Chapter 9: Poisoned Tongues
The next morning, Imani arrived to find a small envelope on her desk.
Inside: a hospital referral letter from Lagoon Hospital's top orthopedic surgeon.
No name attached.
No note.
But she knew.
She looked toward his office.
The door was closed.
But the light was on.
And she felt his gaze through the glass—even though she couldn't see him.
Her fingers trembled around the crisp paper. This wasn't kindness. This was a spotlight. A private surgeon for her mother's long-term care—exactly what she had prayed for in the dark hours after the jollof celebration. But accepting it now? With the entire executive floor already whispering about the "bonus" cheque, the borrowed dress, the Zenith team asking for her by name?
It would pour fuel on the fire.
It would prove them right.
She folded the letter once, twice, then slipped it back into the envelope. Her decision was instant and final. She would not let Damian Anderson turn her desperation into ammunition for the office.
She stood.
Walked straight to his door.
Knocked once.
"Come."
She pushed it open.
He was at the window again, back to her, coffee in hand. The rain from yesterday had cleared, leaving the lagoon glittering under weak morning sun.
She placed the envelope on his desk.
"I can't accept this."
He turned slowly.
One brow lifted.
"Why?"
"Because it will make everything worse." Her voice was steady, but her pulse wasn't. "People already think I'm… earning favours on my back. This letter would be proof to them. I won't trade my mother's dignity for more rumours."
His jaw tightened.
"So pride is more important than her recovery?"
"No," she snapped. "Pride is the only thing I still own in this building. You took everything else."
Silence stretched, thick and dangerous.
He stepped closer.
Not touching distance yet.
But close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker.
"You think I did this to humiliate you?"
"I think you did this because you can't decide whether you want to break me or save me."
His eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second.
Then back up.
"You're reading too much into it."
"Am I?"
The air between them crackled.
He exhaled sharply and turned away.
"Get out."
She didn't move.
"Tell me one thing first. Why the referral? Why the cheque? Why defend me against Sarian if you're just going to punish me the next day?"
He didn't answer.
She waited.
Then:
"Because I can't stop watching you," he muttered, so low she almost missed it.
Her breath caught.
He caught himself.
Straightened.
"Get out, Miss Bright. Before I change my mind about keeping you here at all."
She left.
But the words stayed in her blood like heat.
—
By 11 a.m., Ivy had struck.
She didn't come in person. She didn't need to.
A single voice note forwarded through Sarian's WhatsApp group—meant for the "inner circle" but somehow leaked to half the floor—did the damage.
Ivy's voice, sweet and poisonous:
"Darlings, have you heard? The new PA is already sleeping her way up. Dami's little project. One week and she's getting referrals, cheques, private dinners on Banana Island. Classic. Girls like that never last… but they always leave a mess behind."
The voice note spread like wildfire in Lagos traffic.
Sarian played it loud enough at the printer that three people heard.
Lola forwarded it with laughing emojis.
By lunch, the entire fifteenth floor knew.
Imani heard fragments everywhere.
"Sleeping her way up…"
"Gold-digger in borrowed dresses…"
"Zenith only wants her because she's warming the CEO's bed…"
She kept her head down.
Worked.
But the words carved into her.
At 3 p.m., Damian called her in again.
He had heard.
Of course he had.
"Close the door."
She did.
He was pacing.
"You see what you started?"
"Me?" Her laugh was bitter. "I rejected your referral this morning and this is what happens? Ivy spreads lies and suddenly it's my fault?"
He stopped in front of her.
Close.
Too close.
"You think I don't know what this looks like? The cheque. The dress. The referral. The way they look at you now—"
"Then stop giving them reasons!"
His hand lifted—almost brushed her arm—then dropped.
The almost-touch burned.
"You think I want this?" His voice dropped, rough. "You think I enjoy watching half my staff assume you're on your knees for me every night?"
Her chest rose and fell too fast.
"Then why do you keep me here?"
"Because I can't let you go."
The confession hung between them.
Raw.
Unwanted.
He stepped back like he'd been burned.
"Get back to work."
She left.
But the heat stayed.
—
The office emptied by 7 p.m.
Imani stayed.
Damian stayed.
The merger files needed one last review—his excuse. She knew it was punishment.
They worked in his office, side by side at the long table, laptops open, tension so thick it felt like another person in the room.
Every time she leaned forward to point at a slide, their arms brushed.
Every time he spoke, his voice was lower than necessary.
"You're shaking," he said at one point.
"It's cold."
"It's not."
She looked up.
Their faces were inches apart.
His eyes—hazel flecked with gold under the desk lamp—dropped to her lips again.
Lingered.
Her breath shallowed.
The air felt electric.
He leaned in—slow, helpless.
She didn't pull away.
For one suspended heartbeat, the almost-kiss hovered.
Then he jerked back.
Stood abruptly.
"Enough. Go home."
She stood too.
Voice trembling with everything unsaid.
"You can't keep doing this. Pulling me close then pushing me away. Defending me then humiliating me. Giving me hope then snatching it back. What do you want from me, Damian?"
He stared at her.
Pulse visible at his throat.
"I don't know."
The honesty cracked something in him.
Damian's POV – internal denial (raw & detailed)
She left the room first.
He stayed behind the desk, gripping the edge until his knuckles whitened.
She's not worth the hassle.
The lie tasted like ash.
She was everything he had spent years avoiding.
A woman who carried her broken family like a crown instead of a burden.
A woman who clapped back at Ivy Lukeman in front of Lagos elite.
A woman whose quiet strength made his carefully built walls feel like paper.
He wanted her.
God, he wanted her.
Not just in his bed—though the thought of her braids spread across his pillow, her voice breaking on his name, had haunted him since the boardroom clash.
He wanted the parts she hid.
The parts that comforted crying cleaners.
The parts that rejected expensive favours to protect her dignity.
The parts that made him feel… human.
And that terrified him more than anything.
Because Damian Anderson did not kneel.
He did not love.
He did not lose control.
His father's heart attack had taught him control was the only thing that survived.
His mother's secrets had taught him that love was a weapon.
Imani Bright was a walking threat to both.
She's nothing. Temporary. A smart mouth and desperate eyes.
His pulse laughed at the lie.
It hammered harder every time she was near.
Every time she refused to break.
Every time she looked at him like she saw the man beneath the Armani and the arrogance.
He pressed both palms to his face.
"Fuck."
The word echoed in the empty office.
He couldn't keep her.
He couldn't let her go.
And now the rumours were spiralling because of him.
Because he couldn't stop watching her.
Because he couldn't stop wanting.
He grabbed his jacket.
He had to end this.
Tonight.
He walked out.
Found her at her desk, shutting down her laptop.
"We're leaving. Now."
She looked up.
Exhausted.
Beautiful.
Defiant.
"Fine."
They walked to the elevator in silence.
The argument still burned between them—unsaid words crackling like live wires.
He pressed the button.
The doors slid open.
They stepped inside.
Side by side.
Too close.
The doors began to close.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And everything went dark.
The elevator jerked to a stop between floors.
Complete blackness.
Only the sound of their breathing—ragged, heavy, impossible to hide.
Imani's voice trembled in the dark.
"Damian…"
His hand found hers before he could stop himself.
And for the first time, he didn't pull away.