Chapter 55: The Eve
Anderson Estate, Master Suite
Saturday, 11:47 PM
The silk robe slipped off one shoulder as Imani stood at the balcony doors, the night air cool against her skin. Lagos hummed far below the hill—distant car horns, the low thrum of generators, the occasional bark of a security dog patrolling the perimeter. Inside, the master suite smelled of jasmine from the wedding bouquet someone had placed on the nightstand and the faint trace of Damian's cologne still clinging to the sheets. The bed was untouched. She hadn't sat on it once since they returned from the reception.
Her phone lay face-up on the marble dresser. The screen had gone dark, but the image was burned behind her eyelids: Ivy Lukeman's silver gown, Damian's loosened tie, the VIP suite door clicking shut at 2:10 AM. Timestamped. Unmistakable. She had stared at it for twenty minutes straight after the last guest left, thumb hovering over delete, then pulling back every time.
It's nothing, she told herself. He blacked out. He said so. But the doubt was a small, sharp pebble in her shoe—manageable, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the way Ivy had purred at the dessert station earlier: Enjoy him while you can. The words had felt like a joke then. Now they felt like prophecy.
She wrapped her arms around herself, nails pressing crescents into her upper arms. The gown was long gone, replaced by this thin robe, but the weight of the day still pressed on her chest. The vows. The fireworks. Damian's forehead against hers while the sky exploded. His voice—I've got you—had felt like armor. Now the armor had a hairline crack, and she hated how quickly her mind had run to it.
A soft knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Imani startled, heart slamming against her ribs. She glanced at the phone again, then slid it face-down beneath a throw pillow before crossing the room.
"Come in."
The door opened. Damian stood there in the low hallway light, white tuxedo jacket gone, black bow tie dangling loose around his open collar. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, the same way they'd been on the rooftop the night everything had blurred for him. His eyes found hers immediately—soft, searching, a little raw.
"Hey," he said, voice low. "You disappeared after the last dance. I thought maybe the fireworks got to you again."
She forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just… unwinding. It was a lot."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. The sound felt final, like the rest of the world had been locked out. He crossed to her slowly, giving her space, but his gaze never left her face. When he stopped an arm's length away, she could smell the faint whiskey on his breath from the toasts and the warmer scent of his skin underneath.
"You've been quiet since the balcony," he murmured. "Talk to me."
Imani's throat tightened. She wanted to show him the photo. She wanted to demand answers. Instead she heard herself say, "I'm fine. Really. Just… processing."
Damian studied her a beat longer than comfortable. Then he reached out, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted, and brushed a loose curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered at the shell of her ear, thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
"I don't know how to do this without you," he said. The words came out rough, like they'd been waiting all day. "Not the fake part anymore. Not the arrangement. This. Us. Waking up next to you, knowing you chose me even when you didn't have to. I keep thinking about the vows and how they didn't feel scripted at the end. They felt like… breathing."
Her chest ached. She stepped closer without meaning to, until the heat of him bled through the thin robe. His hands settled on her waist, thumbs stroking small circles over the silk. The touch was gentle, reverent, but she felt the tremor in his fingers—the same micro-tension she carried.
"I burned for you tonight," he continued, voice dropping. "Watching you walk down that aisle. Watching Maya and Becky lose their minds dancing with you. Watching you laugh at Gregory's terrible jokes. Every second I was thinking, She's mine. For real. Not because of contracts or threats. Because you stayed."
Imani's breath hitched. She lifted her hands to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the dress shirt. "Damian…"
He leaned in, forehead resting against hers the way it had during the fireworks. Their noses brushed. She could taste the faint salt of his skin when she exhaled. The almost-kiss hung between them—warm, inevitable, electric. His lips parted, hovering a breath away from hers, and she felt her body lean in, traitorously eager despite the doubt still coiled in her stomach.
Then—
A sharp knock rattled the bedroom door.
They both froze.
Damian pulled back half an inch, eyes still locked on her mouth. "Ignore it," he whispered, the words warm against her lips.
The knock came again. Harder. Insistent.
Imani's pulse spiked. She stepped back, smoothing her robe, the moment fracturing like glass. "It might be Maya or Becky. They were wired after the cake."
Damian exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, but he nodded once and crossed to the door. He opened it a crack.
A young house steward stood outside, uniform crisp even at this hour, eyes carefully averted. "Forgive the interruption, Mr. Anderson. Mrs. Anderson… there's a guest at the private garden entrance. She says it's urgent. Personal. She asked specifically for the new Mrs. Anderson. Alone."
Imani's stomach dropped. She already knew.
Damian frowned. "At this hour? Who—"
The steward hesitated. "Miss Ivy Lukeman, sir. She said she left something important in the bridal suite earlier and only just realized. She didn't want to disturb the family but… she insisted."
Damian's shoulders tensed. "Tell her we'll handle it in the morning."
But Imani was already moving. "No," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "I'll see her."
Damian turned, eyes narrowing. "Imani—"
She touched his arm, squeezing once. The gesture was meant to reassure, but her fingers trembled. "It's fine. Probably just wedding nonsense. I'll be quick."
He searched her face, the earlier softness hardening into quiet concern. Whatever he saw there made him nod, but his jaw flexed. "Two minutes. Then I'm coming to find you."
She kissed his cheek—quick, almost guilty—and slipped past him into the hallway.
Cross-cut – Anderson Estate, Private Garden Fountain
Saturday, 11:58 PM
The garden was a hush of shadows and silver moonlight. Water trickled from the marble fountain at the center, the sound too soft to cover the distant security patrol cars circling the perimeter. Palm fronds rustled overhead like whispered secrets. Ivy Lukeman waited on the stone bench beside the fountain, legs crossed, silver gown from the reception traded for a sleek black jumpsuit that looked poured on. A single diamond choker caught the light when she turned her head.
She smiled when Imani appeared on the path—slow, predatory, all teeth.
"Mrs. Anderson," Ivy drawled, rising smoothly. "How domestic. Already playing housewife in the big estate."
Imani stopped three feet away, arms loose at her sides even though every muscle screamed to clench. The night air felt heavier here, thick with jasmine and the faint metallic edge of coming rain. She could still feel Damian's almost-kiss on her lips like a brand.
"What do you want, Ivy?"
Ivy's laugh was soft, surprised. She tilted her head, studying Imani the way one might study a painting that had suddenly developed opinions. "Straight to it. No pleasantries. Interesting." She took one step closer, heels silent on the stone. "I thought the little name of being Mrs. Anderson had gotten to your head. Guess I was right."
Imani didn't flinch. "You sent the photo."
"Of course I did." Ivy's voice dropped, honey over broken glass. "And there's more where that came from. Thirty seconds of your brand-new husband moaning your name while he was too drunk to know whose bed he was in. Victor has the full file now. He's very… invested."
The name landed like a stone in still water. Imani's pulse kicked, but she kept her chin high. Small pressure, she reminded herself. Manageable. Uncomfortable. She could still walk away.
"You're pathetic," Imani said quietly. "Hiding behind Victor like a scared little girl. You've wanted Damian for years and he still chose me. In front of five hundred people. In front of the whole city. So go ahead—send your little video. Leak it. I'll stand next to him at the press conference and tell them exactly how drunk you got him and exactly how desperate you looked doing it."
Ivy's smile faltered for the first time. Just a flicker—eyes widening a fraction, lips parting—but it was there. Shock. Real, fleeting shock. She recovered in half a heartbeat, stepping so close Imani could smell her sharp, expensive perfume.
"Oh," Ivy breathed, almost laughing. "So the little Mrs. Anderson title has gone to your head. Cute." Her voice hardened. "But titles don't stop bullets, darling. And they don't stop hospital beds from tilting over balconies. Ask your mother how that feels."
Imani's hands curled into fists at her sides. Body tension sang through her—shoulders tight, breath shallow—but she leaned in instead of back. "Touch my mother again and I'll make sure Victor's next safe house is a prison cell with my name on the visitor log. I'm not the scared girl you think I am anymore. I have the Anderson name now. And I know how to use it."
For three full seconds neither woman spoke. The fountain trickled on, indifferent. Somewhere in the trees a night bird called once and fell silent.
Ivy's eyes narrowed, calculating. "You're making a mistake."
"No," Imani said. "You are."
She turned on her heel and started back toward the house, heart hammering so hard she felt it in her teeth. The small pressure had just become a crack in the dam. She could feel it widening.
Cross-cut – Anderson Estate, Master Suite
Saturday, 12:04 AM
Damian paced the length of the bedroom, phone in hand, jaw set. The almost-kiss still burned behind his ribs—warm, unfinished, aching. He kept replaying the way Imani's eyes had flicked to the pillow when the steward knocked. Something was wrong. He could taste it.
He stopped at the dresser, lifted the throw pillow, and froze.
Imani's phone lay there, screen still open to the message. The photo glowed up at him—his own face, Ivy's silver dress, the VIP suite door.
His stomach dropped.
He stared at the timestamp. 2:10 AM. The exact stretch of night that was still a black hole in his memory.
The bedroom door opened behind him.
Imani stepped in, closing it softly. Her face was calm, but he saw the flush high on her cheeks and the way her hands trembled once before she tucked them into the robe pockets.
"Everything okay?" he asked. The question came out too careful.
She nodded too quickly. "Just Ivy being Ivy. Wedding drama. It's handled."
Damian held up her phone. The screen lit his face from below, casting shadows under his eyes. "This doesn't look handled."
Imani's gaze dropped to the photo. For a second her expression fractured—hurt, anger, fear—all of it raw. Then she lifted her chin the same way she had in the garden.
"I was going to tell you," she said. "After the fireworks. After the dancing. After… us."
He set the phone down slowly. The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hoarse. "Did it happen?"
The delay was tiny—but Imani caught it. The same eye he'd given her earlier when she'd asked if he remembered the bachelor night.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I blacked out. I told you that. But I swear to you, Imani, if anything happened it wasn't because I wanted it. I was talking about you that night. Only you. My friends will tell you the same if you asked them."
She searched his face. The love she saw there was real—naked, desperate, terrified of losing her. Her own chest tightened with the decision forming behind her ribs: I choose us. Even now. Especially now.
She crossed the room and took his hands, threading their fingers the way they had at the altar. "Then we fight it together. No more secrets. No more half-truths. Whatever Victor and Ivy and—" She stopped, the name hovering unspoken between them like smoke. "Whoever is behind this, we face it as husband and wife. Real ones."
Damian pulled her into his chest, arms locking around her like he could shield her from the entire night. His heartbeat was frantic against her ear. "I don't deserve you," he whispered into her hair. "But I'm keeping you anyway."
They stood like that, bodies pressed tight, the almost-kiss from minutes ago still hovering, unfinished. The tension between them shifted—still sweet, now edged with something fiercer. Protective. Unbreakable.
Then Imani's phone buzzed on the dresser.
Once.
Twice.
A third time—sharp, insistent.
They both turned.
The screen lit up with a new message from an unknown number. No text. Just a video thumbnail. Thirty seconds long. The still frame showed Damian's face, eyes half-closed, lips moving against someone's neck in the dim VIP suite light. The timestamp blinked in red: 2:13 AM.
Below the thumbnail, three words appeared in stark white text:
Live in 60 seconds.
Imani's blood turned to ice.
Damian's arms tightened around her, but neither of them moved. The phone kept buzzing—counting down—while outside the balcony doors the Lagos night pressed closer, shadows lengthening across the marble floor like fingers reaching for the light.
The video began to play automatically.
And the screen filled with Damian's voice—slurred, confused, murmuring a name that wasn't Imani's.