Chapter 8: Unfamiliar
The Zenith follow-up was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. sharp in the main boardroom.
Imani arrived at 8:45, dressed in a new navy blazer and trousers she'd bought on impulse from a boutique in Ikeja over the weekend—nothing extravagant, but crisp, fitted, hers. No borrowed silk this time. She'd told herself it was practical. Professional. Not because of his parting words on the intercom.
She told herself a lot of things these days.
The floor was quieter than usual—Monday hangover from the weekend's gossip. She felt the eyes anyway: quick glances, hushed conversations that stopped when she passed. Sarian and Lola had been suspiciously silent since Damian's warning, but the damage was done. The story had spread: the PA who clapped back at Ivy Lukeman, the one who got a fat advance, the one the Zenith execs specifically requested.
She ignored it.
Sat at her desk.
Opened her laptop.
Started prepping the slides.
At 9:32, Damian emerged from his office.
He didn't greet her.
Just walked past, paused at the coffee station, poured black, no sugar.
Then he turned.
Looked at her.
Held the gaze longer than necessary—long enough that she felt heat crawl up her neck.
She didn't look away.
He did first.
Muttered something under his breath she couldn't catch.
Walked back to his office.
Door half-open.
She exhaled.
Told herself it meant nothing.
But the pulse in her throat said otherwise.
By 9:50, the boardroom was filling.
Imani set up the projector, distributed printed agendas, tested the clicker.
Damian entered last.
Took the head seat.
The Zenith team—three men in sharp suits, one woman with a tablet—settled in.
They greeted him warmly.
Then turned to her.
"Miss Bright," the lead said, smiling. "Glad you could join. Your insights last time were spot-on."
Damian's jaw tightened—just a fraction.
Imani nodded politely.
"Thank you."
The meeting ran smoothly.
She spoke when asked—clear, data-backed, unflinching.
Damian listened.
No interruptions.
No corrections.
But every time she glanced his way, he was watching her.
Not the slides.
Her.
When it ended, the Zenith team shook hands.
"Looking forward to the next round," the lead said to Damian. Then to Imani: "We'll be in touch."
They left.
The room emptied.
Damian stayed seated.
Imani began packing up.
He spoke without looking at her.
"Good work."
Two words.
She paused.
"Thank you, sir."
He stood.
Walked to the door.
Paused.
"You can go home early today."
She blinked.
"Sir?"
"Take the afternoon. You've earned it."
He left before she could respond.
Imani stared after him.
Something unfamiliar stirred in her chest.
She pushed it down.
Went back to her desk.
But the floor had heard.
Within minutes, the whispers started again.
She overheard them near the printer.
"She's his favorite now."
"Zenith asked for her by name. Imagine."
"Must be doing more than taking notes."
Laughter—low, mean.
Imani kept her head down.
But the words landed.
By 1:15 p.m., Damian's mood had flipped.
He buzzed her intercom.
"Miss Bright. My office. Now."
She went.
He was standing at the window, back to her.
"Close the door."
She did.
He turned.
Face hard.
"Apparently the entire floor thinks you're sleeping your way to the top."
Her stomach clenched.
"I heard the gossip."
"And you let it slide?"
"I don't engage with nonsense."
He stepped closer.
"You should. Because it reflects on me."
She lifted her chin.
"Then tell them the truth. I'm here because you demoted me. Not because I'm warming your bed."
His eyes darkened.
"Careful."
"Or what? You'll humiliate me again?"
He exhaled sharply.
"You think I enjoy this?"
"I think you enjoy control."
A beat.
He looked away.
Then:
"Get the Q4 forecast ready. Full deck. On my desk by 7 p.m. Sharp."
She stared.
"That's impossible. It's already past one."
"Then make it possible."
He sat.
Dismissed her with a wave.
She left.
The rest of the day became punishment.
Public tasks: fetch his dry cleaning from the concierge downstairs in the rain that had started pouring by 3 p.m. Wait outside the building at 5:30 for his driver—standing under the awning while water soaked her shoes—only for him to cancel last minute and tell her to take a cab home.
Impossible deadlines.
Cold commands.
When she finally delivered the forecast at 7:03 (three minutes late), he barely glanced at it.
"Redo the charts. Colors are wrong."
She bit her tongue.
Left.
But she didn't go home.
She stayed.
Worked late.
The floor emptied.
Generators hummed in the background—NEPA had taken light again.
She was alone in the dim emergency lighting when she heard soft crying from the cleaning station down the hall.
She followed the sound.
A young cleaner—maybe twenty-two—sat on an overturned bucket, face in her hands.
Imani knelt.
"Hey. Are you okay?"
The girl looked up, startled.
Tears streaked with dust.
"My brother… he was in an accident. Okada. They say he might not walk again. And I… I can't afford the hospital."
Imani's heart cracked.
She sat beside her.
Took her hand.
Listened.
Told her about her own mother.
About carrying burdens that never seem to lighten.
Gave her the last 5,000 naira in her purse.
"Use this for transport tomorrow. Go see him."
The girl cried harder.
"Thank you, aunty."
Imani hugged her.
When the girl finally left, Imani stayed a moment.
Wiped her own eyes.
Then went back to her desk.
Damian's office light was still on.
She didn't know he'd been watching the whole time.
From the shadows of his doorway.
He'd come out to berate her for the late charts.
Stopped when he saw her kneel.
Saw her listen.
Saw her give what little she had.
Something unfamiliar twisted in his chest.
Not lust.
Not irritation.
Something softer.
Dangerous.
He retreated to his office.
Shut the door.
Leaned against it.
Muttered to himself,
"She's not worth the hassle."
But his pulse hammered against his ribs—fast, unsteady, betraying him.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
As if he could force it to slow.
It didn't.
He looked at the forecast she'd left.
Flipped through.
The charts were perfect.
He exhaled.
Long.
Slow.
Then he sat.
Stared at the lagoon lights through the rain-streaked window.
And for the first time in years, Damian Anderson didn't know what to do with the feeling rising inside him.