Chapter 14: Gossip Escalates
The Lagos sun had barely cleared the horizon when the society blogs detonated.
By 6:45 a.m., Imani's phone was already vibrating itself off the nightstand in Surulere. The headline screamed across every WhatsApp status, every Instagram explore page, every Twitter timeline that mattered in the elite circles:
"Prince & Pauper: Elevator Romance Confirmed? Anderson Heir's Mystery PA Caught in 12-Hour Night of Passion!"
The grainy elevator stills from two nights ago had been reposted with fresh filters—sharpened edges, zoomed-in frames showing Imani's braids mussed against Damian's chest, his hand hovering at the small of her back like he couldn't decide whether to pull her closer or push her away. New screenshots had appeared overnight. Fake ones. Someone—Sarian, Imani was sure—had doctored images: Imani's face photoshopped onto a girl in a hotel lobby, timestamps altered to suggest she'd left the office at 2 a.m. and returned at dawn. Lola had amplified it on her private story with the caption: "When the help upgrades to the penthouse suite 😏 Sources say she didn't even go home."
The comments were a bloodbath.
"Pauper bride speedrun activated." "Street urchin caught the biggest fish in Lagos Lagoon." "She probably drugged him in the elevator. Gold-digger 101." "Damian Anderson's standards have officially hit the floor. Literally." "Imagine being Ivy and watching your man slum it with the office cleaner."
Imani sat on the edge of her bed in the dim morning light, braids loose around her shoulders, and scrolled until her eyes burned. Aunty Rose—her mother's sister who had raised them after their parents died—poked her head into the room, wrapper tied tight around her waist, worry etched in every line of her face.
"Child, you dey read that nonsense again?" she asked in thick Yoruba-accented English. "Switch that phone off. Becky is already dressed for school. She dey ask about the sleepover."
Imani's throat tightened. "Aunty… I can't let her go. Not now."
Aunty Rose's eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm. "The girl has been talking about that Maya child since yesterday evening. Pink G-Wagon, ice cream, Burna Boy… She thinks it's her first real rich friend. But with all this online madness? No. Tell her no. We no dey drag innocent children into this fire."
Imani nodded, already crying before she even dialled Becky's number.
Becky answered on the first ring, voice bubbling like fresh Fanta. "Manny! Maya just texted me the address for Banana Island—there's a pool and a cinema room and she said we can watch the new Netflix Naija series together! Her driver is coming at 6 p.m. Can I wear my good dress? The blue one you bought last Christmas?"
Imani's voice cracked on the first word. "Baby girl… you can't go."
Silence. Then the confusion hit. "What? Why? Is it because of money? Maya said everything is free—"
"No, it's not money." Imani wiped her face with the back of her hand, tears spilling anyway. "All this gossip online… the blogs, the comments calling me names… they're saying terrible things about me and Mr. Anderson. If you go to that sleepover, they'll start on you next. They'll call you the little sister of the gold-digger. They'll say you're using Maya to climb. People like that… they don't play fair. They can hurt you—say things at school, post your pictures, make your friends turn on you. I can't risk it. Not even for one night."
Becky didn't understand. Not fully. Her thirteen-year-old brain only heard rejection. "You don't want me to have friends like Maya? You think I'm not good enough for her circle? That's why, abi? Because we're from Surulere and they're from Banana Island?"
The words sliced deeper than any blog comment. Imani pressed the phone to her chest for a second, swallowing the sob. "No, smallie. I want you to have every good thing. But right now the world is watching us. It's safer to stay away from the elite until this storm passes. Please. I'm begging you."
Becky went quiet. Then, in a small voice: "Okay. I'll tell her." She hung up before Imani could say I love you.
Imani cried properly then—ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs into her pillow while Aunty Rose rubbed her back and muttered prayers in Yoruba. When the tears slowed, she opened WhatsApp and typed to Maya with shaking fingers.
Imani: Maya, I'm so sorry. Becky can't come tonight. With everything blowing up online about me and your brother, it's better we keep distance. I don't want your new friend getting dragged into the mess. Please understand. Tell her I'm sorry.
Maya's reply came fast—too fast.
Maya: Wait… what? No. She was so excited. We already planned the playlist. I even told my bougie friends to stay away because Becky is real. This is because of Damian, right? His drama. Again.
Imani stared at the screen, fresh tears blurring the words. She didn't reply. She couldn't.
At the office, the atmosphere had curdled into something toxic by 7:30 a.m.
The open-plan floor was split into visible cliques for the first time in years. Sarian and Lola held court at the coffee station, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, passing phones around with the fake screenshots. The finance team—usually neutral—had formed a loose circle near the printers, scrolling and snickering. Even the quiet interns were side-eyeing Imani's desk like it might explode.
Imani kept her head down. Braids shielding her face. She had tucked the white rose deeper into the drawer yesterday, but today it felt like a live wire. She powered through the merger deck revisions, fingers flying, refusing to look up even when Sarian sauntered past with a fake-sympathetic "Morning, superstar. Trending again, I see."
At 8:19 a.m. Damian arrived.
The entire floor felt it before they saw him. The temperature dropped. Conversations died mid-sentence. Keyboards went silent. He walked in wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that cost more than most people's rent, face carved from stone, eyes scanning the room like a predator who already knew where the blood was.
He stopped at Sarian's desk first.
"Delete the story," he said, voice low but carrying across twenty cubicles. "Now."
Sarian blinked. "Sir, it's just—"
"Delete it. And the fake screenshots you and Lola manufactured. If I see them again, both of you are gone. Not transferred. Gone. Security will escort you out before lunch."
The floor froze. No one breathed. Damian Anderson never snapped in public. He was ice. Controlled. Terrifying precisely because he never raised his voice—until today.
Lola tried a weak laugh. "Sir, it's public domain—"
He turned on her. "Public domain does not include slander in my building. One more word and HR gets the IP logs showing who uploaded those doctored images. I suggest you both remember who signs your pay cheques."
He didn't wait for replies. He strode to his office, door slamming hard enough that the glass walls rattled. But everyone knew what he had just done: indirect protection. He had named no names, mentioned no elevator, but he had drawn a line in the sand around Imani without ever looking at her desk. The staff were terrified. Whispers died. Sarian deleted the story in record time, hands shaking. Lola disappeared into the bathroom for twenty minutes.
Damian sat behind his black marble desk and stared at the lagoon without seeing it.
Inside his head the monologue roared.
It's just protectiveness. Nothing more. She's my employee. My responsibility. The blogs are attacking the company's image. That's all. The way her shoulders curved inward this morning when she walked in— that's not my business. The way she hasn't looked up once—none of my concern. I'm not jealous that Kings is probably texting her right now. I'm not aching because she tossed my rose yesterday and kept it anyway. It's protectiveness. Nothing more. She makes me feel… No. Stop. Feelings are for weak men. My father felt things and lost everything. Ivy felt things and tried to trap me with them. I will not repeat history. Imani Bright is an excellent PA. That is the end of the sentence. The way her wrist felt under my thumb yesterday—electric, alive—that was adrenaline. The almost-kiss was a momentary lapse. Nothing more. Protectiveness. That's it. That's all it will ever be.
He repeated the lie until his jaw hurt.
Across town in Surulere, Becky came home from school early—half-day because of some teacher meeting—and found Imani already waiting on the veranda with two cold Maltinas and a plate of plantain chips. Aunty Rose had left for market, giving them space.
Becky's eyes were red. "Maya said the sleepover is still on if I want. But I told her no. She sounded… sad. Like really sad. She said I was the first person who didn't treat her like a wallet."
Imani pulled her little sister into a hug, both of them crying quietly. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry. One day when this madness dies, maybe… but right now we protect what we have. Okay?"
Becky nodded against her shoulder. "Okay."
At 6:12 p.m. Maya's Banana Island mansion was full of elite teenagers—designer swimwear, imported champagne for the older ones, a DJ spinning Afrobeats by the infinity pool. But Maya sat on the edge of her bed in her room, phone in hand, staring at Becky's last message: "Sorry sis. Maybe next time ❤️"
She hadn't touched the playlist. Hadn't danced once. Her bougie friends were downstairs gossiping about Imani—"Did you see the new screenshots? The girl is bold sha"—and Maya wanted to scream. For the first time in her life she had met someone who liked her for her Burna Boy obsession and her terrible dance moves, not for the pink G-Wagon or the Anderson last name. And now it was gone. Because of Damian's mess.
She stormed downstairs, found her brother in the study—home early for once, pretending to work—and slammed the door.
"Damian, I hate you right now."
He looked up, startled. Maya never cried. Not like this. Her eyes were wet, mascara running, fists clenched at her sides.
"My new friend—Becky—she cancelled. Because of your stupid elevator drama and the blogs and the fake screenshots your staff are spreading. She said her sister won't let her come near us. Because people will hurt her. Because of you. I finally had a real friend. Not the fake ones who only come for the pool and the clout. And you ruined it."
Damian's chest caved. He loved Maya more than anything—his baby sister, the one he had shielded from their father's scandals, the one he still bought ice cream for when she had a bad day. Seeing her cry because of him… it broke something.
"Maya, I—"
"No. Don't 'Maya' me. Fix it. Or I swear I'll move to Mum's in London and never speak to you again." She stormed out, slamming the door so hard a painting rattled.
Damian sat there for ten full minutes, staring at nothing. Then he grabbed his keys.
Back at the office—7:03 p.m., most staff already gone—Imani was still at her desk, finalising the deck, rose drawer still closed like a guilty secret. The floor was empty except for the night security lights and the low hum of the AC.
Damian walked in like a storm.
He stopped at her desk, palms flat on the surface, leaning down until their faces were level. His eyes were blazing.
"You told your sister she couldn't go to the sleepover."
Imani's spine straightened. "Yes."
"You punished my sister—my baby sister who hasn't stopped talking about Becky since yesterday—because you're angry at me."
She blinked. "What? No—"
"Don't lie to me, Imani." His voice was low, dangerous, the same tone he used when he snapped at Sarian earlier, but this time aimed straight at her heart. "You think denying Maya a friend is going to make me feel something? Make me crack? Newsflash: it worked. She came home crying. Crying. Because of you. Because you decided to use an innocent girl to punish me for the rose, for the almost-kiss, for whatever the hell you think I owe you."
The words landed like slaps. Imani stood slowly, chair scraping loud in the empty office. The tension snapped back so hard the air felt thick enough to choke on.
"You didn't even let me explain," she said quietly, but her voice shook with fury and hurt. "I said no because the blogs are calling me a street urchin. Because they're making fake screenshots of me in hotel rooms. Because if Becky goes to Banana Island, tomorrow there'll be headlines about the pauper sister infiltrating the Anderson mansion. They'll tear her apart at school. Call her my mini gold-digger. I was protecting her. Not punishing you. But you didn't ask. You just assumed I was being petty. Because that's easier than admitting you feel anything."
Damian's jaw worked. He stepped around the desk until only inches separated them. The sandalwood scent wrapped around her. His chest rose and fell too fast. "You think I don't feel? You think I ordered that rose because I feel nothing? You think I snapped at the entire floor today because I feel nothing? I protected you. I made them delete everything. And still you keep that damn rose hidden like it's dirty. Still you push me away."
Her breath hitched. "You're the one who keeps yanking back. You whisper Yoruba in my hair then call it instinct. You almost kiss me then tell me to go home. And now you're shouting at me because your sister is sad? Make it make sense, Damian."
He grabbed the edge of the desk behind her, caging her without touching. Their foreheads were almost brushing. She could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the pulse hammering in his throat. The rubber band was vibrating so violently it felt like it would snap and cut them both.
"I'm trying," he rasped. "I'm trying so hard not to want you. Because wanting you means risking everything. The board. The company. My sister's peace. And you—" His voice broke. "You make it impossible. Every time you breathe in my direction I forget why I'm supposed to stay away."
The almost-kiss was back—electric, painful, inevitable. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Hers to his. One centimetre. One breath. She could taste the coffee on his lips without them even touching.
But he didn't close it.
Instead he whispered, hoarse and wrecked, "Tell Becky she can go. I'll make sure no one touches her. I'll shut every blog down if I have to. Just… stop punishing Maya for my mistakes."
Imani's eyes filled again. "I wasn't punishing anyone. I was scared. For her. For me. For us."
The word "us" hung between them like smoke.
Damian's hands trembled on the desk. He wanted to pull her in. Wanted to kiss her until the blogs burned. Wanted to tell her the truth screaming inside his head: that it had never been just protectiveness. That he was falling so hard it terrified him.
But he stepped back.
Turned away.
"Fix the sleepover," he said roughly. "Please."
He walked into his office and closed the door.
Imani stood there, shaking, tears finally spilling. The rose in the drawer suddenly felt heavier than the entire Lagos sky.
At 9:47 p.m., while Imani was on the phone with a now-excited Becky, her own phone buzzed with a new notification.
Ivy's Instagram story.
A single black-and-white photo: Ivy in a red dress, standing on a balcony overlooking the lagoon, holding a glass of champagne. The caption was one line, but it tagged Damian Anderson directly.
"Some storms are worth waiting for. ⏳ #AndersonLegacy"