Daily Torture
The executive floor had ears.
Imani learned that fast.
By 10:03 a.m., the whisper Sarian had dropped like acid had already spread. She felt the shift before she saw it—heads turning half a second too long, conversations dipping when she passed a cubicle, quick glances followed by stifled laughter.
She kept her eyes on the conference call setup.
The merger discussion with Zenith Luxury Homes was due to start in seven minutes. Projector aligned. Laptop connected. Agenda printed in triplicate because Damian had barked "redundancy is professionalism" yesterday like it was scripture.
She refused to look up.
Refused to let them see the tremor in her fingers as she adjusted the volume on the speakerphone.
But the room was watching.
And Damian had heard.
He stepped out of his office at exactly 10:05, sleeves still rolled, tie loosened just enough to look deliberate. The black suit jacket hung over one arm like he couldn't be bothered to wear it properly today.
He didn't speak immediately.
Just walked the length of the open-plan floor—slow, measured steps that made every conversation die like someone had hit mute.
He stopped at Imani's temporary desk outside his door.
The one they'd dragged in yesterday because "assistants belong where I can see them."
He leaned one hip against the edge, arms crossed.
Everyone pretended to work.
No one succeeded.
"Miss Bright," he said, voice carrying without effort. "The agenda."
She handed it over without looking at him.
He took it.
Flipped one page.
Then another.
Then dropped the entire stack onto her desk like it had offended him.
"Wrong font."
A beat.
"Wrong spacing."
Another beat.
"Wrong everything."
The room held its breath.
Imani's jaw tightened.
She had reformatted it three times last night after he'd sent the "final" version at 11:47 p.m. with one line: Redo. Better.
"I followed your notes, sir."
"Did you?"
He picked up the top sheet again, held it between two fingers like it was contaminated.
"Calibri. I said Arial."
"You said 'professional.'"
"I said Arial."
He let the page flutter back down.
"Then perhaps you need new ears. Or new eyes. Or both."
Snickers rippled from the far corner—Sarian and Lola, heads bent together.
Damian didn't glance their way.
His focus stayed on Imani.
"Fix it. Now. Conference call starts in—" he checked his watch "—four minutes. If it's not perfect, you'll present the corrected version yourself. Aloud. To the entire team. While I watch."
Her stomach dropped.
Public speaking wasn't the problem.
Public humiliation was.
She nodded once.
"Yes, sir."
He straightened.
Turned to leave.
Then paused.
Looked back over his shoulder.
"And Miss Bright?"
She met his gaze.
"Next time someone whispers about you being my 'flavor of the month,'" he said, loud enough for the entire floor to hear, "tell them the truth."
A hush.
He leaned in slightly.
"You're not even on the menu."
The words landed like a slap.
Then he walked away.
Back into his office.
Door closed with a soft, final click.
Imani sat frozen.
The conference call tone rang out—Zenith joining.
She forced her hands to move.
Fixed the font.
Fixed the spacing.
Sent the file to the projector.
All while the room buzzed with low murmurs she pretended not to hear.
When the call connected, Damian emerged again—jacket on now, every inch the CEO.
He took the head of the conference table without a word.
Imani sat in the corner chair, notepad open, invisible.
The discussion dragged—valuations, timelines, risk clauses.
Halfway through, one of the Zenith execs asked a question about the Lagos market positioning.
Damian answered smoothly.
Then added, almost casually:
"My assistant has the latest consumer insight report. Miss Bright?"
Every head turned.
She stood.
Legs steady.
Voice steady.
She walked to the front, clicked to the relevant slide, and spoke—clear, concise, no tremor.
When she finished, silence.
Not hostile.
Impressed.
The Zenith lead nodded.
"That's actually helpful. Thank you."
Damian's eyes met hers across the table.
No expression.
But he didn't interrupt.
He didn't correct.
He just watched.
When the call ended, people filed out.
Imani stayed to pack up.
Andrea lingered.
Head of Operations. Damian's oldest friend from university days. Tall, quiet, always in navy suits that looked like they'd been born on him.
He waited until the room cleared.
Then walked over.
"Rough morning," he said quietly.
She shrugged.
"I've had worse."
He studied her.
"You don't have to take it lying down, you know."
"I'm not."
A small smile touched his mouth.
"No. You're not."
He glanced toward Damian's closed door.
"He's… complicated."
"I noticed."
Andrea exhaled.
"He doesn't do this to just anyone."
She looked up.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Andrea said carefully, "that if he wanted you gone, you'd be gone. The fact that you're still here? Means something."
Imani's throat tightened.
"Means he enjoys watching me squirm."
"Maybe."
Andrea stepped closer.
"Or maybe he's testing how much you can take before you break."
She laughed once—short, bitter.
"I don't break easy."
"Good."
He hesitated.
Then:
"Be careful with Ivy. She's already texting half the group chat about you."
Imani's stomach twisted.
"What's she saying?"
"That you're a gold-digger who talked back and got rewarded with proximity to power."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"Of course."
Andrea touched her shoulder—light, brotherly.
"If it gets too much, come to me. Damian listens to me. Sometimes."
She nodded.
"Thank you."
He walked away.
Imani stayed a moment longer.
Staring at Damian's door.
Then she gathered her things.
Head high.
But inside, something burned.
Not just anger.
Curiosity.
Why keep her?
Why the public spectacle if he could just fire her?
Why look at her like that during the presentation—like he was seeing her for the first time?
She pushed the questions down.
Answers wouldn't pay Mama's hospital bill.
She walked past Sarian's desk on her way out.
Sarian looked up, smirking.
"Still here?"
Imani paused.
Leaned in just enough.
"Still here," she said softly. "And still breathing."
Sarian's smirk faltered.
Imani kept walking.
—
Damian's POV – later that afternoon
He stood at the window.
Lagoon below, hazy with heat.
Andrea knocked once, entered without waiting.
"You were brutal this morning."
Damian didn't turn.
"She needed to learn."
"She already knows how to survive. You're just making it harder."
Silence.
Andrea stepped beside him.
"She held her own in that call. Impressed the Zenith guys."
"I noticed."
Another beat.
"You're punishing her because she talked back."
"I'm teaching her."
"You're punishing her because she got under your skin."
Damian's jaw tightened.
Andrea sighed.
"I've known you since we were nineteen. You don't do public displays unless it matters."
"She's an employee."
"She's more than that to you already. And you hate it."
Damian finally looked at him.
"Get out."
Andrea didn't move.
"Just… go easy. She's carrying things you don't know about."
Damian's eyes narrowed.
"I know enough."
Andrea raised a brow.
"Then you know she's not the type to fold. Keep pushing like this, and she might push back harder."
He left.
Damian stayed at the window.
Watched the city pulse below.
Thought of Imani's voice during the presentation—steady, clear, unflinching.
Thought of the way her eyes had met his across the table.
No fear.
Just fire.
He hated how much he liked it.
At 6:45 p.m., as the floor emptied, Damian's intercom buzzed.
Imani's voice—calm, professional.
"Sir, the driver's here for your Banana Island dinner. But there's a problem with the car schedule tomorrow. You have an early meeting in Ikoyi, and the Range Rover is booked for maintenance."
A pause.
"Shall I arrange an alternative?"
Silence.
Then his voice, low:
"No. You'll drive me. Both ways. Be ready at 5:30 a.m."
Click.
Imani stared at the phone.
Tomorrow started in eleven hours.
And hell had just added overtime.