Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
NAJI
“ Y ou good?” Imanio asked, standing beside me outside the front door of his parents’ sprawling estate.
I stayed quiet, staring at the brass handle, imagining all the worst-case scenarios lurking behind that ornate entrance.
“I… I don’t know why I’m nervous,” I finally admitted.
Imanio stepped closer, positioning himself in front of me, and gently tucked a loose curl behind my ear.
“You’re nervous because she’s the devil in Dior,” he remarked with a light smirk.
I chuckled lightly.
"But I got you, baby. I’ll always have your back,” he assured me with a warm smile, making me feel a little less overwhelmed as we prepared to face whatever awaited us inside.
I looked up at him, vulnerable, searching his eyes like they were the only thing steady in my world.
“W-what if I flip a table this time?” I whispered, half-joking—half not.
Right after the words left my mouth, my hand jolted gently, reaching up without warning to tug at the collar of Imanio’s shirt—twice. Not hard, but sharp and rhythmic, like I was trying to straighten something that wasn’t crooked.
“I hope she gets glitter in her eye shadow and can’t blink for a week! I definitely don’t!” I added hastily, eyes wide as I tried to reel it back.
Imanio let out a low chuckle, tilting his head with that smug, amused look that said he lived for moments like that.
“Are you really sure about that?” he asked, one brow raised. “Because that sounded real specific.”
“Just… kidding. Mostly.”
He laced his fingers through mine and leaned in, his voice low and warm. “We walk in as a team… we leave the same way.”
And with that, I stepped into the lion’s den in heels and lip gloss, praying my mouth didn’t get me exiled.
The room looked like money prayed over it.
Chandeliers glittered above a long twelve-seat table set with fine china, gold flatware, and wine glasses shaped like tears. The whole space was dressed like a magazine spread— tasteful , but only if your taste came with a trust fund.
Everyone was already seated.
Dessign, radiant in a chocolate leather wrap dress, caught my eye and winked. She looked like a woman who’d survived hell and came back hotter.
Chi was two glasses in, leaning toward a woman who barked out a laugh so loud it could’ve raised the ancestors.
I figured that had to be Imanio’s aunt—he told me she’d be here.
She had on a zebra-print blouse and red lipstick, unapologetic and probably funny as hell.
The kind of woman who always smelled like perfume and wisdom.
Sitting beside her was a woman I recognized immediately from the photos: Imanio’s grandmother.
Her hair was wrapped in a silk turban, skin a rich mahogany smoothed by time and cocoa butter.
She sat with her shoulders back and her cane across her lap like a weapon she hadn’t had to use in a while.
Her eyes said, Try me if you want to, but her smile was warm and comforting.
Across the table sat Imanio’s father, Robert—distinguished, even in plain clothes. He wore a crisp white button-down and beige slacks, no tie. His beard was lined to perfection, and his posture was easy but alert. Like he was watching everything... and already knew how the night would end.
At the head of the table, of course, was her .
Giselle Kors.
Sipping wine like it had been bottled for her specifically—vintage, rare, and far too exclusive for common taste.
“Welcome again,” she greeted, standing with a smile that was polite but failed to reach her dark eyes, which flickered with a hint of something more complex.
Without consciously deciding to, my fingers instinctively darted to Imanio’s sleeves and gave it two quick flicks—soft, compulsive, like my body needed to confirm he was still there.
“ Fresh like moldy tilapia!” I blurted, my voice cutting through the air unexpectedly.
Giselle’s grin tightened, but she remained silent. So did Imanio’s aunt and grandmother—both of whom, according to Imanio, were familiar with my condition.
“Sorry,” I murmured, barely loud enough for anyone to hear, my cheeks reddening in embarrassment.
"No worries!” Giselle chirped, giving my shoulder a friendly pat, as though we were long-lost friends. “It’s something I should get used to, right? Now, let’s find a seat, shall we?”
With an exaggerated flourish, she gestured toward the table, her movements reminiscent of someone directing a press conference, rather than inviting us to a casual family dinner.
Fake-ass bitch.
I didn’t say it out loud… but oh, I thought it with my whole chest.
Imanio pulled out a seat for me, kissed my temple, and sat beside me.
And just like that… the dinner began.
I wasn’t sure if we were about to eat or survive.
Giselle’e gestured across the table. “Now, I know some of us have already met—Imanio, Robert, Dessign…” Her voice barely acknowledged my name, like saying it too kindly might choke her. “But I’m not sure if you’ve met Chi?—”
Before she could finish, Chi threw up his hand mid-sip, like a game show contestant buzzing in with the right answer.
“I’m Chi—Dess’s headache, full-time comedian, and part-time peacemaker. But Glitchy already knows that because we’re already locked in. And this evening, I’m just here to make sure nobody upsets my lady, for the food and gossip that I know is sure to come.”
Laughter exploded around the table… even I had to cover my mouth.
“Well, you got company in that,” Imanio’s aunt chimed in, raising her glass with a smirk, then turned her focus on me.
“Hey, pretty girl. I’m Renee—the cool aunt, certified shade technician, the one who always keeps it real and steps in to translate when my dear sister starts talking in polished judgment. ”
Everyone laughed again—except Giselle. Then his grandmother spoke, her voice calm but full of that old-school weight.
“I’m Mama Rose, baby,” she introduced, adjusting her silk turban like a crown. “I’m the one who taught everybody at this table how to stir pots without spilling a drop, say a prayer that covers their whole house, and keep a humble heart—even when pride got a seat at the table.”
Mama Rose took a dainty sip of her water, eyes flicking toward Giselle with the gentlest shade imaginable, as if to say you hear that, baby?
Giselle lifted her wine glass to her lips, taking a sip with an intensity that bordered on aggressive, almost as if the rich red liquid was an enemy she needed to conquer.
That’s when I saw it—the barely concealed hatred that Imanio and Dessign had warned me about. The way Giselle glowered at Chi, Renee, and Mama Rose was as if she wished she could wipe them from existence and rewrite the scene at the table in her own self-serving script.
And somehow, I just knew that was the appetizer.
“ Hope your wine turns back into water !” I blurted, loud and sharp, my hand tapping the table twice before I even realized I was talking.
“I d-don’t!” I added hurriedly, sitting up straighter, as if an erect posture could somehow mitigate what I had just said.
Imanio’s hand found its way to my thigh beneath the table, offering a small, reassuring squeeze—a silent message that conveyed, “ you’re good."
“Mmm. That baby there just might be the most honest one at this table," Mama Rose said, with the calm of a woman who’d seen generations fall apart and still made it to church on Sunday.
Imanio and his father remained stoic—they exchanged no glances, offered no reactions.
Dessign hid her grin behind her wine glass.
Then there was Chi.
“She’s coming for ya’, Giselle. I told you we should’ve brought popcorn, baby,” he relayed to Dessign, elbowing her playfully.
Renee chuckled, lifting her napkin like it was a praise fan.
“Well, if the Lord is still doing miracles, I got a few requests too,” she said. “I need my student loan balance erased. My knees restored to factory settings, and one man who ain’t allergic to commitment.”
Giselle cleared her throat, then set her glass down with too much grace to be anything but furious—her jaw tight enough to crack a diamond.
“Moving along,” she said, her tone now dipped in designer attitude, “I know the last dinner didn’t go as planned but tonight is about healing… starting fresh. And I’ve gone out of my way… literally… to make this one more... meaningful.”
I glanced down at my plate, trying to stay still. But the tension in the room was crawling up my spine like it had claws. I already knew I wasn’t gonna be able to keep my tics under wraps much longer.
Then Giselle clapped—light and pretentious—like she was summoning a string quartet instead of setting off a nuclear emotional bomb.
“Please bring in our other guests,” she instructed the butler.
My head snapped up.
Other guests?
Why did that sound like the start of a horror movie?
Everyone around the table looked confused…
and suspicious. Me? I was already buzzing.
My body picked up on the betrayal before my brain could put it into words.
I didn’t do well with surprises… especially not new people.
I needed mental prep, emotional armor, and a minute to breathe.
But the butler returned way too fast. He stood tall at the archway and cleared his throat.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ali… and their daughter, Miss Chiamaka,” he announced.
Mr. and Mrs. Ali?
I spun around like my name had just been called on Judgment Day—and then I just stood there, breath stuck somewhere between fear and fury.
Standing in the doorway were two familiar faces I hadn’t laid eyes on in over a decade and one stranger who was all too new to me—my parents and my younger sister.
They were adorned in vibrant traditional Nigerian attire, their richly patterned outfits showcasing the bright colors of their heritage.
Their gazes swept across the room, wide eyes searching for familiarity in a space that felt alien to them.
Renee leaned forward, all curiosity and zero seasoning, and asked, “Giselle, who are these people?”