Chapter 7: First Defense
The cheque sat on her desk like a loaded gun.
Imani picked it up again—fingers careful, as if it might bite. Five hundred thousand naira. Enough for two months of Mama's physiotherapy, Becky's JAMB coaching, and maybe—maybe—a new wheelchair that didn't squeak every time she pushed it. No explanation. No "thank you." Just Damian's sharp, slanted signature and that cold memo line: Advance on salary. For services rendered.
She glanced toward his office.
The door was open—deliberately. He sat behind the black marble, scrolling through his laptop, but his eyes flicked up every few seconds. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching.
She folded the cheque, slipped it into her bag.
Then she got to work.
By 9:15 a.m., the floor was alive—phones ringing, printers humming, the smell of instant coffee drifting from the break room. Imani was midway through typing up the board dinner notes when Sarian appeared at her desk.
She didn't knock. Just leaned in, voice low and syrupy.
"Nice bonus, PA. Must be nice getting paid to look pretty."
Imani kept typing.
Sarian's smile sharpened.
"Though I wonder… did he write that cheque before or after you served champagne in Maya's dress?"
A few heads turned.
Lola, at the next cubicle, giggled behind her hand.
Imani hit save.
"Anything else?"
Sarian straightened.
"Just saying—some of us actually earned our promotions. Not by flirting in borrowed silk."
Imani met her eyes.
"I earned mine by doing my job. You?"
Sarian's mouth twitched.
Before she could fire back, Lola piped up—too loud.
"Guys, chill. She's just the help. No need to—"
The printer in the corner jammed.
Again.
Imani stood.
"I'll fix it."
She walked past them, opened the side panel, pulled out the crumpled paper.
But when she returned to her desk—
Her laptop screen was blank.
Not crashed.
Wiped.
Every file she'd saved this morning—board notes, merger updates, even the draft email to Zenith—gone.
Sarian was already walking away, casual as anything, hips swaying like she'd just won a round.
Imani stared at the empty desktop.
Her stomach dropped.
She had backups—on a USB in her bag—but the originals? Hours of work. Damian needed them by noon for the investor call.
She glanced at his door.
Still open.
Still watching.
She swallowed.
Then she stood, walked straight to his office, knocked once.
"Come."
She stepped in.
He looked up.
"Files are gone," she said. "Someone deleted them."
His brow lifted.
"Someone?"
"Sarian. Or Lola. Or both. They were at my desk."
He leaned back.
"Proof?"
"No. But I know."
He studied her for a long beat—long enough that she felt the weight of it.
Then he stood.
Walked past her without a word.
Out into the open floor.
Every conversation died.
He stopped at Sarian's desk.
She looked up, all innocence.
"Sir?"
Damian didn't smile.
"Miss Adebayo. You were at Miss Bright's desk this morning."
Sarian blinked.
"Just… chatting."
He leaned down—slow, controlled.
"If I find one byte of her work missing, you'll be explaining it to HR. And to me. Personally."
Sarian's face paled.
"But—"
"Fix whatever you touched. Now. Or you're out."
He straightened.
Turned.
Walked back toward his office.
Passed Imani without looking at her.
But she heard it—quiet, just for her ears.
"Backup next time."
Then the door closed.
The floor exhaled.
Sarian stared at her screen like it had betrayed her.
Lola whispered something sharp under her breath.
Someone in the back muttered, "Oga no dey play."
Imani returned to her desk.
Opened her USB.
Started restoring.
Her hands shook—just a little.
Not from fear.
From something else.
He'd defended her.
Publicly.
No fanfare.
No explanation.
Just action.
She glanced at his door again.
Closed now.
But she knew he was still watching.
—
Flashback: Saturday night, Surulere
Imani had walked into the flat at 11:15 p.m., exhausted, feet aching from heels she wasn't used to.
The smell hit first—jollof, rich with palm oil and thyme, simmering on the stove. Aunty Rose was at the pot, stirring, apron tied over her wrapper, singing along to a low high-life track playing from Becky's Bluetooth speaker. Becky bounced on the sofa, phone in hand, grinning like she'd won the lottery.
"Sis!!! 78%!!! Top 5 in the whole mock class! Mr. Okeke said I might even get scholarship offers!"
Imani dropped her bag.
Pulled Becky into a hug so tight the girl squeaked.
"I knew it. I knew you had it."
Becky laughed into her shoulder.
"Aunty made double portion. And she invited the neighbors!"
Imani pulled back.
"Neighbors?"
As if summoned, the front door swung open.
Mama Ngozi from next door bustled in with a bowl of fried plantain, wrapper tied high, gele slightly askew from the rush.
"Ehen! I heard celebration! Where's my own plate?"
Behind her came Uncle Tunde, the mechanic from two houses down, carrying a crate of drinks—normal Coke and Fanta in glass bottles, the kind that still had the deposit refund sticker. His wife followed with a small cooler of ice.
"Na small thing," Uncle Tunde said, setting the crate down. "But when Becky pass exam like this, we must chop life."
Aunty Rose laughed from the kitchen.
"Come and collect your own jollof before it finish!"
The tiny living room filled fast.
Chairs dragged from corners.
Someone turned the music up—King Sunny Ade now, old-school vibes.
Plates passed hand to hand.
Imani sat on the arm of the sofa, Becky leaning against her leg, eating straight from the pot lid like they used to when money was tight.
Mama Ngozi pointed her spoon at Imani.
"You look tired, my daughter. That big man job dey stress you?"
Imani smiled faintly.
"It's work."
Uncle Tunde sucked his teeth.
"Big man like that? Na wa o. But see how God dey bless this family. Becky go university, your mama go get better treatment. Just hold on."
Becky raised her Fanta.
"To Imani—the best big sister in Lagos."
Everyone clinked—glass bottles against plastic cups, laughter rising over the music.
Aunty Rose wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron.
"Your father would be proud. Both of you."
Imani swallowed the lump in her throat.
Looked around—at the cracked walls, the flickering bulb, the neighbors who had become family over the years.
No infinity pools.
No champagne.
Just jollof, Coke, Fanta, and people who showed up.
She raised her own bottle.
"To family."
They drank.
Laughed.
Danced a little in the cramped space.
For one night, the weight lifted.
Becky whispered later, when the neighbors had gone and Aunty Rose was washing plates,
"Sis… thank you. For everything."
Imani kissed her forehead.
"Always."
She didn't tell them about the black dress.
Or Ivy's venom.
Or Damian's gaze across the pool.
Some things were too heavy for jollof nights.
—
Back to Monday
By noon, the files were restored.
Imani sent them to Damian.
His reply came thirty seconds later.
One word.
Received.
No thanks.
No acknowledgment of the defense.
But when she looked up, his door was cracked open again.
And he was looking.
This time, when their eyes met, he didn't look away immediately.
Just held.
Then nodded—once, small, almost imperceptible.
Then the door closed.
Imani exhaled.
Something had shifted.
Small.
But real.
At 4:45 p.m., as the floor began to empty, Damian's intercom buzzed.
Imani's voice—steady.
"Sir, the Zenith team is requesting a follow-up meeting tomorrow. They specifically asked if you could bring your 'insightful assistant.'"
Silence.
Then his low reply:
"Tell them yes. You'll be there. And Miss Bright?"
A pause.
"Wear something new. Not borrowed."
Click.
Imani stared at the phone.
Her heart tripped.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Something dangerously close to anticipation.