Chapter 6: Split Celebrations
The terrace at the Anderson residence was lit like a society magazine spread.
Floating candles bobbed on the infinity pool, their flames dancing in the lagoon breeze. Long tables draped in white linen held crystal flutes of chilled Moët, trays of puff-puff reimagined as gourmet bites with caviar, and platters of suya skewers dusted with imported chili flakes for the "authentic" touch. High-life music drifted low from hidden speakers—Fela's "Water No Get Enemy" remixed soft enough not to offend the board members' sensibilities. Banana Island at night felt like a bubble: no okada horns, no NEPA drama, just the gentle lap of water against private yachts and the murmur of money talking to money.
Imani stepped out from the guest wing at 8:17 p.m.
The black dress Maya had thrust at her was simple silk—sleeveless, knee-length, cinched at the waist. Nothing flashy. But on her, it moved like it had been made for her body. Maya had clapped when she saw it.
"See? You look like you belong. Don't let them make you feel small."
Imani had almost refused. "I'm here to work, not to play dress-up."
Maya had rolled her eyes. "You're here to survive. Looking good is part of the armor."
Now, as Imani carried a tray of champagne flutes toward the guests, she felt every eye shift.
Board members in bespoke agbada and tailored suits. Wives in aso-ebi couture, gele tied high. A Nollywood actress whose face was on billboards last month laughing too loudly at something a banker said. All of them turning, appraising, whispering.
She kept her chin up.
Placed flutes on the table.
Refilled glasses.
Invisible, the way Damian had ordered her to be at Eko Hotel.
But tonight she wasn't invisible.
Across the pool, Damian stood with two investors, glass in hand, mid-sentence.
His eyes found her.
Held.
For the first time since she'd known him, he didn't look away first.
The conversation continued around him, but his gaze stayed—dark, unreadable, tracing the line of her shoulder, the way the silk caught the candlelight, the quiet way she moved through the crowd like she owned none of it and yet refused to shrink from any of it.
Imani felt the weight.
Her pulse kicked.
She turned away first, busying herself with a tray of hors d'oeuvres.
Then the gate buzzed.
Heads turned.
Ivy Lukeman arrived.
Scarlet gown—floor-length, off-shoulder, slit high enough to make a statement. Diamonds at her throat, heels that clicked like accusations. She didn't walk in; she made an entrance.
Security opened the gate wider than necessary.
She paused at the edge of the terrace, scanning the crowd until her eyes landed on Damian.
Then on Imani.
Her smile was slow, deliberate, venomous.
She crossed the space like she was walking a runway, hips swaying, guests parting instinctively.
"Dami," she purred, loud enough to carry. "You started without me?"
Damian turned.
"Ivy. Fashionably late, as always."
She laughed—bright, brittle.
"I had to make sure my entrance was worth it."
Her gaze slid to Imani again, who was now refilling a guest's glass nearby.
"New staff uniform?" Ivy asked, voice dripping honeyed acid. "Or did Maya lend you something from the lost-and-found?"
A ripple of laughter from the nearby cluster.
Imani's hand steadied on the bottle.
She didn't flinch.
Maya, standing a few feet away with a group of younger guests, caught the moment. Her eyes narrowed.
Ivy stepped closer to Damian, slipping her arm through his.
"You look tense, darling. Long day?"
Damian disentangled smoothly.
"Productive day."
Ivy's smile didn't waver.
"I heard your new assistant is very… productive." She glanced at Imani. "Must be exhausting, keeping up with all your demands."
The implication hung.
A few guests exchanged looks.
Damian's jaw ticked.
"Ivy."
One word. Warning.
She ignored it.
Instead she turned fully to Imani.
"Tell me, darling—how does it feel to go from boardroom presentations to serving champagne? Quite the career pivot."
Imani set the bottle down carefully.
Met Ivy's eyes.
"It feels like paying bills," she said quietly. "And surviving people who think they can buy everything, including respect."
The terrace went still for a heartbeat.
Maya stifled a grin.
One of the board wives coughed into her flute.
Ivy's smile froze.
Then she laughed—sharp, forced.
"Feisty. I like that. Dami always did have a thing for projects."
She leaned into Damian again.
He stepped back this time.
"Enough."
Ivy's eyes flashed.
But she recovered, turning to the crowd with a dazzling smile.
"Let's not ruin the evening with office drama. Cheers to new beginnings!"
Glasses clinked.
The music swelled.
Imani slipped away toward the kitchenette, tray empty.
Maya followed.
In the relative quiet behind the glass doors, Maya touched her arm.
"You just served her humble pie in front of half of Lagos elite. Iconic."
Imani exhaled shakily.
"I shouldn't have said anything."
"You should have said more." Maya grinned. "She's been circling him like a shark since we were kids. Thinks she owns him because their families go way back. But tonight? She saw you."
Imani looked out at the terrace.
Damian was talking to someone else now.
But his posture was different—tighter.
And every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward the doors.
Toward her.
Maya noticed.
"See? Cracks."
Imani shook her head.
"He's still my boss."
"For now."
Maya squeezed her arm.
"Go home soon. Becky texted me—she aced her mock exam. Said she's waiting for you with jollof."
Imani's heart lifted.
"Really?"
"Really. Go celebrate with your real family. Let the prince play with his toys."
Imani nodded.
She changed back into her trousers and blouse in the guest room, left the black dress folded on the bed with a note: Thank you. —I
By 10:30 p.m., she was in a Bolt heading back across the bridge.
The city lights blurred past.
Her phone buzzed.
Becky.
• Sis!!! 78%!!! Top 5 in class!!! Aunty Rose made party jollof. Waiting for you. Bring gist!!!*
Imani smiled—real, tired, relieved.
She typed back.
On my way. Proud of you baby sis. Love you.
—
Meanwhile, on Banana Island
The party stretched past midnight.
Celebrities arrived—musicians, influencers, a politician or two.
Damian moved through it all: handshakes, smiles, deals whispered over cigars.
But his mind wasn't there.
He kept seeing her in that black dress.
Kept hearing her quiet clapback to Ivy.
Kept remembering the way she'd looked at him across the pool—not with fear, not with want.
With challenge.
Ivy tried to pull him onto the dance floor.
He declined.
She pouted.
"You're distracted tonight."
He sipped his drink.
"Busy."
She leaned close.
"By the help?"
He didn't answer.
She laughed.
"She won't last, Dami. Girls like that burn out fast."
He set his glass down.
"Goodnight, Ivy."
He walked away.
Upstairs, in his study, he poured another drink.
Stared at the lagoon.
Thought of Surulere flats and hospital bills and a girl who carried too much and still stood straight.
Thought of how she'd left without saying goodbye.
Thought of how empty the terrace felt after she was gone.
He pulled out his phone.
Almost texted her.
Good job tonight.
Deleted it.
Instead, he stared at the ceiling.
The party noise drifted up.
But all he heard was her voice.
"Surviving people who think they can buy everything, including respect."
He exhaled.
For the first time in years, Damian Anderson felt something dangerously close to regret.