Weekend Intrusion
The alarm screamed at 4:45 a.m.
Imani slapped it silent before it could wake Becky or Aunty Rose. The Surulere flat was still dark, the neighbor's generator finally quiet after its all-night rant. She moved like a ghost—quick shower, simple black trousers and white blouse (the closest thing to "professional casual" she owned), braids pulled into a low bun. No makeup. No jewelry. Just survival.
She grabbed her bag, slipped out, and hailed an okada at the junction. The rider eyed her suspiciously.
"Victoria Island? This early? Na wah o."
"Banana Island," she corrected.
He sucked his teeth.
"Madam, you sure? That side no dey joke with security. You get pass?"
She showed him the digital invite Damian had emailed at 2:14 a.m.: Urgent review of Q3 projections. My residence. 6:30 sharp. Don't be late.
The rider whistled.
"Oga big man house. Enter."
The ride through pre-dawn Lagos was surreal—empty Third Mainland Bridge for once, the lagoon black and still under streetlights. By 5:55 she arrived at the gated entrance.
Security—two men in black tactical vests, earpieces, rifles slung low—checked her ID twice, scanned the car (she'd taken a Bolt this time; no way she was driving Damian's Range Rover through rush hour later). They waved her in.
Banana Island unfolded like another country.
Wide, tree-lined streets. Mansions set back behind high walls topped with electric fencing and bougainvillea. No hawkers. No danfo. Just the hum of invisible generators and the distant lap of water against private jetties. Infinity pools glowed blue behind wrought-iron gates. Yachts bobbed gently in personal docks. A man in a tracksuit jogged past with two German Shepherds; a woman in Lululemon walked a tiny dog that probably cost more than Imani's rent.
She stepped out at the Anderson residence.
The gate opened automatically.
The house—mansion, really—was modern minimalism on steroids: white stone facade, floor-to-ceiling glass, cantilevered balconies overlooking the lagoon. An infinity pool stretched along one side, water spilling over the edge like it was trying to join the water below. Palm trees swayed gently. A fountain bubbled in the courtyard.
She rang the bell at 6:28.
The door opened.
Not Damian.
A girl—eighteen, maybe nineteen—stood there in oversized pajamas, hair in messy twists, holding a bowl of cereal.
She grinned wide.
"You must be the famous PA."
Imani blinked.
"Maya?"
"The one and only." Maya stepped aside. "Come in before the mosquitoes decide you're breakfast. My brother's still upstairs pretending he's not late."
Imani stepped into marble coolness. The foyer alone could fit her entire flat. Crystal chandelier. Abstract art on the walls that probably cost six figures. The scent of fresh coffee and something baking—croissants?
Maya led her through to a sunlit kitchen bigger than most restaurants.
"Want some? Aunty made them fresh."
Imani hesitated.
"I'm here for work."
Maya rolled her eyes.
"Everyone's here for work. But you can eat while you suffer. Sit."
She pushed a plate toward Imani.
Imani took one croissant. Warm. Flaky. Heaven.
Maya hopped onto a stool.
"So. How bad is he being to you?"
Imani almost choked.
"Excuse me?"
"My brother. Damian. He's a dick when he's stressed. And he's always stressed since Dad made him CEO."
Imani set the croissant down.
"He's… challenging."
Maya laughed.
"That's polite. He once made his old assistant cry in the lobby because the coffee was two degrees too cold. True story."
Imani's stomach twisted.
Maya softened.
"But he's not all bad. He just… doesn't know how to let people in. After what happened with our dad's heart attack last year, he thinks if he controls everything, nothing breaks."
A beat.
"You're the first one who hasn't quit in a week."
Imani met her eyes.
"I can't afford to quit."
Maya nodded slowly.
"Fair. Want coffee? Black, no sugar, right? That's how he likes it, so everyone has to suffer."
Imani smiled despite herself.
"Yes, please."
Maya poured two mugs.
They sat in companionable silence for a minute.
Then footsteps on the stairs.
Damian appeared—casual in navy polo and chinos, hair still damp from the shower, looking annoyingly perfect.
He stopped when he saw them.
"Maya. What are you doing up?"
"Being hospitable," Maya said sweetly. "Unlike some people."
His gaze shifted to Imani.
"You're early."
"Punctual," she corrected.
He glanced at the half-eaten croissant.
"Eating on company time?"
Maya groaned.
"Jesus, Dami. Let her breathe."
He ignored her.
"Library. Now. Bring the files."
Imani stood.
Maya whispered as she passed,
"Don't let him win. He likes the fight."
Imani followed Damian through sliding glass doors to a library that smelled of leather and old money. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A massive desk. Lagoon view.
He sat.
She placed the Q3 projections in front of him.
He flipped through.
"Explain slide 17."
She did.
He listened.
No interruptions.
No snide comments.
Just focus.
For forty minutes they worked—actual work. Numbers. Strategies. He asked sharp questions; she answered sharper.
Then he leaned back.
"Good."
One word.
She waited for the but.
It didn't come.
Instead:
"You'll stay for the full day. There's a board dinner tonight. You'll prep the talking points."
Her weekend—gone.
She nodded.
"Yes, sir."
He studied her.
"Why didn't you push back?"
"Because pushing back gets me nowhere with you."
A flicker in his eyes.
"Smart."
He stood.
"Take the guest room upstairs if you need to rest. Maya will show you."
He walked out.
Imani exhaled.
Maya appeared in the doorway.
"Come on. I'll give you the tour. And don't worry—he's always like this. But you? You're cracking him. I can tell."
Imani followed her up the curved staircase.
Past guest suites with king beds and en-suites bigger than her bedroom.
Maya pushed open a door.
"This one has the best view. And the bathroom has a tub that could fit three people."
Imani stepped in.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Lagoon sparkling. Infinity pool below.
She turned.
"Maya… why are you being nice?"
Maya shrugged.
"Because you're nice to look at someone who doesn't bow to him. And because I'm lonely in this big stupid house."
A small smile.
"Also, Becky texted me last night. Your sister? She's cool. We're meeting for ice cream next week."
Imani's heart stuttered.
"You… talked to Becky?"
"She DM'd me after I followed her on Insta. Said her big sis works for her annoying boss. I like her vibe."
Imani laughed—soft, surprised.
"Thank you."
Maya grinned.
"Now rest. You've got a long day of torture ahead."
She left.
Imani sat on the edge of the bed.
Looked out at the water.
Thought of Surulere. Of Mama's hospital room. Of Becky's exams.
Then thought of Damian downstairs—working, not humiliating.
A crack.
Small.
But there.
Andrea arrived for the board dinner prep, pulling Damian aside in the study.
"You're keeping her all weekend?"
Damian shrugged.
"Work."
Andrea crossed his arms.
"You're testing her. Again."
Silence.
Andrea sighed.
"Remember when we were twelve? You fell off that pier in Bar Beach, currents pulling you under. I jumped in, dragged you out. Coughing, half-drowned. Since then, I've been pulling you out of your own bullshit."
Damian looked away.
"This isn't bullshit."
"It is if you're punishing her because she makes you feel something."
Damian's jaw tightened.
"She's an employee."
"She's human. And she's strong. Don't drown her to prove you can swim alone."
Andrea left.
Damian stared at the lagoon.
Thought of Imani upstairs.
Thought of the way she'd held her own today.
Thought of how close he'd come to saying "good job" out loud.
He pushed it down.
But it stayed.