Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
IMANIO
“ S he’s trending in three countries… and not in a good way,” Saroya said, trying not to sound panicked, clicked through slides no one cared about—images of tweets, blog headlines, and screenshots of Aaliyah’s fake sonogram post.
“The public wants a response, Imanio. Half of them think it’s real; the other half think you ghosted a pregnant woman. We’re losing ground on sympathy!”
“I don’t need sympathy,” I murmured.
And I meant that.
It had been three days since that fake-ass announcement hit the internet.
Three days of my name being dragged, twisted, and reshaped into headlines that didn’t belong to me.
I was supposed to speak out two days prior.
PR was ready and Saroya had the talking points locked in, cameras on standby, but I didn’t want to give it air.
I stayed quiet, hoping the internet would do what it always does—get bored, move on, or pick another name to ruin.
It didn’t.
That one stuck. Not because it was true, but because lies are louder.
“No,” she fired back, “but your brand does! You’ve got deals lined up! A philanthropic campaign launching next week! If we let this spiral?—”
“She’s lying, though,” I cut in, voice like stone. “And you want me to stand on a stage and tell the world I didn’t nut in her?”
Saroya didn’t get upset; she was used to my venom.
“No. I want you to reclaim the narrative before she gains too much control over it.”
I leaned back and crossed my arms.
“And what exactly would I say?”
“That you’re aware of the rumors! That there’s no truth to them! That you wish her peace and healing, but that these kinds of false accusations harm real victims.”
I stared at her.
“You want me to sound like a politician who just got caught cheating but still wants votes. You might as well write it in cursive and slap it on an Instagram story with a sad piano track.”
Saroya pressed her palms flat on the table. “It’s what separates men in suits from men in headlines . You decide.”
I chuckled. “I was just fuckin’ with you,” I said, then pushed back from the table and rose to my feet. “We’ll do it live today… this afternoon…. two o’clock.”
“I thought you’d see things my way.” She smirked, then added, “About to get on this now.”
I adjusted my cuff again, rolled my neck once, and exhaled through my nose.
Two o’clock. Time to make a liar beg for relevance.
The mirror caught the sharp angles of my face as I adjusted the collar of my black button-down. My watch gleamed under the soft lights of the prep room—silent, ticking, like a fuse about to go off.
Saroya stood behind me, tablet in hand, her heels tapping against the floor like a metronome for my patience. She wore a slate-gray power suit and a no-nonsense expression to match.
“Okay,” she started, flipping to a page. “Let’s go over this again. You’re addressing the allegations, not the woman. Keep your tone composed, not confrontational. You don’t owe them your rage—just your clarity.”
I exhaled slowly, rolling my neck.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered. “You’d think people would stop believing gossip made on a Notes app.”
Saroya arched a brow behind me.
“You’re an attractive, reserved man with a reputation for being grumpy, Imanio. The online world loves to latch onto characters like you. They’ll accept whatever sensational story generates clicks. But today, we’re the ones who control the narrative.”
I looked up at her reflection in the mirror, noticing the serious yet determined look in her eyes.
“Letting her lie on my name like that—on my family? That’s declaring war.”
Saroya’s expression softened, though only slightly.
“Then approach this like a man who’s defending his peace rather than one who’s eager for a fight. Are we clear on that?”
After a brief, tense moment, I nodded in agreement.
“Yeah. Let’s shut this shit down.”
The flash of cameras hit like lightning as I stepped onto the small stage at the podium, flanked by two guards, with Saroya observing from a distance, her sharp gaze scanning the crowded audience.
The room was packed—journalists shoulder-to-shoulder. Phones and cameras jutted into the air like eager hands, each recording device thirsting to capture the moment. Whispers of speculation and excitement rose around me before I even opened my mouth.
Taking a deep breath, I leaned forward, ready to address the sea of faces before me.
Click. Flash. Click.
“Good afternoon. I’ll keep this brief out of respect for everyone’s time and my own. I want to address the rumors that have been circulating online over the past seventy-two hours. Let me be clear: The claim that I am expecting a child with Aaliyah Daniels is false.”
Gasps filled the air as more camera flashes went off. Fingers tapped away at live tweets and real-time captions.
“While I generally don’t respond to gossip, this lie affects not just me, but my wife and the integrity of my name. My wife, Naji Kors, is the only woman I’ve committed my name, my legacy, and my peace to.”
Saroya gave a small, affirming nod.
One reporter yelled out from the back. “Imanio, has there been any communication between you and the woman making the claim?”
I took in a deep breath before answering. “There is no relationship between us, romantic or otherwise, beyond a brief and distant past encounter.”
Another voice cut in from the side. “Why do you think she would lie about something so serious?”
“Some people want relevance,” I replied evenly. “And some people are willing to burn their last bridge to get it.”
A different reporter leaned forward, voice sharp. “Why did it take you days to respond?”
“My silence wasn’t guilt,” I answered, locking eyes with the cameras. “It was restraint. But when lies get loud, truth has to stand taller.”
From the front row, someone pressed, “Once all this clears, will you be taking legal action?”
I gave the slightest shrug. “I’m not here to discuss legal strategy. But trust—it’s being handled.”
A reporter from the middle row stood up. “Has this allegation affected your marriage?”
I didn’t respond immediately. My jaw clenched, a reminder to myself not to explode under the lights.
Finally, I spoke, “No. If anything, it reminded me how much I value loyalty, truth, and a real woman who doesn’t need clout to shine.”
Another voice shot from the back. “Are you saying this woman fabricated a pregnancy entirely?”
I turned my head directly toward the cameras.
“I’m saying some people carry delusion like a child—full term. This one just didn’t make it to delivery.”
The room stirred, then another question pierced the air.
“What would you like to say to Aaliyah if she were here today?”
I tightened my grip on the podium.
“I would let her know that false pregnancy claims are not just messy, they’re dangerous. They hurt real mothers, real fathers, and real children. I don’t wish her harm; I wish her healing. And I hope—genuinely—that she finds whatever it is she’s looking for. But it won’t be in my name.”
I straightened, scanning the room one last time. “No further questions.”
With that, I stepped away from the podium, leaving the cameras buzzing in my wake. By the time the cameras cut off, #ImanioKorsSpeaks was already trending.
Saroya pulled me into the private room before reporters could rush the doors.
She stared at me for a moment, then broke into a proud, wide grin.
“You ate that! No crumbs!” she exclaimed, her usual professionalism slipping for just a second.
I smirked, already pulling off my watch and unbuttoning the collar of my shirt.
“Good. Now I can get back to my life.”
She was already tapping her tablet, fingers flying across the screen as she messaged the media director.
“We’ll draft the full statement to reinforce everything you said. By this time tomorrow, this Aaliyah chick’s credibility will be in the trash.”
My gaze darkened again, just for a moment.
“That’s where she should’ve stayed.”
“While all of this is going on—and since you and Naji are public now—I think this would be a good time for y’all to do an interview… together,” Saroya suggested. “You know… maybe talk about how y’all got together. I’m curious as well.”
I let out a scoff, shaking my head with a hint of amusement.
“You sure you want the truth?” I asked, lips tugging into a faint smirk. “’Cause once you know, you can’t un-know it. And I can guarantee you’ll look at me differently.”
“Than I already do?” she challenged, one brow lifted.
“ Definitely. The start of us wasn’t romantic; it was complicated… dangerous… and probably illegal in most states. Let’s just say, our original story ain’t fit for daytime TV, but it would sell out bookstores and make a hell of a movie… and I know exactly who’d play me.”
Saroya raised an eyebrow; her expression laced with curiosity. After a brief pause, she seemed to decide some things were better left unknown.
“Yeah, spare me the details and just write the damn book. It will save you jail time and me the money it would cost to get you out.”
I chuckled.
“So you’re not denying you’d pay the bail?” I teased.
“Not at all. I’d just send you the invoice afterward,” she quipped. “But seriously, perhaps doing the interview could be a good opportunity for Naji to talk about her condition, to share her experience.”
I frowned. “No,” I replied firmly, my voice devoid of any humor.
Saroya crossed her arms and placed her hands firmly on her hips, a gesture of defiance.
“And just why not?!” she hissed. “Is it because you don’t want to?”
“Nah. It’s just knowing Naji, she probably wouldn’t be up for it… at least not this soon.”
Saroya raised an eyebrow, giving me a pointed look that made it clear she wasn’t going to let this go easily.
“Well, will you at least ask her?” she pushed, unbothered.
I sighed, knowing she wouldn’t let up.
“I’ll ask… but no guarantees.”
“That’s all I ask. Let me know what she says and I’ll set everything up.”
Saroya smiled sweetly, like she hadn’t just tried to strong-arm me with that PR tone of hers.
“Are you her publicist or mine?”
“Both!” she chirped. “She’s your wife, so y’all come as a package now! Besides, you pay me enough to represent the both of you… and maybe even another person.” Saroya muttered that last part.
I raised a brow. “I do?”
Saroya whistled. “Did I say that?” Her eyes shifted quickly to her watch. “Well, would you look at the time! Great work out there today! We’ll talk in the morning!”
Saroya patted my shoulder, then rushed out of the room before I could question her about her salary.
I shook my head, chuckling under my breath.
Whether I was paying her a lot or not didn’t matter to me. I had the money, and Saroya was worth every dollar… and then some. But I couldn’t say I wasn’t curious. Knowing my status? I probably was her highest-paying client.
“Let’s go,” I told my men, who were stationed outside the door.
The second we stepped out, the lights hit me from every angle. The reporters were still yelling questions I had no intention of answering.
I gave them silence.
As I slid into the back of the car and the doors shut, I finally let my head fall back against the seat. My thoughts were already drifting.
During my speech, when I said false claims were harmful, I wasn’t referring to the people being targeted. I meant it for the muthafuckas doing the lying.
Between Giselle and Aaliyah, I didn’t know who was testing me the most. Aaliyah probably thought shit was sweet—thought I’d let it ride, let her name brush up against mine and leave it at that.
But now that my statement was out… now that the image was clean again?
I was just getting started… and she wouldn’t even see it coming.