Page 135 of Invisible Bars

Afterward, I shuffled to the bathroom, grumbling the whole way, and hopped into the shower. I stood under the hot water longer than necessary, hoping it would rinse away the cramps, the irritation, and the fact that I was now dealing with a period on top of everything else.

Once I felt a little more human, I stepped out and checked under the sink—expecting to see a hostage care package or at least some basic essentials. Instead, I got hit with a lineup of cleaning supplies.

“Oh, you gotta befuckingkidding me!” I snapped, slamming the cabinet shut so hard the mirror rattled.

This man has money, muscle, and a million cameras, but doesn’t have one damn pad in the house? Marriage of convenience, my ass—this is survival. It should’ve been in the fine print: may come with more emotional damage and no feminine hygiene products. Then again, he did say kidnapping me wasn’t on his agenda that night he killed Blu. So maybe pads, tampons, and basic consideration never made it on his agenda either.

Then I turned and spotted the tissue on the counter. It was just sitting there: Bold, unbothered, and like it knew it was my only option.

Tissue it was… layers of it.

“This is g-ghetto ashell,” I whispered, stuffing the makeshift pad into my panties with the grace of a woman barely holding on to her sanity.

I waddled back to the bedroom like a padded mummy. After slipping on a robe, I popped the cap off the bottle of Midol like I was opening a beer after a long shift. If there was one thing I made sure to pack in my bag, it was my emergency stash of painkillers. But since I packed in such a rush, I didn’t have time to grab the real essentials—chocolate, a heating pad, maybe even a hot water bottle. The kind of things that made me feel human when my uterus was trying to stage a coup.

After dressing, I headed to the kitchen to get me something to drink to down the pills—water, juice. Hell, at that point, I would’ve taken holy oil if it promised relief. When I entered, Ms. Shirley was at the counter, slicing tomatoes and laying outturkey and cheese like a lunchtime magician. The smell of warm bread and fresh veggies made my stomach growl as if I didn’t eat a hearty breakfast that morning.

"Hey, sweetie! Is everything okay?" she asked with a warm smile.

“Yes, ma’am. J-Just a little thirsty. Gonna grab some juice,” I semi-lied as I wandered toward the fridge.

Ms. Shirley finally looked over at me, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Okay. Well, this isyourhouse now. You just tell me to step out your way or get out if you need to.”

Myhouse?

According to Imanio, no one knew we were married aside from Chi and Dessign. So what had he told her? People didn’t justassumethings without a nudge. And if he was already saying more than he admitted, that meant he was controlling the narrative and leaving me in the dark.

Be that as it may, I still hadn’t fully grasped the reality that I was married to one of the wealthiest and most powerful men on the planet—and let’s be real, easily one of the finest men on earth. My new life resembled something out of a fairy tale, enveloped in luxury and filled with experiences that most people only dreamed of or saw showcased in glossy magazines. I had access to every conceivable comfort and extravagance I could desire Yet, amidst the lavishness, there were still aspects of fulfillment I found myself yearning for—still learning how to feel safe in a place that looked like paradise but didn’t always feel like home.

I chuckled softly, reached for the orange juice, and replied, “Never.”

“You’re starting to look a little more comfortable here.”

I gave her a small smile. “Alittle,” I admitted, pouring the juice slowly, watching it rise to the rim.

Ms. Shirley leaned casually against the counter. “I don’t know how long the two of you have known each other, but he’s really not that bad, you know.”

Ms. Shirley was giving me mixed feelings. Either she knew I was married to Imanio, or she assumed I was some charity case he picked up off the street—someone he fed and sheltered out of pity instead of choice.Maybe both. Either way, her eyes lingered too long, like she was trying to put my whole story together without asking a single question.

“He’s got a stormy way about him, sure, but I’ve seen worse. Mr. Kors helped me out of a situation years ago, right before I started working for him. Let’s just say I feel like I owe him for life.”

I didn’t press. Something about the way Ms. Shirley’s tone dipped made me think it wasn’t a story she told often.

“He’ssomething… that’s for sure,” I muttered, chasing the pain pill with a sip of orange juice.

Ms. Shirley’s glanced over, concern softening her expression.

“Are you on medication for your condition?” Her tone wasn’t nosy—more maternal, like she actually cared.

“You can tell me it’s none of my business and I won’t take offense,” she included. “Trust me, I done been cussed out before breakfast plenty times.”

I chuckled.

Her tone wasn’t nosy—more maternal, like she actually cared.

“Y-Yes, ma’am… just anxiety meds for now. N-not daily though.” I exhaled, rubbing my forehead. “I-I was actually thinking about stopping them. But ever since I arrived here, my… my tics have been louder and… more frequent, so I’ve been having to take them daily. Stress causes that,” I hinted, voice low. “I might need something stronger now.”