Chapter 18: Ivy's First Vicious Attack
The leak dropped at 6:17 a.m. like a grenade into still water.
Imani woke to her phone exploding. WhatsApp groups, Instagram notifications, Twitter—every society blog in Lagos had the same headline screaming across screens:
"ELEVATOR TRUTH EXPOSED: Anderson Heir & PA in Steamy 12-Hour Intimate Lockdown – Exclusive Edited Photos!"
The images were viciously edited masterpieces. Grainy base shots from the original elevator scandal, but now layered with new angles: Imani's face tilted up toward Damian's, his hand cupping her cheek in what looked like a lover's caress, her braids spilling over his shirt like they'd been tangled in passion, not panic. The timestamps had been stretched. Lighting doctored. One frame even showed what looked like his lips brushing her forehead—pure fabrication, but so seamless it could fool a courtroom. The caption beneath: "Sources close to the family say the 'panic attack' was just cover. Pauper PA finally trapped her prince. Ivy must be devastated."
Comments flooded faster than Lagos rain in July.
"Street urchin upgraded to mistress! 😂" "She planned this. Look at her hand on his chest—calculated." "Damian Anderson simping for Surulere? Standards in the gutter." "Ivy deserves better than this gold-digging homewrecker."
Imani sat on the edge of her bed in Surulere, braids loose from sleep, staring at the edited photo until her eyes burned. The real memory flashed: his arms around her in the dark, whispering Yoruba like a lifeline, not lust. This was poison. Ivy's poison. She knew it in her bones.
Aunty Rose's voice floated from the kitchen: "Imani? You dey okay? Rice dey burn o!"
She silenced the phone, dressed in record time—black blouse, grey trousers, armour on—and headed to the office. Becky had already seen it; her text came through at 7:02 a.m.: "Manny, ignore them. Maya says Ivy is a witch. I love you." Maya had sent a separate voice note: "My brother is an idiot but he'll fix this. Stay strong, sis."
The office at 7:45 a.m. was a battlefield of whispers.
The open-plan floor had split again—worse than before. Sarian and Lola held court at the coffee station, phones out, zooming in on the edited photos with glee. "See her hand? She's practically climbing him," Sarian laughed loud enough for three rows. Interns stared. Finance team avoided eye contact. Even the security guard at the lift gave her a pitying glance.
Imani kept her head high, braids swinging like a shield, but humiliation burned under her skin like pepper. She sat at her desk, opened her laptop, and began the day's reports as if the entire Lagos elite wasn't dissecting her body and soul online. The white rose in the drawer felt heavier today—like a reminder of what she was fighting for.
Damian arrived at 8:03 a.m. The temperature dropped. He didn't look at her. Walked straight into his office, door slamming. But she saw the muscle in his jaw ticking from across the floor. He had seen the leak.
At 9:12 a.m. the intercom crackled.
"Miss Bright. My office. Now."
She walked in, closed the door, and turned the lock with a quiet click that sounded like a gunshot.
Damian stood at the window, back to her, phone in hand—scrolling the blogs. The edited photo glowed on his screen.
"You saw," she said quietly. Not a question.
He turned slowly. Eyes dark, stormy, burning with something between rage and pain. "Ivy did this."
"I know." Imani stepped closer. Voice steady but edged with fire. "She edited them. Made it look like we were… intimate. Like I trapped you. And now the whole office is laughing at me. Again. Sarian is having a field day. They're calling me a calculated whore, Damian. And you—you just walked past my desk like I don't exist."
His hands clenched at his sides. "I was trying to keep it professional. To protect you."
"Protect me?" She laughed—sharp, broken. "By ignoring me? By letting the entire floor think I'm some desperate PA who photoshopped herself into your arms? You praised my work one day, tore it apart the next, almost kissed me in traffic, then went cold. And now this? I'm humiliated, Damian. Every stare out there feels like hands on me. I can't even breathe without someone whispering 'gold-digger.'"
He stepped forward—close, too close. The black marble desk no longer separated them. Sandalwood and fury wrapped around her.
"You think I'm not burning?" His voice dropped low, rough, vibrating. "You think I don't want to drag every single person on that floor into this office and fire them for looking at you wrong? You think I slept last night? I stared at that edited photo for hours, knowing it's fake, knowing what really happened in that elevator—me holding you while you shook, whispering things I've never said to anyone because English wasn't enough. And now Ivy's turned it into porn for the blogs."
Her breath hitched. The yearn flared—hot, merciless. She could see the pulse hammering at his throat, the way his eyes traced her mouth like he was starving.
"Then defend me," she whispered. "Out loud. Not just to me. Not just in your head. Tell the office. Tell the blogs. Tell Ivy."
He exhaled—ragged. "I will."
The charged argument hung between them, electric. His hand rose—slow, deliberate—brushed a stray braid from her face. Fingers lingered at her cheek, thumb tracing her jaw like he'd done in traffic. Skin burned where he touched.
"Imani…" Her name like a prayer and a curse. He leaned in. Foreheads almost touching. "I'm trying so hard not to want this. Not to want you. But every time you stand here, fire in your eyes, calling me out… I forget why I'm supposed to stay away."
Her eyes fluttered. The slow burn ignited—yearning so thick it felt like smoke in her lungs. She tilted her head, lips a breath from his. "Then stop forgetting. Stop running."
His hand slid to the nape of her neck—gentle, possessive. Their breaths mingled. The almost-kiss hovered, trembling on the edge of breaking everything.
Then his phone rang—Ivy's name flashing.
He ignored it. Pulled Imani closer instead. "Not now."
But the moment cracked when the phone rang again—insistent.
He stepped back, jaw clenched. "I'm ending this. Today."
Imani nodded, chest heaving. She unlocked the door and walked out—legs unsteady, lips still tingling from the ghost of what almost was.
Damian didn't waste time.
By 11:30 a.m. he was in his Range Rover, driver dismissed, heading to Ivy's penthouse in VI. She had texted him the address with a winking emoji: "Come fix this mess, darling. I'm waiting."
He stormed into her marble-and-glass living room without knocking. Ivy stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, red silk robe draped like blood, champagne in hand, smiling like a queen who'd already won.
"Damian," she purred, setting the glass down. "You came. I knew you would."
He didn't sit. "Delete the photos. Retract the story. Now."
She laughed—soft, dangerous. "Those were just… creative edits. To remind everyone who you belong to. That little Surulere girl is nothing. A distraction. I've loved you since we were children. I'd do anything for you. Even this."
"Anything?" His voice was ice. "Including destroying an innocent woman's reputation? Leaking fakes that make her the villain of Lagos?"
Ivy stepped closer, robe slipping off one shoulder. "She's using you. I'm protecting you. Your mother agrees. The board agrees. End this nonsense, marry me, and I'll make the blogs disappear by lunch. We're legacy, Damian. She's… temporary."
He grabbed her wrist—firm, not gentle. "Touch her again—online, offline, any way—and I will bury you. Not metaphorically. I'll release every email, every payment you've made to silence girls before her. I'll make sure the world knows exactly who the real predator is. Stay away from Imani. Or I swear on my father's name, you'll lose everything."
Ivy's eyes flashed—obsession turning venomous. She yanked her wrist free, smile twisting into something ugly.
"You'll regret this," she whispered. "I vow it. I always get what I want. And when I destroy her—publicly, painfully—you'll come crawling back. Watch."
She picked up her phone, already typing. "This is just the beginning."
Damian turned and walked out without another word. The confrontation left a bitter taste, but his chest burned with something fiercer: the need to protect Imani. The need to finally stop running.
Back at the office by 2:47 p.m., he found her at her desk—head down, braids shielding tears she refused to let fall.
He stopped in front of her. The entire floor went silent.
"Miss Bright."
She looked up.
"Conference room. Now. Everyone."
The staff filed in—Sarian pale, Lola fidgeting. Damian stood at the head, Imani beside him.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice carrying like thunder. "The photos are fake. Fabricated. Anyone caught sharing, commenting, or laughing at them is gone. Immediately. Miss Bright is the best PA this company has ever had. She is off-limits. Disrespect her again and you disrespect me."
Gasps rippled. Sarian's phone slipped from her hand.
Damian turned to Imani—eyes burning, yearn raw and open for the first time in front of witnesses.
"Thank you," he said softly—just for her. "For everything."
Their stares locked—electric, devastating. The slow burn roared. He wanted to kiss her right there, in front of everyone. Pull her into his arms and tell the world she was his.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
At 6:05 p.m., while Imani packed her bag and Damian watched from his office door—stares still burning across the floor—her phone buzzed.
A new blog post.
"Ivy Anderson's Revenge: 'The Pauper PA Will Learn Her Place' – Exclusive Audio Clip Dropped."
Attached: a voice recording of Ivy's confrontation with Damian, edited to make it sound like he was begging her to stay.
And at the end, Ivy's vow: "She'll be gone by next week. Watch me."
Imani looked up—eyes meeting Damian's across the office.
This time, neither looked away