Chapter 19: Stolen Moments
The office lights were dimmed to half-strength by 10:47 p.m., the kind of quiet that made every small sound echo—keyboard clicks, the low hum of the AC, the distant rumble of late-night Lagos traffic filtering through the glass. Most floors below were dark. Security had already done their rounds twice. Only the executive level remained alive, lit by the soft blue glow of two laptops and the city lights bleeding in from the lagoon.
Damian had insisted on a late-night crunch session for the final Norwegian contract amendments. "We lock this tonight," he'd said at 7 p.m., voice clipped but eyes tired. Imani hadn't argued. She'd ordered suya and chilled Maltina from the 24-hour spot in VI, set up the conference table with printouts and highlighters, and they'd worked side by side for hours—shoulders almost brushing, silences comfortable in a way they hadn't been since the traffic flirt.
Now it was past 11. The contract was signed digitally. Amendments approved. Emails sent. Damian had leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, and muttered, "Done." Then his head dropped forward—slow, inevitable—and he fell asleep right there at the desk, arms folded under his cheek, breathing deep and even.
Imani watched him for a long minute.
He looked younger like this—defences down, the perpetual tension in his jaw softened, faint lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes. His shirt sleeves were still rolled from earlier, forearms resting on the black marble, one hand loose near the edge of the table. The white collar of his shirt had loosened; a single button undone. Sandalwood lingered in the air, mixed with the faint spice of suya still on his breath.
She should have left. Packed her bag. Called an Uber. Gone home to Surulere where Aunty Rose would be waiting with leftover jollof and questions she didn't want to answer.
Instead she stood quietly, slipped off her light denim jacket—the one she kept for air-conditioned evenings—and draped it over his shoulders. Careful. Slow. The fabric settled like a secret. She smoothed it once, fingers brushing the nape of his neck where his hair curled slightly. He didn't stir.
She stepped back. Sat on the edge of the conference table opposite him. Watched.
The city lights painted soft gold across his face. His breathing was steady, chest rising and falling in rhythm. For the first time in weeks, she let herself look—really look—without the armour of professionalism or anger. The man who'd whispered Yoruba in her hair during a panic attack. Who'd snapped at an entire floor to protect her name. Who'd almost kissed her in gridlock traffic, thumb on her wrist like he was counting heartbeats to stay alive.
She didn't know how long she sat there. Minutes. Maybe longer. The rubber band between them wasn't stretched right now—it was slack, gentle, almost tender.
Then his eyes fluttered open.
He blinked once—slow, disoriented—then focused on her. She was still perched on the table, legs crossed, hands in her lap, watching him with quiet intensity. No embarrassment. No rush to look away.
He didn't move immediately. Just held her gaze across the desk. The jacket slipped a little; he caught it instinctively, fingers curling into the denim like it was something precious.
"You covered me," he said—voice rough from sleep, low enough that it felt private even in the empty office.
She nodded once. "You looked cold."
A small, tired smile tugged at his mouth. The first real one she'd seen in days. "Thank you."
Two words. Simple. But they landed soft, heavy, right in the centre of her chest.
He sat up slowly. The jacket stayed on his shoulders. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes never leaving hers.
"You should have gone home," he murmured.
"I know."
"Why didn't you?"
She exhaled—small, honest. "Because watching you sleep felt… safe. For once."
His throat worked. He stood—slow, deliberate—rounded the desk until he was standing between her knees where she sat on the table edge. Not touching. Close enough she could feel the heat radiating off him.
"Imani…" Her name again—soft, reverent, like it hurt to say. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then brushed his knuckles along her cheek. Barely there. Feather-light. "You make it impossible to stay distant."
Her breath caught. She tilted her head into the touch—just a fraction. "Then don't."
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that point of contact—his knuckles on her skin, her eyes locked on his, the city lights flickering behind him like stars. The slow burn simmered low and steady, no rush, no yank-back. Just stolen warmth in the quiet of the night.
He leaned in. Forehead rested gently against hers. Eyes closed. Breathing the same air.
"I'm trying," he whispered. "But God help me, I don't want to anymore."
She lifted her hand—slow—placed it flat against his chest, over his heart. It hammered under her palm. Fast. Alive.
"Then don't," she repeated.
Their lips were millimetres apart. The almost-kiss felt different this time—less desperate, more inevitable. Like gravity finally winning.
But he pulled back—just enough. Exhaled ragged.
"Not here," he said hoarsely. "Not like this. Not when I still haven't fixed everything."
She nodded—understanding, aching. "Okay."
He stepped away. Took off her jacket. Folded it carefully. Handed it back. Their fingers brushed—electric, lingering.
"Go home," he said softly. "I'll call security to walk you down."
She slid off the table. Slipped the jacket on. At the door she paused.
"Goodnight, Damian."
"Goodnight, Imani."
She left.
The next day—Thursday—he was distant again.
He arrived at 8:11 a.m., suit sharp, face unreadable. Walked past her desk without a glance. No good morning. No coffee order. No acknowledgment of the late-night tenderness, the jacket, the forehead touch, the whispered confession.
Imani felt it like ice water. Kept her head down. Worked. Professional. Untouchable. But the yearn burned hotter now—sharper—because she'd tasted what it could be like when he let the walls drop.
Subplot threaded through the day quietly.
At 3:42 p.m., while Imani was on a call with the Norwegian team, her phone buzzed with a text from Becky.
Becky: Manny, Maya's driver is picking me up at 6. Sleepover tonight—Banana Island. Just us again. She said no bougie friends this time. Playlist locked. Pyjamas matching. I'm so excited. Love you ❤️
Imani smiled—small, real—despite the ache in her chest. "Have fun, smallie. Be safe. Text me when you get there."
Later, at 5:58 p.m., she slipped out early. Headed straight to the hospital in Ikeja.
The ward smelled of antiseptic and quiet despair. Their mother lay in the same bed—tubes, monitors, the soft beep of machines that had become background music to their Sundays. Imani sat beside her, holding her thin hand, telling her about the Norwegian deal closing, about Becky's excitement for the sleepover, about work being… complicated.
Her mother squeezed once—weak but there. "You strong, my girl. Always were."
Imani nodded. Smiled. Then excused herself to the corridor.
She leaned against the wall outside the ward, slid down until she sat on the cold tile floor, knees to chest. And cried.
Quiet. Shoulders shaking. Tears hot and silent. For her mother's fading strength. For the blogs that wouldn't die. For Damian's distance after the softest moment they'd ever shared. For the way love felt like walking on broken glass—beautiful, painful, impossible to stop.
She cried until her phone buzzed.
Maya: Becky just arrived. She's already raiding my vinyl collection. We're good. Thank you for trusting us. Your sister is my favourite person right now. ❤️
Imani wiped her face. Typed back: Take care of her. Tell her I love her.
She stood. Washed her face in the hospital bathroom. Fixed her braids. Walked back in smiling.
But the ache stayed.
At 11:19 p.m., while Imani sat on her Surulere veranda with cold tea, scrolling through old photos of her mother healthy and laughing, her phone lit up with a new notification.
A tagged Instagram story from an anonymous society account.
A blurry photo—taken from across the street—of Damian's Range Rover parked outside the office building last night, well after midnight.
Caption: "Late nights at the office… or late nights with the PA? 👀 Someone's jacket was seen leaving with her this morning. #StolenMoments #AndersonScandal"
Tagged: Damian Anderson, Imani Bright
And just below it, Ivy's repost of the same story.
Her caption: "Some moments aren't meant to stay stolen forever. Tick tock.
Across the city, in Banana Island, Becky and Maya were laughing over ice cream in the cinema room.
But in Surulere, Imani stared at her phone—heart hammering—while Damian, alone in his office staring at the same post, gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles whitened.
slack for one stolen night—snapped taut again.
And this time, it was ready to break.