Page 220 of Invisible Bars

Inside the car, I remained motionless, a quiet storm brewing within me. My fingers knotted tightly around the slit of my dress, anxiously bracing for impact—the kind of grip that saidrun, even if my heels saidwalk tall.

A tic tugged at the corner of my mouth—a silent one, but strong enough to pull at my jaw. I fought to suppress it, pressing my tongue firmly against the roof of my mouth, willing my body to calm down. I didn’t want to start the night twitching and snapping like a loose wire, drawing unwanted attention.

"I can stay in the car," I murmured softly, not really addressing Imanio but rather speaking to the version of me that once faded into the background—the girl who had counted theceiling tiles to survive countless school assemblies, the one who flinched at prolonged stares from strangers. But I looked up, and of course, he was already watching me.

“You could,” he replied calmly, buttoning his jacket with ease. “But you won’t.” Imanio leaned in closer, his voice a low murmur that felt like an anchor. "I’ll be right there with you. If you twitch, if you freeze, if you mutter something under your breath, I won’t let go of your hand."

A warm sensation blossomed in my chest—not panic, not that familiar flutter of embarrassment—but a comforting sense of support. And then, just like that, the door swung open.

He extended his arm. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I whispered, linking mine with his.

I didn’t know what that dinner would hold, but I knew I wasn’t walking in as a ghost or a secret.

I was walking in as his wife.

The moment we stepped out, the energy of the event engulfed us. All those voices.. all that light… I felt it press against me like heat, hungry and heavy. But I didn’t flinch—not when Imanio’s hand stayed right there, firm in mine.

My white gown molded to me like it had studied my body in silence. It didn’t scream for attention; it simply spoke volumes with its silent grace. My silver stilettos were quiet assassins—elegant but deadly. They didn’t cry out for attention either; they whispered confidence, allowing me to glide over judgment while maintaining my rhythm.

Imanio looked good—toogood.

He wore a crisp white tux with a black lapel—bow tie undone just enough to give that dangerous softnesslike he could charm the whole building, then burn it down if I gave him the order to do so.

People stared.

Of course they did. Because we didn’t walk; we arrived.

I felt a tic rising again—a rebellious urge to break free. My jaw twitched once, then again, but I took a slow, measured breath through my nose, grounding myself in the moment, determined to embrace the night ahead.

“You good?” he asked under his breath, lips barely moving as we walked.

“No,” I answered truthfully.

“But I’m here,” I added.

The flashes went insane, and whispers rippled like aftershocks.

“IS THAT NAJI ALI??”

“NAJI—OVER HERE!”

“MR. KORS—LOOK THIS WAY!”

“SHE LOOKS EXACTLY THE SAME! NO… BETTER!”

“HE LOOKS LIKE HE’D BURY ANYONE WHO LOOKS AT HER WRONG!”

I held Imanio’s hand the entire time, avoiding too much waving or smiling too widely.

My tics were doing somersaults—flipping and jerking just under the surface, desperate to break free. The noise, the flashes, and the yelling were a lot. It was like every trigger was hitting me at once. A siren call to every nerve in my body totwitch, snap, shout, jump.

We posed for exactly three pictures.

No interviews. No press wall smiles. No awkward small talk with people I’d outgrown years ago. Just three photos—exactly enough to break the internet.

Then Imanio leaned down, close to my ear, his hand warm in mine.