Chapter 24: Shattered Protections
Monday morning hit Banana Island like harmattan dust—sharp, choking.
Damian stormed into the family villa at 7:15 a.m., still in the rumpled travel suit from the red-eye out of Abuja. Jaw locked so tight his teeth hurt. The house was too quiet.
His mother, Temi Anderson, sat at the marble breakfast table in silk robe and pearls, scrolling her iPad like the weekend had never happened.
"Mum." His voice cracked the room. "We need to talk. Now."
Temi looked up, one elegant eyebrow arching.
"Good morning to you too, darling. How was Abuja? Congrats on the—"
"Cut it."
He slammed his phone down. The screen froze on the Becky video—the moment Ivy's laugh rang out while security dragged the girl like trash.
"You humiliated a seventeen-year-old," Damian said, voice raw. "My sister's best friend. You and Ivy turned our home into… a circus. For what? Ego? Maya hasn't spoken to you since Saturday. Locked in her room. Crying. Not eating. Because of you."
Temi set her teacup down slowly, deliberately.
"That girl is from Surulere," she said, calm. "Her sister is chasing you for money. I protected our legacy. Ivy understands our world. These… Bright girls do not."
Damian's hands shook. He thought of Maya—the baby who used to crawl into his bed during thunderstorms, still whispering "big bro, fix it." He'd burn everything for her.
"You don't protect legacy by bullying children," he said. His voice broke. "Maya is sick because of this. Not eating. Not talking. She told Dad everything from Italy. And you—you stood there. With Ivy. Recording. Laughing. I've never been more ashamed to call you my mother."
Temi's eyes flashed—hurt, quick—but her chin rose again.
"You'll thank me later," she said. "When you marry Ivy and secure the shares. Feelings are weakness, Damian. Your father learned that the hard way."
He stepped closer. Voice dropped. Pained whisper.
"If Maya doesn't recover… if she stays like this because of you… I will never forgive you. Ever."
He turned and left. The door slammed so hard the crystal chandelier rattled like loose change.
Across town, Ivy was an enjoying her view,she was enjoying some music playing
Inside her Victoria Island penthouse, an anonymous person , took the original Becky video, ran it through a private deepfake app, and spliced new audio—Becky's voice cloned from old Instagram stories:
"Please, Maya… just give me money like your brother gives Imani…"
Fake transfer screenshots.
New post dropped 8:03 a.m.
"Anderson Charity Case Exposed: Little Sister Begging for Cash Too 😂 Full Receipts."
It went nuclear.
Comments flooded in:
Both Bright girls professional beggars.
Threats inundated Becky's lesson-center WhatsApp group.
Becky's first day back at the JAMB center in Surulere was meant to be quiet.
Hoodie up. Head down.
But eyes followed. Whispers:
"That's the one from the video…"
"Anderson beggar."
Someone played the deepfake on speaker. Becky froze. Chest tight. Breath short. Vision blurred.
She turned and ran before the teacher even started.
Keke napep home. Metal frame shaking. Knees knocking against the seat.
Maya, in her bedroom, spiraled. She hadn't eaten since Saturday. Tears blurred her vision.
They laughed at her. My own mother called my friend a peasant. Everyone believes it now, deepfake or not. Becky blocked me. Imani probably hates me. I just wanted a real friend, not these people who only come for the G-Wagon and black card.
I told my Mum she's a bully. I meant it. But now… it empty. I broke everything.
Daddy will return tomorrow, but that wouldn't fix this. Food tasted like ash. Every time she closed her eyes, Becky's face haunted her. She was so tired—tired of being the "baby Anderson" everyone used or discarded.
Curled tighter under the duvet. Phone off. Pillow soaked. Fever spiking. Refusing water.
Damian sat beside her bed. Begging.
"Maya, please… one spoon. For me."
Jude, back from Italy, tried too. Nothing. She cried silently, turning away.
At Anderson Group HQ, Imani arrived 8:30 a.m., armor on—braids tight, eyes dodging the CEO floor, buried in post-Abuja reports.
Damian summoned her 11:47 a.m. for a contract debrief.
Door closed. She placed her resignation letter neatly on his desk, signed.
"I'm done, Mr. Anderson. This tension, the blogs, videos targeting my sister… destroying my family. I need to resign. For their sanity. Mine."
Damian read it once. Tore it in half.
"Denied."
Eyes wide. "You can't—"
"Binding contract. Five years minimum. Standard papers. No early exit unless terminated for cause. No exit clause. You're not going anywhere."
She stared. "I can't breathe here."
He stepped around the desk, forced proximity.
"Then we work together. Abuja deliverables. Today. No avoiding. No running."
She wanted to scream. Nodded once. Stiff.
Three brutal hours side by side at the conference table—slides, numbers, federal timelines. Bodies inches apart. Every accidental elbow brush like fire.
Later afternoon, Maya called Imani from her sickbed. Voice hoarse, weak.
"Please… let Becky come see me. Just once. I need to apologize. In person. I'm falling apart."
Imani's heart twisted, but she stayed firm.
"Maya, sorry. Becky has anxiety attacks now. Thinks everyone's coming for her. The deepfake, the stares at lessons… she won't leave the house. You've done enough—your mother, Ivy, the video. Please… leave my sister alone. For her sake."
Maya's sobs quiet.
"I understand. I'll stay away. Promise."
Hung up. Cried harder. Fever climbed.
Evening. Damian appeared at Imani's Surulere flat. Unannounced. Eyes burning. Saw a tall figure through the window. Assumed: boyfriend. Of course.
"Imani, please," he begged on the doorstep. "Let Becky visit Maya. She's sick. Refusing food. Falling apart. One hour. I'll drive. The will be Security everywhere."
Imani stepped outside. Arms crossed. Voice steel.
"No. Becky's battling anxiety. Thinks people are coming for her. The Deepfake triggered it. Ran from lessons today. Won't risk it."
Damian's buried temper snapped. Cold. Proud.
"You're being selfish. My sister's dying inside because she loves yours. One visit. But you'd rather keep Becky locked like a prisoner than let them heal."
Imani's eyes flashed.
"Selfish? Me? Your family humiliated my sister on camera. Your mother and Ivy turned her into a meme. Now this deepfake everywhere. And you call me selfish for protecting her? You only care about legacy. Shares!"
He laughed. Bitter. Stepped closer. Voice low, venomous.
"And you only care about playing victim. Hiding behind 'family' while you string me along in that suite, almost let me kiss you, then run. Fine. Stay away. But this job? You're stuck five years. I'll make every day hell if I have to. I'll break you the way you're breaking Maya. Watch me."
Words landed hard. The man who once cupped her face in Abuja—gone. Back was arrogant CEO. Mean. Insensitive. Proud.
He turned. Walked away. No more words.
Inside, Imani slid down the door, shaking. Kings found her there. She couldn't speak.
The war wasn't simmering anymore.
It had exploded.