like an anchor. "I’ll be right there with you. If you twitch, if you freeze, if you mutter something under your breath, I won’t let go of your hand."
A warm sensation blossomed in my chest—not panic, not that familiar flutter of embarrassment—but a comforting sense of support. And then, just like that, the door swung open.
He extended his arm. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I whispered, linking mine with his.
I didn’t know what that dinner would hold, but I knew I wasn’t walking in as a ghost or a secret.
I was walking in as his wife.
The moment we stepped out, the energy of the event engulfed us. All those voices.. all that light… I felt it press against me like heat, hungry and heavy. But I didn’t flinch—not when Imanio’s hand stayed right there, firm in mine.
My white gown molded to me like it had studied my body in silence.
It didn’t scream for attention; it simply spoke volumes with its silent grace.
My silver stilettos were quiet assassins—elegant but deadly.
They didn’t cry out for attention either; they whispered confidence, allowing me to glide over judgment while maintaining my rhythm.
Imanio looked good— too good.
He wore a crisp white tux with a black lapel — bow tie undone just enough to give that dangerous softness like he could charm the whole building, then burn it down if I gave him the order to do so.
People stared.
Of course they did. Because we didn’t walk; we arrived.
I felt a tic rising again—a rebellious urge to break free. My jaw twitched once, then again, but I took a slow, measured breath through my nose, grounding myself in the moment, determined to embrace the night ahead.
“You good?” he asked under his breath, lips barely moving as we walked.
“No,” I answered truthfully.
“But I’m here,” I added.
The flashes went insane, and whispers rippled like aftershocks.
“IS THAT NAJI ALI??”
“NAJI—OVER HERE!”
“MR. KORS—LOOK THIS WAY!”
“SHE LOOKS EXACTLY THE SAME! NO… BETTER!”
“HE LOOKS LIKE HE’D BURY ANYONE WHO LOOKS AT HER WRONG!”
I held Imanio’s hand the entire time, avoiding too much waving or smiling too widely.
My tics were doing somersaults—flipping and jerking just under the surface, desperate to break free. The noise, the flashes, and the yelling were a lot. It was like every trigger was hitting me at once. A siren call to every nerve in my body to twitch, snap, shout, jump .
We posed for exactly three pictures.