Chapter 34 #4
The crowd rose to their feet, applauding him, but I remained seated, feeling a profound sense of safety and support, knowing he had already stood up for me in that moment.
In that instant, I understood that no matter what whispers circled around us, no matter who didn’t comprehend the nuances of my tics or my presence at his side, I possessed the only voice that truly mattered, and it was already speaking louder than all the others combined.
I bit my lip, overwhelmed.
All those cameras, all those people, all that weight—lifted by his words like he’d been planning that speech since the day we met. I was trying not to get emotional, but my heart was beating like it was clapping for him inside my chest.
“I didn’t know you were gonna say all that,” I whispered, eyes still shiny.
“I meant every word,” he murmured, tugging me closer.
“You’re going to make me cry in d-designer lashes,” I said, laughing through the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
“You deserve to be seen,” he replied, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You always will be.”
And somehow, I believed him more in that moment than I ever had.
After that, dinner was served, and my appetite finally decided to show up. We ate real food; not that fancy nothing-on-your-plate nonsense they usually serve at galas—Imanio had made sure of it.
The macaroni was baked, the chicken was seasoned, and the greens had turkey in them… even the cornbread had nerve. I felt like somebody's grandma made it in the back and dared them to say something.
“Y’all always late,” Imanio called out to Dessign and Chi, his voice playful.
“And still shut it down,” Dessign replied, flipping her curls over her shoulder.
“I see that y’all dressed alike,” I kidded.
“He wasn’t with it at first, until I made him , ” she said, cutting her eyes at Chi.
“Y’all, this girl said I was gonna be catching the bus to the gala if I didn’t change,” Chi snitched.
“And I meant that,” Dessign replied.
We all laughed, and just like that, the energy shifted—lighter, warmer. The night started to feel less like a legacy event and more like a real celebration, with real people… my people.
While Imanio and I were enjoying each other’s company, a girl stepped into the scene like she’d been invited to steal it. Although I wasn’t familiar with her, it was evident she knew Imanio.
She appeared to be in her mid-twenties and stood tall.
Her rich, chocolate skin glowed under the soft light, and her hair fell straight, seeming almost vacuum-sealed to her scalp as if it had been expertly styled just for that moment.
She wore a pristine white cotton gown that clung to her figure, with a daring thigh-high slit that seemed to shout, “ Look at me !” even though her look was giving absolutely nothing —compared to me.
The dress attempted to whisper elegance and sophistication, but the desperation etched across her features was louder.
But it wasn’t her outfit that caught me off guard…
it was the way she looked at Imanio. Her expression radiated a sense of familiarity, as if she had shared countless nights with him, perfectly aware of how he preferred his eggs—scrambled with a hint of pepper and a dash of salt.
Or the kind of knowing look that suggested she could easily find the spare key hidden beneath the welcome mat by the front door, a detail that spoke to their intimate routine and shared history.
“Imanio!” she purred.
An instinctual tension gripped me—not out of fear, but from a slow-burning anger that coiled tightly behind my teeth, ready to unleash at the sight before me.
Imanio faced her, his expression polite but cold—the kind of cold only reserved for people who used to have access but lost the password.
“Aaliyah,” he addressed her.
There was no warmth or smile in his greeting… just acknowledgment.
I snickered under my breath. It was obvious she expected him to say more.
Aaliyah flicked her eyes to me—finally acknowledging the woman whose seat she thought she'd earned but never secured.
“Oh! And you must be the infamous Mrs. Kors!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with a saccharine sweetness, as if she were peddling something enticing yet insincere.
“How lucky are you? But wait—let me slow down! I’m sure you’re wondering—who is this heifer sliding into our space like she was invited? Well…”
As Aaliyah spoke, she clasped her hands together, a coy smile spreading across her face, and let out a soft, bashful chuckle that felt almost rehearsed, as if this were part of a performance.
“Imanio and I go way back,” she finished.
Way back? Translation: We fucked … more than once… and I want you to know that. Right here. Right now.
The contrast between her polished demeanor and the underlying hostility was palpable, leaving me wondering how that encounter would unfold.
A tic crawled up the side of my neck, sharp and twitchy, almost like a warning bell ringing inside me. I swallowed hard, forcing it down, but I could feel the tension tightening my features, betraying my cool facade.
I watched her smile stretch wider, an expression that seemed to say she thought she was winning that mental chess match. Little did Ms. Aaliyah know, I was deliberately allowing her to take the lead, giving her just enough rope to hang herself with her own overconfidence.
“Interesting,” I tittered, keeping my voice steady and dripping with a callous undertone.
Aaliyah's sharp gaze scanned me from head to toe, her eyes glimmering with an analytical hunger, as if she were searching for weaknesses to exploit.
Finally, her scrutiny landed on the elegant fit of my dress, perfectly tailored to my form, and the glimmering ice that adorned my ears, and the sparkling necklace and bracelet that cast reflections of light.
I could see the flicker of envy flash across her face, and I relished the moment, knowing I held the upper hand.
“But look at you! You’re so gorgeous!” she squealed, oozing fake sincerity. “I really mean that!”
I offered her a simpering smile, trying to mask my unease.
“Thank you.”
Aaliyah stepped closer, a playful glint in her eyes, and opened her arms wide, as if inviting me into her world.
“You don’t mind, right?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, reminiscent of a sitcom side character desperately begging for relevance. She had already begun leaning in for a hug.
Before I had a chance to respond, Aaliyah enveloped me in her embrace. Her arms wrapped around me with a familiarity that felt constricting, like a python nestled in layers of luxurious and overpowering Chanel No. 5 perfume. The scent overwhelmed my senses, making it hard to focus on anything.
And then…
Splash.
The cold red wine spread across the midsection of my white gown like a wound blooming in slow motion.
“Oh my God!” Aaliyah gasped, stepping back with the fakest wide-eyed expression I’d ever seen. “I’m so clumsy! That was—wow! I’m so sorry!”
The room didn’t laugh, but they noticed. I was sure every single person saw what happened, and even if no one said a word, silence has a way of screaming when it wants to.
The tics hit me hard and fast—jerks in my neck, my shoulder twitching like something had popped loose. Before I could catch myself, the words surged to the surface, desperate to escape.
“ You fake fridge magnet of a woman! Sorry—nope—no I’m not! Trip on the hem of your karma, you classless champagne gargler!”
Each syllable dripped with venom, my voice rising in defiance.
My lip quivered as I fought to maintain control.
I felt the tremble radiating from my chin, threatening to spill over into tears, but I locked my knees and stood tall, willing myself not to break down right there in the heat of the moment.
Aaliyah was still shocked —hand over her chest like she hadn’t just lived for this moment.
She didn’t speak again—not that she needed to. Her eyes communicated everything, practically saying, “ I did that .” There was also a fierce pride in her gaze, as if she had just achieved something monumental.
Imanio’s grip on my arm was gentle yet firm. His expression was a mix of concern and determination, signaling that he was one breath away from clearing the entire ballroom if necessary.
“Let’s go,” he muttered, urgency threading through his voice.
Once we reached the restroom, I stood in front of the large mirror, frantically dabbing at my dress with a towel soaked in cold water.
My dress was stained, my confidence felt shattered, and my lip hadn’t stopped trembling.
Imanio was leaned against the sink with his arms crossed tightly and jaw set in a hard line. His tuxedo remained pristine, untouched by the chaos that had unfolded. He radiated an aura of regal composure—everything I lacked in that moment.
I tossed the damp towel into the sink in frustration.
“It’s ruined! I’m ruined!” My voice cracked.
Another tic flared up—that one escaped as a sharp grunt, followed by an unwelcome twitch in my eye.
“Dior disaster! Bleach her breath!” I blurted out in exasperation, my mind racing with thoughts of calamity.
Imanio didn't attempt to stop the tics or offer useless reassurances. Instead, he waited, a silent acknowledgment of my struggle. When it finally subsided, leaving me trembling and exhausted, he stepped closer. His eyes locked onto mine, as if to reassure me that everything would be okay.
“No, you’re not, baby. How you feeling?” he asked, his voice soft, tender, devoid of any pity.
“Exhausted and humiliated,” I whispered, my voice still slightly hoarse from the exertion.
He smiled, a knowing, empathetic smile that reached his eyes.
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Naji. It's a part of you, and I'm learning to understand that part, to appreciate it even.”
I took a deep breath, trying to center myself, holding back more than just the next tic.
“I’m not embarrassed about my outbursts. This b-beautiful dress is ruined and I just don’t feel clean. I w-want to go home.”