Page 210 of Invisible Bars

I rubbed under my eye quickly—my hand trembling slightly.

Imanio reached up and wiped the tear I missed with the pad of his thumb. Then he leaned in and kissed me as if he didn’t mind my broken edges. I kissed him back and let my hands roam his shoulders as his slid to my waist.

Imanio shifted me gently, laying me back onto the bed without a word, pressing his palm flat against my stomach before sliding it up slowly.

I let him touch and have his way with me like I was brand new to him… but already unforgettable.

Chapter Thirty-Three

GISELLE KORS

My matte silver 2025 Tesla Model X Plaid cruised slowly down the narrow street where my childhood home still sat—stubborn, and impossible to forget. I always dreaded going to that part of town. Everything about it reminded me of who I used to be—and who I refused to go back to being. But that day was one of those rare occasions when I made myself show up.

Birthdays. Holidays. The occasional guilt trip.That was my rhythm.

Mother and I barely talked on the phone, and when we did, it was surface-level at best. Still, I tried to make those visits just to show I cared a little—or more than I ever let on.

I pulled up in front of the house and stared at it, half-expecting it to collapse under the weight of its own stubbornness. But like Mother, it was still standing—weathered but unbothered.

“Why do I always feel like I’m pulling up to a funeral just to visit her?” I mumbled, fixing the oversized designer sunglasses perched on my face.

I sat in the car for another full minute, eyeing the neatly stacked gifts on the passenger seat.

That year, I went all out—again. I bought her a boxed luxury handbag, some silk scarves in rich earth tones, a high-end foot spa she’d never have to plug in, and a bottle of designer perfume that I knew she’d never spray on. I already knew how that visit would go. Mother would probably turn them down, like she always did—polite refusal wrapped in passive judgment. But I bought them anyway. Maybe because it looked expensive and smelled like the kind of woman I thought she should be. Still, I knew she’d likely shake her head, mumble something about wasting money, and remind me that no bag, no matter how high-end, could replace a visit that felt genuine.

It was the thought that counted, right?

Like always, I promised myself that the visit would be quick.

In and out. Polite smiles. A gift bag with too much tissue paper. And silence where love used to live.

I glanced into the rearview mirror.

My makeup? Flawless. My hair? Bone-straight, pressed down to perfection.

“Alright,” I sighed, grabbing my purse and sliding on a pair ofLoro Pianagloves—not for warmth, but to avoid touching anything directly.

As I stepped outside, the sharp sound of my heels clacked rhythmically against the sidewalk.

I had on a crisp whiteAlexander McQueenblouse, matching trousers, and chic heels that had never once stepped on cracked concrete.

After scanning my surroundings with a practiced eye, I checked behind me twice to ensure no one was lurking, then expertly balanced the stacked gifts in my arms, mimicking a waitress mastering the art of serving on a tray. Just as I stepped onto the walkway, a sudden rush of movement caught my eye—a group of teenagers on bikes whizzed by, careening dangerouslyclose, their laughter filling the air and momentarily stealing my focus.

“Mm-hmm,” I muttered. “Let me make sure my damn doors are locked.”

Click. Click.

I pressed the lock button on my car twice for good measure, even though the doors had already auto-locked with a soft click. I was about to enter the house when I heard a familiar voice calling out from across the street.

“Giselle? Is that you?”

With a reluctant sigh, I slowly turned around.

A woman with deep laugh lines and a pink headwrap stood on her porch waving. Her old house dress was faded, slightly wrinkled and hung loosely on her slender frame. I noticed rollers peeking out from beneath her scarf, adding a touch of nostalgia to her appearance. It didn’t take long for me to recognize her as Shellie—an acquaintance from my youth, back when our lives intertwined in that sleepy neighborhood.

“Girl, I haven’t seen you in forever!” she exclaimed, an infectious cheerfulness in her voice that contrasted sharply with my current mood. “And don’t act like you don’t remember me! It’s me?—”

“Sorry, I don’t,” I cut in, forcing a cold smile. “I really don’t have time to chat. I’m here for a birthday visit.”