Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
GISELLE
I adjusted my diamond-studded watch as I pulled up to Imanio’s residence.
I typically refrained from unannounced visits to my son, especially considering our recent strained interactions. However, I worried that if I called, he would not answer. Worse? He might’ve picked up only to abruptly end the call. Thus, I decided to make an exception that day.
My primary purpose for visiting was to offer an apology… not just to him, but to that girl too—Naji. The evening had devolved into a chaotic exchange, and I could admit—at least to myself—I’d gone too far.
Naji’s tics, her outbursts, the way Imanio had defended her—it had all spiraled fast. And it left me looking heartless and like the villain in a room full of people who already wanted someone to blame.
That portrayal was at odds with the Kors family image, which I prioritized, both in public and private settings.
I took a moment to smooth my perfectly styled hair in the mirror, ensuring every strand was in place. I reminded myself that I was not there to plead for forgiveness; I intended to extend a sincere olive branch.
As I stepped outside, the sound of my custom-made Chanel heels clicking against the pavement projected a sense of authority.
The ensemble I wore, carefully tailored to enhance my figure, paired with an exquisite purse nestled comfortably in the crook of my arm, gave me the appearance of someone preparing for a formal event or press conference—an impression I always strived to convey.
Using my key, I entered the home with a sense of purpose.
Yes, I still had a key.
To my surprise, I was greeted—not by my son—but by a young Black woman standing in the living room with a tablet and a folder tucked neatly under her arm.
Her skirt was a little plain. Her smile? A little too ready.
I scanned her quickly, giving her a once-over.
The iPad. The professional look. The calm posture. And the fact that she was comfortably in my son’s home. She had to be the new publicist he mentioned.
“Good afternoon. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here,” I said, maintaining a cordial yet assertive tone. “You must be my son’s new publicist.”
“Hi. Yes. I’m Saroya Evergreen. Pleased to meet you.”
She extended her hand for a firm handshake, her bright smile revealing perfectly aligned teeth.
I stared at her hand, noting the vibrant red nail polish and the minimalistic silver ring she wore.
“Sorry. I don’t shake hands.”
Her smirk widened, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Yeah, you’re definitely his mom.”
“Excuse me?” I narrowed my eyes, unsure if I should be offended or amused by her audacity.
Saroya didn’t bother repeating herself. “Mr. Kors is in the back. He’ll be up here shortly,” she announced, dismissing me with a flick of her wrist as she turned her attention back to the glowing screen of her tablet, as if I were merely a delivery confirmation, not a woman with her own achievements.
I continued to assess her closely.
No designer labels, no flashy jewelry, and no hint of class—just confidence mixed with cheap professionalism.
She looked to be one of those women who mistook boundaries for strength.
“Hmph! You don’t look like a publicist,” I remarked, emphasizing my point while crossing my arms, heightening the barrier between us.
Her smile tightened a notch, revealing the rehearsed Gen Z gloss—probably practiced in front of a mirror to perfect that blend of sassy and sweet. “
“Well, ma’am,” she replied with feigned innocence, “good PR is more about results than wardrobe. But if it’ll make this conversation easier, I can grab some pearls.”
The mouth on this one.
I gave her a long, unbothered stare, assessing the playful sarcasm that danced across her features.
She was cute, but I had no use for cute. Cute led to cockiness; a tendency to forget who was truly in charge, and it certainly didn’t endure in my world.
“You have quite a mouth on you,” I said, stepping closer, my irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “You talk as if you don’t realize who I am.”
“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” she quipped without a hint of hesitation. “You’re the woman whose son hired me… without your permission.”
“And that’s precisely the problem,” I countered, giving her a slow, deliberate glance as I took in her casual demeanor. “Imanio needs someone seasoned, a polished professional with years of experience. A married woman with children doesn't scream damage control.”
She chuckled. “That’s funny. During my interview, those very qualifications were what screamed stability, strategy, and results. Oh, and they’re what landed me this job!”
“He needs structure! He needs style! A woman with flair, for goodness’ sake! A little shoulder pad and some sparkle wouldn’t hurt either!”
Saroya raised an eyebrow in response, her expression unchanging.
“I’m here to manage Mr. Kors’s image, not choreograph a Soul Train reboot. If you want glitter, call a stylist. If you want control of a billion-dollar narrative? You’ve called the right person.”
The girl was clever, smug, and clearly used to being underestimated. I had to give her that.
A dangerous mix.
“I’m saying, when it comes to my son?—”
"With all due respect,” she interjected, her tone polished and unnervingly calm.
I despised how collected she sounded. “Your son is a grown man… an entire billionaire. If he’s trusted to lead multi-million-dollar deals and close boardroom negotiations, I think he can survive hiring his own publicist without a permission slip. ”
I blinked, caught off guard by her poise.
“So you think that just because he hired you, you’re untouchable?”
She responded with a smile—tight, sharp, like a finely honed blade.
“No, ma’am. I know I’m qualified… that’s what makes me secure."
“Hmph.” I crossed my arms, trying to project indifference. “That’s cute.”
Just then, my son entered the room, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
Thank goodness, because that girl was chewing my ass quietly, politely and with receipts.
“What’s going on? And what you doing here?” he asked.
“Hello, son! I was just getting acquainted with your new publicist. And we were just having a woman-to-woman conversation," I replied, forcing a lightness to my voice.
"Actually, it was more of a surprise interview. I didn’t apply for your approval, but thank you for the feedback,” Saroya said, flashing a coy smile at me, looking almost triumphant.
Imanio sighed heavily—a sound filled with frustration.
“Look, I don’t even want to know what you said to her, but let’s make one thing clear… I hired her. She’s sharp, she’s efficient, and she’s not going anywhere."
“She’s got an answer for everything!” I snapped.
“Good,” he shot right back, louder. “That’s her job, and clearly, she’s better at maintaining her composure than most people in this room. Saroya, you good?”
“Peachy,” she replied, a grin spreading across her face. Saroya looked at me as if she’d just dethroned me and was daring me to respond.
I turned to him with my jaw clenched. “Well, I need to talk to my son... alone.”
“Let’s go outside,” he said, already striding out of the room.
Imanio didn’t wait for me to catch up. The irritation was thick in the air. It was clear he was barely tolerating my presence.
We walked into the backyard. I took a breath, softened my voice, and fixed my tone.
“I came to apologize,” I told him. “For the dinner. For how I treated Naji. It wasn’t my finest hour.”
Imanio didn’t respond; he just stood there with his arms crossed, staring off into the distance as if he’d rather been anywhere else.
“I want to make it up,” I added. “Do another dinner. This time, I promise to be on my best behavior.”
Imanio emitted a sharp, dry laugh that felt like an icy wind.
“Hell no. Just for you to try to belittle her again? I’m not doing that,” he retorted, shaking his head in disagreement.
“I’m serious, Imanio,” I insisted, my tone firm and unwavering. “I even want to apologize to Naji… face-to-face. She deserves that much.”
“She’s asleep,” he replied, his eyes shifting slightly but not meeting mine.
I raised a brow. “She’s… asleep? This early?”
He remained silent, which told me all I needed to know.
My eyes narrowed, curiosity etching my features. “Is she pregnant?”
“She might be.” He shrugged nonchalantly.
Of course she is. Trapping him with a baby—classic move.
My heart sank at the thought, a mix of anger and frustration boiling within me.
I locked eyes with him, searching for clarity.
“Are you absolutely sure she’s the right one?
Imanio, think about this. Clients might pull out.
Investors will start asking questions. Hell, even my board members might demand a mental health evaluation.
And it wouldn’t stop there. People would dig—into your past, hers…
hell, maybe into mine. Are you really ready to risk everything for her? ”
Imanio's gaze stayed resolute, unwavering.
“As crazy as it sounds…” he replied, his voice low and certain, “I don’t care. Even if it costs me everything, I’d rather lose it all than live under your definition of success.”
Then, with a finality that stung, he turned his back on me, rudely dismissing our conversation like it was a calendar event he’d already rescheduled.
“You can see yourself out,” he yelled over his shoulder, already halfway back inside. “I’ll let you know about another dinner.”
I stood there for a moment, stunned by how colder he had become.
Then I walked back toward the front, my heels clicking sharply against the floor, each step echoing my frustration louder than I intended.
The little publicist—Saroya—was still standing by the entrance, observing us as if we were a reality show unfolding in real-time.
I rolled my eyes, put on my shades, and walked out smiling like I hadn’t just been handed my ass on a velvet platter.
I need to get some kind of dirt on Naji.
Something real. Something ugly. My son thinks he’s in love?
Fine. But I refuse to sit back and let him throw everything away for some broken little stray with a pretty face and a few sob stories.
He needs control. He needs legacy… not her.
I didn’t raise him to fall for “different.” And I damn sure won’t let him stay there.