Chapter 42: Ivy's Poison
Banana Island Waterfront Mansion – Grand Ballroom
Wednesday Evening, 8:19 PM
The room glittered like a fever dream.
Thousands of fairy lights draped from the ceiling in cascading waves, turning the lagoon outside into a mirror of stars. Tables groaned under white orchids, gold-rimmed chargers, and crystal flutes that caught every flicker of candlelight. The string quartet had given way to a live jazz trio—soft saxophone weaving through murmured laughter and the clink of champagne.
Guests moved in slow, expensive orbits: board members in bespoke tuxedos, society women in gowns that cost more than most people's rent, influencers snapping discreet stories. Everyone watching. Everyone waiting.
Imani stood beside Damian near the entrance arch of white roses and eucalyptus. Her emerald Aso-Ebi was flawless—tailored to kill, every seam a quiet rebellion against the tightness of the fitting room days ago. She smiled when cameras flashed. Held his arm when protocol demanded. But her pulse never settled.
Damian's hand rested lightly at the small of her back.
Protective.
Possessive.
Silent.
He hadn't spoken more than necessary since he found her asleep at her desk two nights ago.
Since the live feed of her mother's hospital room.
Since the shadow with black onyx cufflinks moved behind the curtain.
They were both pretending tonight was just an engagement party.
They both knew it was a battlefield.
Cross-cut – Cocktail Station
8:24 PM
Ivy approached with two fresh flutes of champagne—pale gold, bubbles rising in perfect spirals.
She offered one to Imani first.
"Welcome drink," she said, voice honeyed. "Elderflower and something special. For the bride-to-be."
Imani looked at the glass.
Then at Ivy's eyes—bright, expectant, unreadable.
The small pressure from yesterday sharpened into something colder.
She took the flute anyway.
Public.
Cameras everywhere.
Refusing would be noticed.
She lifted it in a small toast.
"To new beginnings."
Ivy's smile widened—just a fraction too wide.
"To forever."
They clinked.
Imani sipped.
Once.
Twice.
The taste was sweet.
Floral.
Clean.
Nothing wrong.
She exhaled.
Maybe she had been paranoid.
Cross-cut – Surveillance Sub-Level
8:27 PM
Victor Adeyemi watched the main feed.
Zoomed in on Imani's throat as she swallowed.
The red timer in the corner:
00:04:52 until onset.
He leaned forward.
Murmured to the empty room:
"Small dose. Just enough to make her stumble.
Just enough to make him carry her out like a damsel.
Just enough to make the blogs write what I want them to write."
His finger hovered over the master control.
He didn't need to press anything else.
The poison was already in play.
Back to Ballroom
8:32 PM
The dizziness came slow at first.
A faint sway in the room's edges.
The chandelier lights blurring into soft halos.
Imani blinked hard.
Tried to focus on Damian's profile beside her.
His jaw was tight, scanning the crowd the way he always did now—hunting shadows.
She reached for his arm to steady herself.
Her fingers felt heavy.
Wrong.
"Damian…"
Her voice came out softer than she meant.
Slurred at the edges.
He turned instantly.
Eyes narrowing.
"Imani?"
The room tilted.
She swayed.
His arm caught her waist—fast, instinctive.
Guests nearby turned.
Whispers started.
Imani tried to speak.
"I'm… fine…"
But the word dissolved.
Her knees buckled.
Damian didn't hesitate.
He scooped her up—bridal carry, one arm under her knees, the other cradling her back.
Her head fell against his shoulder.
The ballroom went quiet.
Then—
Murmurs exploded.
Cameras flashed like lightning.
Phones lifted.
Ivy stood near the cocktail station, hand over her mouth in perfect shock.
Temi's face drained of color.
Jude's expression went blank—dangerously blank.
Damian didn't look at any of them.
He carried Imani straight through the crowd.
Guests parted like water.
No one dared speak to him.
He didn't stop until they reached the private corridor beyond the ballroom doors.
The jazz faded behind them.
Only the sound of his shoes on marble and Imani's shallow breathing.
Cross-cut – Private Suite – Master Bedroom
8:41 PM
He laid her gently on the bed.
She was conscious—barely.
Eyes half-open, pupils dilated.
"Damian…" she whispered.
"There is Something… in the drink…"
He knelt beside her.
Hand on her cheek.
"Stay with me."
He pressed the intercom.
"Doctor. Now."
Then—to her, softer—
"I've got you."
Her fingers found his wrist.
Weak grip.
"Don't… leave."
He didn't.
He stayed.
Right there.
Until the doctor arrived.
Cross-cut – Surveillance Sub-Level
8:49 PM
Victor watched the private feed.
Damian kneeling.
Imani's hand on his wrist.
The tenderness.
The fear in his eyes.
Victor's smile was slow.
Satisfied.
He opened a private browser.
Typed a headline into a draft email to three Lagos gossip blogs:
"Pauper Bride Faints at Own Engagement: Too Much Champagne or Too Much Pressure?"
Attached: three high-res photos—Damian carrying Imani out, her head lolling, his face carved with something raw and public.
He hit send.
The blogs would run it within the hour.
The timer hit zero.
He closed the laptop.
Stood.
Adjusted his cufflinks.
Whispered to the dark:
"Phase one complete."
Cross-cut – Master Bedroom
9:03 PM
The doctor finished checking Imani's vitals.
"It a Mild sedative. Probably Rohypnol derivative. She'll sleep it off. No permanent damage."
Damian's voice was flat.
"Find out who did this."
The doctor hesitated.
Then—
"I'll need bloodwork, but… yes. Someone spiked her drink."
Damian nodded once.
Looked down at Imani—already drifting, lashes dark against pale cheeks.
He pulled the covers over her.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
Didn't move.
His phone buzzed.
Notification from a gossip site.
Headline already live:
"Pauper Bride Faints at Own Engagement: Too Much Champagne or Too Much Pressure?"
Photo: Damian carrying her through the crowd.
His face—fierce, protective, terrified.
The caption beneath:
Damian Anderson carries his collapsing fiancée out of their lavish engagement party. Sources say the bride looked "overwhelmed by the elite lifestyle." Is this fairy tale already cracking?
He stared at the screen.
Then at Imani.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not anger.
Decision.
He leaned down.
Pressed his lips to her forehead—soft, brief, real.
Whispered against her skin:
"They don't get to break you."
He stood.
Walked to the door.
Looked back once.
Then stepped into the hallway.
The mansion was quiet now.
But downstairs—
Ivy waited.with a smile on her face
Temi paced.
Jude stared at his phone.
And somewhere in the shadows—
Victor Adeyemi smiled.
Because the scandal wasn't the end.
It was only the invitation.
To the real war.