Chapter 3: First Blood
The executive floor smelled like money and malice the next morning.
Imani arrived at 7:15 a.m.—fifteen minutes early, because Damian had not specified a start time, and she refused to give him the satisfaction of tardiness. Her navy dress from yesterday had been swapped for a charcoal blouse and black pencil skirt she'd bought second-hand from Balogun Market last year. Still professional. Still hers.
The receptionist's smile was tighter today.
"Mr. Anderson is already in," she said, eyes flicking toward the glass door like she was warning Imani of a storm.
Imani nodded once and walked past without another word.
Inside Damian's office, the blackout blinds were half-drawn against the morning glare off the lagoon. He sat behind the black marble desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, scrolling through something on his tablet. The sleeves revealed forearms corded with quiet strength—something she hadn't noticed before and immediately wished she hadn't.
He didn't look up.
"Coffee."
Same word. Same tone.
She moved to the kitchenette without protest. The machine hissed like it was annoyed too.
When she placed the cup down, he finally glanced at her.
"You're early."
"Punctuality is free, sir."
A flicker—amusement? Irritation?—crossed his face before it smoothed away.
"Sit. We have a visitor arriving in ten minutes. You'll take notes. Silently."
She sat in the same chair from yesterday, notepad ready, pen poised.
Silence stretched.
Then the door opened without a knock.
Ivy Lukeman swept in like she owned the carpet.
Red wrap dress that hugged every curve, gold heels that clicked like gunshots, hair swept into a high ponytail that swung with calculated drama. She carried the scent of something floral and expensive—probably imported from Paris—and a smile that could cut glass.
"Dami."
The nickname landed soft, intimate, possessive.
Damian leaned back in his chair.
"Ivy. You're early too."
She laughed—a light, tinkling sound that didn't reach her eyes.
"I couldn't wait to see you. London was boring without my favorite distraction."
Her gaze slid to Imani then, slow and assessing.
"And this is…?"
"Miss Bright," Damian said flatly. "My temporary personal assistant."
Ivy's smile widened.
"Temporary. How… reassuring."
She crossed the room, hips swaying, and perched on the edge of Damian's desk like it was a throne. Close enough that her knee brushed his arm.
Imani kept her eyes on the notepad. Wrote: Ivy Lukeman – arrived 7:55 a.m. – unannounced.
"I brought you something," Ivy said, pulling a small velvet box from her clutch. "Just a little welcome-back gift from Milan."
She opened it. A pair of cufflinks—black onyx set in white gold. Simple. Expensive.
Damian glanced at them.
"Thoughtful."
He didn't take them.
Ivy's smile didn't falter.
"You can thank me properly later." Her eyes flicked to Imani again. "Alone."
Imani's pen scratched harder against the paper.
Damian exhaled through his nose.
"Miss Bright is here for work, Ivy. Not entertainment."
Ivy laughed again.
"Of course. I'm sure she's very… efficient."
The word dripped.
Imani felt heat crawl up her neck but kept writing. Cufflinks presented. Declined?
Ivy leaned closer to Damian, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"I heard the strangest thing at the club last night. Someone said you demoted a marketer to PA because she talked back in the boardroom." She tilted her head toward Imani without looking at her. "Is that true, Dami? You? Losing patience with a little nobody?"
Damian's jaw ticked.
"Office matters stay in the office."
Ivy pouted.
"But gossip is so much more fun outside it."
She straightened, smoothing her dress.
"Anyway, I'm hosting a small thing at my place this weekend. Banana Island. You should come. Bring your… assistant if you must." Her eyes finally locked on Imani's. "Careful, darling. Girls like you disappear around Damian."
The words hung.
Imani met her gaze steadily.
"I'm not planning on disappearing, ma'am."
Ivy's smile sharpened.
"Ma'am? How polite."
She turned back to Damian.
"Saturday. Eight. Don't be late."
She left without waiting for an answer, heels clicking down the corridor like retreating gunfire.
The door closed.
Silence returned, heavier now.
Damian stared at the spot where she'd been.
Imani waited.
Finally, he spoke.
"You handled that well."
It wasn't praise. Not quite.
She lifted her chin.
"I've dealt with worse."
He studied her for a long moment—long enough that the air felt thinner.
"People like Ivy don't deal in worse. They create it."
Imani closed her notepad.
"Then I'll deal with that too."
Something shifted in his expression. Not softness. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition.
He stood.
"Get the merger files ready for the 10 a.m. call. And Miss Bright?"
She stood too.
"Yes, sir?"
"Stay out of her way."
He walked past her toward the door, pausing just behind her shoulder.
His voice dropped.
"And don't let her see you bleed."
The echo of last night's warning.
He left.
Imani exhaled slowly.
Her hands were steady.
But her pulse wasn't.
—
Damian's POV
He didn't go far.
Just to the corridor, where he could lean against the wall and pretend he was checking his phone.
Ivy's perfume still lingered in his office like smoke.
And Imani Bright still sat at his desk, head bent over files, braids falling forward like a curtain.
He watched her through the glass.
Watched the way her shoulders stayed straight even after Ivy's exit.
Watched the way her fingers moved—precise, careful, like she was handling something fragile.
He hated how it interested him.
She was nothing.
A temporary inconvenience.
A smart mouth wrapped in quiet desperation.
So why did Ivy's warning to her feel like a personal insult?
He pushed off the wall.
Back to work.
But the image stayed.
Imani Bright.
Not disappearing.
Not bleeding.
Not yet.
—
Back in the office, Imani opened the merger folder.
Her phone buzzed once—Becky's text.
JAMB mock today. Pray for me sis. Love you.
She typed back quickly.
You've got this. Love you more. Call me after.
Then she looked up.
The cufflinks box still sat on Damian's desk.
Untouched.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
But the day had just started.
And hell, she was learning, had many rooms.
Hook:
At 9:58 a.m., as she prepared the conference call, Sarian slipped past her desk and whispered loud enough for half the floor to hear:
"Careful, PA. Word's already out—you're the new flavor of the month. How long before he gets bored and tosses you back to marketing?"
Imani's pen froze.
Across the room, Damian's office door opened.
He heard.