Chapter 20: Sisterhood Blooms
The infinity pool at Maya Anderson's Banana Island mansion shimmered under Friday evening lights, the lagoon beyond it a dark mirror reflecting the city's glow. Inside the sprawling villa, laughter echoed through marble halls for the first time in weeks without the sharp edge of elite pretence. Maya and Becky had claimed the entire east wing for their second sleepover—no bougie friends, no side-eyes, just two girls in matching oversized pyjamas (soft pink with tiny Burna Boy prints Maya had custom-ordered), bowls of popcorn, and the latest Naija Netflix series paused on the 85-inch screen.
They'd started the day with shopping—Maya's driver taking them to the private wing of The Palms Mall in VI, where Maya swiped her black card like it was nothing. Becky had hesitated at first, eyes wide at the price tags. "Maya, this dress is more than our monthly rent…" But Maya had grinned, looping an arm through hers. "Then it's perfect. You deserve pretty things too. And if anyone says otherwise, I'll remind them whose sister I am." They bought three outfits each, matching sneakers, and a stack of JAMB revision books Becky had been eyeing. Bullies from Maya's circle tried sliding into the group chat later—snide voice notes about "the Surulere princess shopping on Anderson money"—but Maya shut it down instantly, screenshotting and blocking them mid-sentence. "They're just jealous you're real," she told Becky fiercely, pulling her into a hug right there in the food court. "I protect my people."
Back at the house, movies turned into deep talks—Becky gushing about her dance videos, Maya confessing how lonely it felt being the "baby Anderson" everyone tiptoed around. They protected each other in small, fierce ways: Maya deleting hateful comments on Becky's latest IG post, Becky reminding Maya that her big brother's drama wasn't her fault. At 2:13 a.m., sprawled on the king-sized bed with fairy lights glowing, Maya popped another piece of suya into her mouth and said, half-joking, half-serious, "Your sister Imani? She's basically future sister-in-law material at this point. The way Damian looks at her? Whew. Tell her I said she's already family in my book."
Becky laughed, cheeks warm. "Stop! I'll tell her tomorrow. She'll die."
The words travelled.
Saturday morning, Becky called Imani from the back of Maya's pink G-Wagon on the way home. "Manny! Maya called you my future sister-in-law last night. She was joking… but she meant it. Said Damian looks at you like you hung the moon. And she protected me from her mean friends again. This sleepover was everything."
Imani, standing in the hospital corridor with a lukewarm cup of tea, forced a smile into her voice. "Tell her thank you, smallie. I'm glad you had fun." But inside, the words twisted like a knife—sweet and painful all at once.
Damian overheard it all.
He was in the study at Banana Island, reviewing quarterly reports, when Maya burst in after dropping Becky off, still buzzing. "Big bro, I finally forgive you. For real this time. Becky's sister is amazing, and if you don't fix your mess with Imani soon, I'm adopting her myself as future sister-in-law." She hugged him quick and tight—the first real one in weeks—before skipping off to her room.
Damian sat frozen at his desk long after she left. Internal chaos roared louder than the lagoon waves outside.
Future sister-in-law. The phrase lodged in his chest like shrapnel. Maya forgiving him should have felt like relief. Instead it cracked something open. Imani. In his sister's words. In his head every waking minute. The stolen moment in the office—her jacket over his shoulders, her hand on his chest, foreheads touching. He wanted it. God, he wanted her. But the denial surged back, vicious now: It's not real. It can't be. She's my employee. My responsibility. Feelings destroyed my father's focus. Feelings are why Ivy is circling like a shark. Protectiveness. Nothing more. But the lie tasted like ash. Because Maya calling her family made it feel… possible. And possibility terrified him more than anything.
His phone rang at 10:47 a.m.—his father's private line.
Jude Anderson's voice was calm but heavy, the oil tycoon who respected everyone but never bent rules. "Son.there was a Board meeting yesterday. The trust clause. They are giving you Ninety days,to Marry someone suitable—Ivy or approved equivalent—or you lose your shares, your title as heir, everything tied to the family legacy. Your mother pushed it through. She says it's for your own good. I fought, but… the papers are signed. Fix it, Damian. Or walk away from everything I built."
The call ended. Damian stared at the lagoon until his vision blurred. Ninety days. Marry or lose it all. The ultimatum landed like a guillotine.
Across town, Ivy's next calculated scheme was already in motion. She sat in her VI penthouse, laptop open, smiling at the private investigator's report on Imani's family. Hospital bills. Expired rent. Scholarship rejection. "Perfect," she whispered, typing instructions to a new anonymous blog contact. "Time to make the pauper break."
Sunday hit Imani like a truck.
Her mother's condition had worsened overnight. The hospital called at 4:12 a.m.—emergency surgery needed by noon: a spinal complication that could paralyse her completely if not fixed. Cost: ₦4.2 million upfront. No insurance. No time.
Becky had come home from the sleepover glowing, but the scholarship email had arrived while she was away: "We regret to inform you…" She hadn't secured it. Not even waitlist.
Imani stood in their Surulere living room, phone in hand, rent notice from the landlord taped to the door—expired two weeks ago, eviction threat in 48 hours. Aunty Rose had already pawned her gold earrings for groceries. Kings had wired the little he had—₦87,000—from his side hustle, texting: "It's not enough, babe, but it's all. I'm sorry."
The load—everything—crashed down.
When Becky walked in humming Maya's playlist, Imani snapped. Eyes red, voice cracking like glass.
"You forgot, abi? While you were busy with sleepovers and pink G-Wagons and matching pyjamas, you forgot to follow up on the scholarship portal. I reminded you three times last week! Now Mummy needs surgery we can't pay for, rent is due, and you're out here playing rich girl with Maya like the world isn't burning around us. I carry everything, Becky. Everything. And you knew the load was heavy on me!"
Becky's face crumpled. "Manny… I didn't—"
But Imani was already crying—ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just… I can't anymore."
Maya called at 2:17 p.m., voice bright. "Hey, future sister-in-law! Becky said you might need a break. Want to come hang? Ice cream run? My treat."
Imani answered from the hospital corridor, tears streaming. "I can't, Maya. She lost the scholarship. Becky didn't get it. My Mummy's surgery… they need millions by noon tomorrow or she might never walk again. The Rent has expired. Everything is falling apart. I can't hang out. I can't even breathe."
Maya's voice softened instantly. "Imani… let me help. Please. My brother can help,if you want . I have money. We can—"
"No." Imani's voice broke harder. "I can't take it. Not from you. Not like this. It would make everything the blogs say true. I'm sorry.
She hung up, slid down the wall, and cried until her throat burned raw. Kings sat beside her in silence, holding her hand. Aunty Rose prayed in the corner. The weight of it all—mother dying slowly, sister's dreams crushed, home about to be lost, Damian's distance after every almost-moment—ate her alive. She was at breaking point. One more crack and she'd shatter.
Monday morning, Imani arrived at the office at 7:29 a.m. Eyes swollen shut from crying all night. Braids messy. Blouse wrinkled. She hadn't slept. The surgery was scheduled for tomorrow—if they found money. Rent collectors had already called twice.
Sarian and Lola were waiting at the coffee station, phones out, whispering about the latest anonymous post hinting at "PA family drama."
Sarian smirked as Imani passed. "Rough night, gold-digger? Eyes looking like you cried over your fake elevator romance again?"
For the first time, Imani snapped back—bitter, raw, voice carrying across the floor.
"Shut the hell up, Sarian. You and your fake screenshots and your cheap laughs—you think this is a game? My mother is fighting for her life in hospital and you're here giggling like witches. Touch me again with your words and I swear on everything, I'll make sure Damian hears exactly how you've been leaking things to Ivy. Both of you. Get out of my face."
The floor went dead silent. Sarian's mouth opened, closed. Lola backed away.
Imani sat at her desk, head in hands, tears slipping again. Breaking. Completely breaking.
Damian learned the truth at 8:41 a.m.
Maya had called him first—voice shaking: "Brother, Imani's family is in crisis. Her mum needs emergency surgery. Becky Scholarship fell through. Rent due. She rejected my help. She's at breaking point.Please can you help??
Then he saw Imani—swollen eyes, snapped at staff, shoulders curved like the world had finally won.
He walked straight to her desk, voice low but steady.
"Miss Bright. My office."
She followed, legs numb.
Inside, door closed, he didn't sit. Just looked at her—eyes burning with everything he couldn't say yet.
"I know," he said quietly. "About your mother. The surgery. The scholarship. The rent. Maya told me.
Fresh tears spilled. She tried to wipe them, but they kept coming. "I'm fine. I'll work—"
"No." He stepped closer. Voice cracking with emotion for the first time in front of her. "You're not fine. You're breaking, Imani. And I won't let you break here. Take the day off. Go to her. Stay as long as you need. I'll cover the surgery—quietly. No strings. The rent too. Consider it… an advance. Or a loan. Whatever lets you say yes without feeling like the blogs are right."
She shook her head, sobbing openly now. "I can't take it from you. Not after everything.
He froze. "
Damian's hands trembled. He pulled her into his arms—gentle, desperate—forehead against hers like that stolen night. "I care about you. About not watching you shatter. Let me help. Please."
She clung to him, crying into his shirt—the same way she had in the elevator. The slow burn exploded into something raw and aching. His arms tightened. "I've got you," he whispered in Yoruba against her hair. "Ẹ má ṣe worry. Mo ti n wa ọ."
For one heartbeat, the world stopped.
Then his phone buzzed—Ivy's name.
Imani pulled back, eyes swollen, heart breaking wider.
And across the city, Ivy smiled at her screen—scheme already launching.