Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
IMANIO “GATEZ”
I was stretched out on the sectional, magazine in hand— Society it was defiant —gentle but daring the world to misunderstand her.
I was beside her in a crisp white button-down and tailored khaki.
And my arm around her waist? That wasn’t just for show; that was me claiming what the world couldn’t grasp, couldn’t box in, couldn’t control.
I hadn’t read the interview yet. I’d been flipping through the magazine slowly, on purpose—deliberately avoiding the pages where our story lived, letting the anticipation marinate while I waited for Naji to arrive home.
She was out with her sister and Dessign, having lunch and then ran a few errands. Nothing major, but still… it was big.
One night, we were talking, and Naji told me all she used to do was work and go home. Now she was out shopping and living life like there was no tomorrow.
I didn’t get it at first—why it had to be her, out of all the people, who had to witness what I did to Blu. Why she had to be the one I snatched into my world like some dark-ass version of fate? But I do now.
Page by page, I kept scrolling—avoiding our faces until I stopped on one I wasn’t expecting.
Paris.
She was dressed in a cinched red satin wrap dress. Paris’s hand was linked with her new ‘lover’, who looked like she was exactly where she belonged.
Paris looked damn near unrecognizable—in the best way. She stood out in that photo like a woman finally breathing free air.
The headline read: "Free at Last—Paris Lattimore Steps Into the Light."
I read Paris’s words.
She talked about freedom, living behind designer bars no one else could see—expectations, church folks, and her parents’ image.
Paris admitted she’d been lying to herself for years—too scared to claim the love she knew was meant for her.
Said she finally stopped asking for permission to exist and that she felt free… and I respected the hell out of it.
I closed the magazine and stared at the ceiling for a second.
Then murmured, just to myself, “I’m proud of you, Paris… for standing in your truth.”
Right then my phone rang and Chi’s name lit up the screen. I leaned back, pinched the bridge of my nose, and answered.
“Yo!”
“Say, bro… remember that slick nigga from the rooftop? The one who came talking about a ‘tiny favor’ like we was his personal genie?”
“Yeah. What about him?”
“Turns out, he wasn’t freelance like we thought. Whole time, he was working with Aaliyah.”
I sat up a little in confusion. “Aaliyah?”
“Yeah. She sent him over that night. That little meeting wasn’t random—it was a setup.
She was testing you. See, she wanted him to slide in close enough, ask if you’d take a hit job.
Not ’cause she cared about who got murdered, but because if you even entertained it?
Boom—she’d have blackmail. Something to hang over yo’ head for leverage. ”
I tugged at my beard. “So it wasn’t about business; it was about control. ”
“Exactly.” Chi’s tone dropped lower. “She wanted a leash on you. If you said yes, she’d hold that shit over yo’ head forever. If you said no, she’d use it to call you disloyal and stir up heat. Either way, she thought she had you boxed.”
I let that sink in, anger simmering slow but hot.
Chi broke the silence. “Crazy thing is, she ain’t even trust him fully. Paid him through a third-party, kept her hands clean. But paper trails don’t lie. I got enough to connect her, and I know for a fact that nigga wasn’t moving on his own.”
I chuckled—dark, humorless. “Aaliyah always thought she was smarter than the room. She should’ve known better than to try to play me with her pawns. But she’s dead now… and that’s the part she never calculated. You can’t play the long game from the grave. All that scheming, all that plotting—gone.
The front door creaked.
“But good looking out, bro. I’ma hit you back, though.”
“Why the Raisin Bran on the steps?!” Naji’s voice rang out, wild and worn. “Ugh, my fingers feel like noodles! No! Elbow macaroni!”
I stood up fast, chuckling as I moved to the door. There she was—arms full of bags, hair tossed, mouth twitching with tics and determination.
Naji looked like a beautiful storm.
Her sister trailed in behind her, already fanning herself with the edge of one of the shopping bags.
“This heat is diabolical—I heard someone say that here. Seriously, the outside feels like Nigeria, the inside of a closed oven, and Satan had a baby… and it’s teething on my forehead! Sis, if I pass out, tell Mama and Baba I died fashionable and pissed off!”
I smirked, watching her carry on like the sun had done her dirty.
“But I really ain’t got no business complaining... Nigeria’s heat is worse! At least here I got AC, a pool nearby, iced coffee, Uber Eats, and cold water that actually comes out cold. Sis, you kind of dodged a bullet being able to live here in the land of luxury the majority of your life.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call i-it that. But yes, to clean water and all of that. So be grateful. Someone always has it worse,” Naji humbly reminded her.
“You’re right. God probably rolled his eyes just now, contemplating shipping me right back to Lagos with no fan and a blackout! I’m about to put on this new swimsuit I just got and get in the pool!”
Despite what Chiamaka just said about complaining, she disappeared down the hall, muttering something about heatstroke and overpriced sandals.
I turned to Naji, shaking my head with a grin. “Your sister is a trip.” My tone shifted as I grew serious. “But why the hell you trying to carry all this yourself? You should’ve called me before you got out the car,” I fussed, stepping forward to take the bags from her arms.
Naji puffed out her cheeks. “I-I’m independent! L-Leave me alone!” she insisted, though a playful smirk danced on her lips, betraying her feigned frustration. “But... thank you,” she added reluctantly, her eyes softening as she recognized my gesture of help.
I set the bags down gently, then pulled her into a quick hug, pressing a kiss to her temple.
I pulled back just enough to let her breathe, but close enough that she felt every word when I said, “Naji, I don’t give a damn how independent you think you are… you’re mine. And I plan on reminding you exactly what that means tonight.
“Back up, bedroom bully! I bruise like a peach!”
Naji blushed hard immediately after, then groaned and hid her face against my chest.
“Ugh! Continue!”
“And anything that’s mine?" I continued, "I carry it, cover it, and dare the world to try me about it.”
Naji peered up at me, her expression soft and shy, biting her lip like she didn’t know it drove me crazy.
“F-fine, you can carry me sometimes… just sometimes.”
I drew her in closer, our bodies fitting together perfectly, and let my lips hover just above hers, teasingly close.
“Good… although I wasn’t really asking. The magazine is here,” I said, knowing the excitement it would spark in her.
“Wait—ours?” she asked, almost breathless.
“Yeah. It just came in the mail.”
Her eyes lit up instantly, body jerking slightly with a tic as she squealed. “Let’s read it!”
Nodding, I led her to the couch. As we settled in, I pulled the issue into both of our laps.
Naji curled close beside me, her eyes wide and bright, her thumb already twitching with excitement as she prepared to dive into its pages.
And we began to read.
Healing Out Loud: The Love, Growth they’re rewriting the meaning of resilience, partnership, and visibility—from the inside out.
In this rare sit-down conversation, Naji and Imanio Kors speak on trauma, growth, and why real love doesn’t always look the way you expect but always shows up when you need it most.
Naomi Ellison: “So… the question that everyone is probably dying to know is, how did you two meet?”
Me: “ Let’s just say... our meeting wasn’t normal.”
Naji: “ Not even a little.”
Naomi : “Define not normal .”
Me: “ She was in the wrong place... or maybe the right one. It just depends on how you look at it.”
Naji: “ It was chaotic… unexpected. But... it changed everything.”
Naomi : “Sounds like there’s a whole novel behind that answer.”