Chapter 17: Traffic Flirt
Tuesday afternoon in Lagos was a furnace on wheels.
The expressway from Victoria Island to Ikoyi had turned into a parking lot of impatience—danfos honking like wounded animals, okadas weaving through gaps that didn't exist, hawkers tapping on tinted windows with sachets of pure water and plantain chips. Damian's black Range Rover sat dead centre in the snarl, AC blasting cold air that did nothing to cool the tension inside the cabin.
He had asked—no, ordered—Imani to drive him to a last-minute site inspection in Ikoyi. "You know the shortcuts better than the driver," he'd said, voice clipped, eyes already on his phone. She hadn't argued. Just grabbed the keys from his desk, slid behind the wheel, and pulled out of the underground garage without a word.
Now, forty-five minutes into what should have been a fifteen-minute drive, the silence between them was louder than the horns outside.
Imani gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. She wore a cream silk blouse today, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the top two buttons undone against the heat. Her braids were swept into a low ponytail, a few strands escaping to curl at her nape. Damian sat in the passenger seat—unusual for him—long legs stretched as far as the footwell allowed, charcoal suit jacket discarded on the back seat, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal forearms corded with quiet strength. He smelled like sandalwood and restrained fury.
He broke the silence first.
"The revised deck from yesterday. Slide 9 is still inflated. I told you to fix the projections."
Imani's jaw tightened. She didn't take her eyes off the road. "I fixed them. Rounded down to the exact figures from the Norwegian data pack. You would have seen if you'd opened the final version I sent at 8:47 p.m."
A beat. His phone screen dimmed in his hand.
"I opened it. The community reinvestment percentage is still too aggressive. We're not running a charity."
She exhaled through her nose—sharp, controlled. "It's not charity. It's strategy. The Norwegians are ESG-obsessed. If we show zero community return, they walk. Three percent is conservative. Their own reports show they've accepted up to five in similar markets. I included the citations. Page 47 of the appendix."
He turned his head slowly. Eyes on her profile now—burning. "You think you know better than the board?"
"I think I know the data better than someone who skimmed the deck in five minutes." Her voice stayed even, but the edge was there—sharp enough to cut. "You praised the pitch publicly. Then shredded it privately. Then ignored the fixes. Pick a lane, Damian."
The use of his first name—uninvited, intimate—hung in the air like smoke.
He shifted in his seat. The leather creaked. "Careful, Miss Bright."
"Or what?" She finally glanced at him—quick, fierce. Their eyes locked for a full second before she had to look back at the crawling traffic. "You'll reassign the project? Demote me? Fire me? Go ahead. At least then the mixed signals would stop."
Silence again. Thicker. Hotter.
Then, softer—almost reluctant: "I'm not trying to fire you."
She laughed—small, bitter. "Could've fooled me."
He rubbed his jaw, the faint stubble rasping under his palm. "The board is watching. My mother is watching. Every move I make is dissected. If I let the deck go through with your numbers, they'll say I'm soft. Distracted."
"By me."
He didn't deny it.
The traffic inched forward. A hawker tapped the window; Damian waved him off without looking.
Imani reached for the stereo—something to break the pressure. She connected her phone via Bluetooth. Burna Boy's "Last Last" filled the cabin—smooth, aching, the bass vibrating through the seats.
Damian's eyebrow lifted. "This is your driving music?"
She shrugged, a tiny smile tugging despite herself. "Problem?"
"It's… dramatic."
"Says the man who whispers Yoruba endearments during panic attacks then pretends they never happened."
He exhaled—half laugh, half groan. The flirt crept in slow, like smoke under a door.
"You remember that part, abi?"
"Every word." She kept her eyes on the road, but her voice dropped lower. "Ẹ má ṣe worry. Mo ti n wa ọ. You said it like it meant something."
"It did." The admission slipped out—quiet, raw.
She glanced at him again. Longer this time. The traffic had stopped completely; they were trapped in a pocket of stillness amid chaos.
His gaze traced her face—slow, deliberate. Landed on her lips. Her breath caught.
"You like this song?" he asked, voice rougher now.
"It's honest. Burna doesn't pretend he's not hurting."
"Neither do you."
Another beat. The rubber band pulled taut.
She reached for the AC dial—too hot suddenly. Her arm brushed his as she adjusted the vent. Not deliberate. But neither pulled away.
His hand moved—slow, giving her every chance to stop him—and covered hers on the dial. Skin to skin. Warm. Electric.
She froze.
He didn't move his hand. Just let it rest there, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist—once, twice—like he was measuring her pulse again.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"You make me shake." Honest.
His thumb stilled. Eyes dark, burning. "Imani…"
The way he said her name—low, reverent, desperate—made her chest ache.
He leaned in. One inch. Two. Close enough she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, smell the faint trace of coffee and him. Her eyes fluttered half-shut. The almost-kiss hovered—magnetic, merciless, inevitable.
Then a horn blared behind them. Traffic lurched forward.
She yanked her hand back. Foot on the accelerator. The moment shattered.
He sat back, exhaling ragged. "Fuck."
She didn't reply. Just drove.
The rest of the ride passed in charged silence—stares that lingered too long when one thought the other wasn't looking, the air thick with everything unsaid.
By the time they reached the site, the flirt had cooled to embers. He got out without a word. She waited in the car, heart hammering, replaying his thumb on her wrist like a loop.
Next day—Wednesday—the cold shoulder returned like clockwork.
Damian arrived at 8:03 a.m., suit impeccable, face carved from granite. He walked past her desk without a glance. No good morning. No coffee order. No acknowledgment of the traffic, the music, the almost-touch that had kept her awake until 3 a.m.
She felt it like a slap. Kept her head down. Worked. Professional. Untouchable.
But the yearn burned anyway—quiet, persistent, in the way her eyes flicked to his door every few minutes, in the way his silhouette at the window made her chest tighten.
Subplot hummed in the background.
Becky and Maya had been texting non-stop since the first sleepover. Plans for round two were already in motion—Friday night, Banana Island, "just us, no bougie friends this time," Maya had promised. Becky had asked Imani tentatively over breakfast; Imani had said yes, voice soft, because seeing her sister light up was worth the risk. Maya had sent a voice note: "Tell your sister thank you. I'm not letting your brother ruin this again." They'd even planned outfits—matching pyjamas from Zara, playlists locked in.
Imani smiled at the messages during lunch. Small victories.
But the main burn stayed centred on Damian.
At 6:22 p.m., he finally spoke to her—intercom crackling.
"Miss Bright. My office. Now."
She walked in. Door closed behind her.
He stood at the window, back to her, hands in pockets.
"The Norwegian deal is greenlit. Your deck—final version—sealed it."
She waited.
He turned. Eyes burning again. "You were right. About the three percent."
She nodded once. "Good."
Silence stretched—electric, painful.
He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate.
"I shouldn't have gone cold today."
"No. You shouldn't."
Another step. Close enough the sandalwood wrapped around her.
"I'm trying," he said hoarsely. "To stay away. To keep this… professional."
"Why?"
"Because if I don't—" He cut himself off. Jaw clenched. Looked at her mouth. "You make it impossible."
She lifted her chin. "Then stop trying."
His hand rose—hesitant—brushed a loose braid from her face. Fingers lingered at her cheek. Her breath hitched.
Their eyes locked. Burning. Yearning. The slow burn reached fever pitch—every stare a spark, every breath a promise.
He leaned in.
Foreheads touched.
"Imani…"
She whispered, "Damian."
Lips almost brushed.
Then his phone buzzed—loud, insistent.
He jerked back. Pulled it from his pocket.
Ivy's name on the screen. FaceTime.
He stared at it like it was poison.
Imani stepped away. "Answer it."
He didn't.
Instead he silenced the call. But the damage was done.
She walked out.
At 10:14 p.m., while Imani sat on her Surulere veranda with a warm Maltina, scrolling through Becky's excited texts about Friday, her phone lit up with a new notification.
A tagged photo from a VI club—dim lights, velvet ropes, bottles on ice.
Ivy, in a black dress that clung like sin, pressed against Damian's side. His face turned away, jaw tight, but her hand was on his chest—possessive.
Caption:
"Old friends. New nights. Some things never change. 🖤 #VIvibes"
Tagged: Damian Anderson
And across the city, in the club's VIP section, Damian stared at his phone—her story open—while Ivy leaned closer, whispering something he didn't hear.
Because all he saw was Imani's face in traffic.
All he felt was the ghost of her wrist under his thumb.
threatened to snap for good.