Chapter 21: Proximity & Poison
Tuesday morning dawned gray over Lagos, the kind of humid heaviness that made every breath feel borrowed. Imani stepped into the Anderson Group lobby at 7:45 a.m., braids pulled into a tight, no-nonsense bun, blouse ironed crisp despite the sleepless night. Her mother's condition had stabilized—no surgery yet, but the doctors had warned her in hushed tones: "Anything can happen at any time. She's fragile." The words looped in her head like a bad track. She was quietly grateful to the medical team for keeping her mum breathing, but gratitude didn't pay bills or silence blogs.
She avoided Damian's floor entirely. No coffee run past his office. No accidental glances in the hallway. She'd made up her mind: distance was safety. Focus on family. Protect Becky. The worlds they touched—Surulere grit and Banana Island gloss—were oil and water. They didn't mix without someone getting burned.
At home the night before, she'd sat Becky down on their worn sofa, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
"Smallie, listen to me. This thing with Maya… it's sweet, but it's not our reality. You need to go back to your books. JAMB is coming. That scholarship is your ticket out. We can't keep playing in their world. We're not them. We never will be."
Becky's eyes had welled up, but she nodded, chin quivering. "I get it, Manny. I was just… happy for once." She hugged her sister tight, then retreated to her room with textbooks and zero distractions.
Maya's calls started flooding Becky's phone by 9 a.m.—missed calls, worried texts: "Did I do something wrong? Why aren't you picking? 😔" Becky stared at the screen, heart twisting, but didn't reply. Imani was right. Rich people problems came with strings. Better to stay in their lane.
Meanwhile, the office buzzed with the announcement: emergency board trip to Abuja. High-stakes federal partners, major oil/gas deal worth billions if they nailed the presentation. Damian needed his top strategist—Imani—on the ground. Flight Thursday, back Saturday. No opting out.
Imani buried herself in prep, ignoring the whispers. Blogs had been relentless. Her name trended again, twisted into something ugly. Then Ivy struck harder.
The post dropped at 11:32 a.m.—anonymous blog, viral within minutes: "The Pauper's Dark Past: How Imani Bright's Father Was a Debtor Who Ended It All… Leaving Mum Paralyzed & Family in Ruins." Doctored "evidence"—old debt notices, blurry hospital photos. Lies wrapped in half-truths. The real story: a drunk driver hit-and-run that stole her father's life and left her mother fighting paralysis. Case buried because the driver was connected—powerful family, hush money, sealed files. Imani had been 18 suddenly mother, father, provider to Becky and Aunty Rose. She'd carried it alone.
Reading it in the bathroom stall, phone shaking, something in her snapped. No more explaining. No more fighting invisible enemies. She couldn't win against blogs. They were hydras—cut one head, two grew back. She wiped her face, straightened her spine, and walked out like nothing happened. But the hit was below the belt. Deep.
The elevator ride down to the executive garage for airport prep was hell. Crowded—team members, interns, the air thick with cologne and tension. Bodies pressed close. The lift jerked suddenly on descent. Damian's hand shot out instinctively, brushing hers to steady her as she stumbled.
For a split second, their fingers tangled—warm, electric. She felt the heat of him, the solid wall of his chest inches away. Stolen glance: his eyes dark, searching. He muttered low, just for her, "You okay?"
She pulled her hand away immediately, like it burned. Nodded once. Voice barely above whisper: "Thanks to you."
Doors dinged open. Moment shattered. She stepped out first, heart hammering, refusing to look back.
Thursday arrived fast. Murtala Muhammed Airport to Nnamdi Azikiwe, private jet humming. Imani sat across the aisle from Damian, headphones in, eyes on her laptop. He noticed—how she flinched when he passed, how she answered questions clipped and professional. He didn't ask. Pride or fear—he wasn't sure which kept him silent.
Abuja welcomed them with dry heat and golden hour light. Hotel check-in at one of the city's sleekest spots: a sprawling presidential suite "mix-up." One massive living area—plush sofas, marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city—flanked by two separate bedrooms with connecting doors.
Damian tried to fix it at the desk. "Separate rooms. Now."
The manager apologized profusely. "Our hotel is Fully booked for the conference, sir. This is all we have now, But the doors lock from inside—complete privacy."
Imani, standing behind him, cut in coolly. "It's fine. Professional. We'll manage."
Her heart raced anyway. She walked to "her" door, paused. "Goodnight, Mr. Anderson."
He watched her go, jaw tight. "Goodnight, Imani."
Neither slept well. The wall between them felt thinner than paper.
Prep day Friday was chaos. Sarian and Lola struck again—key presentation files vanished from the shared drive hours before final rehearsal. The Abuja contract deck—billions on the line. Imani stared at the empty folder, confused, exhausted. "How…?"
Damian exploded in the conference room. Public. Loud. Everyone froze.
"Incompetent doesn't even begin to cover it, Miss Bright. This is not amateur hour. You had one job—protect the files. Instead, we're scrambling like schoolboys because you couldn't do the basics. Do you know how much rides on this? Or are you too busy playing victim on blogs to focus?"
His words flew—sharp, cutting. "If you can't handle pressure, step aside." "This deal is bigger than your personal drama." "Maybe focus less on excuses and more on results."
Someone filmed it. Of course. Posted within minutes. Captions: "CEO drags gold-digger employee—serves her right 😂" Mixed reactions—some mocked ("Thought she bagged a rich guy?"), some defended ("She's human, abeg. Leave her alone."), but the damage landed.
Imani stood there, tears slipping silently. She didn't argue. Just nodded once, turned, and walked out. In the hallway, Becky called—voice small. "Manny, I saw the video… Are you okay?"
Imani swallowed the sob. "I'm fine, smallie. Just work stress. Study hard, okay? Love you."
She hung up, slid against the wall, breathing hard.
Andrea caught the sabotage—restored the files from auto-backup he'd quietly enabled weeks ago He recovered everything, he saved the presentation. Then pulled Damian aside in the corridor, voice low and furious.
"What the hell was that? You know what she's going through—her mum is in the hospital, the blogs are tearing her apart, people sending threats to her sister—and you are adding to it? In public? You snapped like she personally insulted your family. Fix yourself, man. Stop making her problems worse. You're better than this."
Damian stared at the floor, guilt slamming him. No words. Just silence.
The meeting went ahead. Imani presented—voice steady, slides flawless. They secured the contract. Billions. Cheers erupted. Handshakes. Toasts.
Saturday night, the team decided to celebrated at a beach club on the outskirts—lights strung over sand, highlife remixes pumping, suya grilling, bottles popping. Elite Naija energy: laughter, dancing, the lagoon breeze carrying relief.
Imani didn't want to go. "I need to rest,and Clear my head."
Andrea persuaded her gently. "Come for an hour. You earned this. Don't let the noise win."
She went. Stayed on the edge—sipping water, watching waves crash. Damian was across the fire pit, surrounded by friends: Andrea, Banni, Gregory. They roasted him mercilessly.
Banni leaned in, grinning. "Bro, you dey form hard guy, but everybody see say you don fall yakata for that girl. The way you look at her during presentation? Chai. Finished man."
Gregory laughed, clinking bottles. "You called her incompetent in front of everybody, yet you wan pay hospital bills behind? Hypocrite level 1000. Just admit it—you like her. go claim what's yours before Ivy finish her wahala."
Andrea shook his head, serious under the tease. "She's pulling away because of you, Damian. The video? That hurt her deep. If you no fix am, she'll leave. For good."
Damian stared into the fire, jaw working. "It's complicated."
Banni snorted. "Complicated is code for 'I'm scared.' Man up, guy Feelings no kill person."
Imani watched from afar—their laughter carrying over the music. Saw Damian's face tighten. Felt the pull, then pushed it down. She couldn't stand him right now—not after the public humiliation, not with her mother's life hanging by a thread, not with blogs painting her as a gold digger
She slipped away quietly. Back to the suite. Door locked. Alone.
But in his room, Damian paced. The connecting door stared back at him like an accusation. He raised a fist to knock