Chapter 2: Welcome to Hell
Twenty-four hours felt like twenty-four minutes.
Imani didn't sleep.
She lay awake in the Surulere flat she shared with Becky and Aunty Rose, staring at the thin crack running across the ceiling while the neighbour's generator hummed through the wall like a mosquito that wouldn't die.
At some point she cried.
Quietly.
The kind of crying where you press your fist into your mouth so nobody hears and comes to ask questions you don't have the strength to answer.
Mama's hospital bill was due in three weeks.
Becky had JAMB coming up.
The private tutor wanted his balance before the next lesson.
Aunty Rose's provision shop had barely made enough last month to cover their garri and kerosene.
Quitting wasn't an option.
Pride didn't pay physiotherapy invoices.
—
By 7:30 a.m. she was back at Anderson Group Tower on Victoria Island wearing the same navy dress.
Washed.
Ironed twice.
The zip had almost spoiled before she forced it up.
The lobby security man recognised her this time.
"Ah, Madam PA," he said with something like pity. "Na you dem carry go meet oga yesterday abi?"
She nodded.
He sucked his teeth.
"That one no dey smile o. E go hard."
Upstairs, the executive floor was colder than necessary.
The kind of cold that reminded you somebody was paying NEPA bills you could never afford.
The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels. The air smelled faintly of espresso and citrus polish. Somebody's cologne drifted past — sharp, expensive, unfamiliar.
A receptionist with flawless makeup looked up from behind a glass desk.
"Miss Bright? Mr. Anderson is expecting you."
Of course he was.
She knocked once.
"Come."
Velvet over steel.
Damian didn't look up when she entered.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched behind him, the morning haze hanging over the lagoon like heat waiting to happen. His desk was black marble. Not laminate pretending to be marble — actual stone.
The kind that could clear Becky's tuition for two semesters.
"Close the door," he said.
She did.
"Coffee. Black. No sugar. Kitchenette is through there." He gestured without glancing at her. "Then my schedule for the day. Printed. On my desk. By 8:15."
A beat.
"No typos."
Another.
"No excuses."
Imani swallowed.
"Good morning, sir."
Now he looked up.
"Is it?"
She bit the inside of her cheek and turned toward the kitchenette.
The coffee machine alone could probably replace Mama's wheelchair.
Her hands stayed steady anyway.
When she placed the cup on his desk, he leaned back slightly.
"Sit."
There was only one chair opposite him.
She sat.
Spine straight.
He took one sip.
Nodded once.
Then pushed a thick folder toward her.
"These are the merger documents with Zenith Luxury Homes. Summarise the key risks and opportunities. Twenty pages max."
Her stomach dipped.
Twenty—
"On my desk by noon," he finished. "After that, you'll sit in on every meeting today. Take notes."
He paused.
"No speaking unless I ask you something."
Imani nodded once.
"And Miss Bright?"
He leaned forward slightly.
Close enough that she caught the scent of sandalwood beneath his aftershave.
"If you ever question my decisions in front of my staff again—"
His voice dropped.
"—you won't just be demoted. You'll be unemployed."
A beat.
"And in this city?"
His gaze held hers.
"Good luck finding another job that pays enough for whatever desperate reason you're swallowing your pride for."
Her fingers curled into her palms.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
"I won't quit," she said quietly.
Something shifted in his expression.
Gone before she could name it.
"We'll see how long that lasts."
He waved a hand.
"Go."
—
By 11:47 a.m. the printer jammed.
By 11:49 Outlook refused to send her attachment.
By 11:52 the network froze.
By 11:56 she was ready to fling the system unit through the glass wall.
By 11:59 the summary printed.
At exactly noon she placed it on his desk.
He read in silence.
Turned one page.
Then another.
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Meeting room," he said. "Now."
—
The executive boardroom was already packed.
Senior managers.
Investors dialling in from London.
Andrea — head of operations — gave her a quick nod as she slipped into the assistant's chair in the corner.
Damian took the head seat.
The meeting dragged.
Projections.
Risk exposure.
One manager started to explain a compliance concern.
"—if the regulatory body decides to—"
"Next," Damian cut in.
The man stopped mid-sentence.
Imani's pen flew across the page.
Halfway through, Damian's phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
His jaw tightened again.
"Ivy," he muttered.
Imani pretended not to hear.
—
After the meeting ended, she reached the door.
"Miss Bright."
She paused.
"Stay."
Her pulse stumbled.
He stood slowly and walked toward her until she had to tilt her head up to maintain eye contact.
"You did well on the summary."
The compliment landed wrong.
Like something she wasn't meant to keep.
"But don't get comfortable," he continued. "This—" he gestured between them "—is temporary."
Her throat tightened.
"You're here because you challenged me."
His gaze dropped briefly — to her mouth — before returning to her eyes.
"You'll leave when I decide you've learned your place."
"And what is my place, sir?"
A pause.
"Beneath me," he said softly. "Figuratively speaking."
Heat crawled up her neck.
Not fear.
Anger.
Something worse.
She stepped back.
"I'll remember that."
"Good."
He turned away.
"Be back at 7 p.m. Dinner meeting at Eko Hotel & Suites."
A beat.
"You'll drive."
—
At 7:00 p.m. exactly, he slid into the passenger seat of the Range Rover.
"Don't speak to anyone unless I introduce you," he said.
"Yes, sir."
Traffic crawled through Victoria Island — hawkers weaving between cars, brake lights reflecting off last night's rainwater trapped in potholes.
Ten minutes passed in silence.
Then:
"Why do you need the money so badly?"
Her grip tightened on the wheel.
"Personal."
"Everything about you is personal to me now."
She stared straight ahead.
"My mother," she said finally. "She's not well."
Silence.
"And your sister?"
"I told you—"
"I know things."
She exhaled.
"Becky. She deserves better than this life."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"You're… carrying too much."
The hesitation surprised her more than the words.
She laughed once.
"Someone has to."
He turned to look at her.
"For how long?"
She didn't answer.
—
At the hotel entrance, the valet took the keys.
Damian offered his arm.
She hesitated.
"Take it," he murmured. "Or they'll think you're the help."
Her stomach dropped.
She slipped her hand through his arm anyway.
Inside, heads turned.
Whispers followed.
"The Nigerian Prince…"
In the lift, alone, he leaned closer.
"Tonight, you're invisible. Observe. Learn. And whatever you do—"
The doors opened.
Ivy Lukeman stood waiting in red.
Her smile widened when she saw Imani on Damian's arm.
"—don't let her see you bleed."