A LITTLE LESS DISTANCE
Monday morning arrived with its usual corporate friction—telephones drilling into the ears of tired employees, heels clicking sharply against polished terrazzo, and the collective groan of a workforce dragging itself back into the weekly routine.
Chisimdi always made it a point to beat the rush.
Up on the executive floor, the air was different before eight AM.
Cooler.
Quieter.
She cherished these few stolen minutes, sitting at her desk with a steaming mug of tea cradled between her palms, scrolling through Damian’s digital calendar, and stacking the morning’s urgent files into neat, uncompromising geometric shapes.
She had just tapped the corner of the final report into place when the distinct click of his office door echoed through the empty hallway.
Her fingers froze over the keyboard.
She didn’t lift her head.
Over the past few weeks, she had mastered the delicate art of peripheral vision—pretending to be deeply fascinated by a spreadsheet while every nerve ending in her body tracked his approach.
“Good morning, Chisimdi.”
The deep rumble of his voice came from right beside her desk, vibrating through the quiet space.
Chisimdi forced a polite, perfectly measured smile onto her face before looking up to meet his gaze.
Damian was standing there, a leather-bound folder tucked securely under his arm.
“Good morning, Mr.
Adetola.” She kept her tone crisp, corporate, and entirely professional before immediately dropping her eyes back to the glowing monitor.
Damian didn’t move.
Her casual indifference caught him like a sudden draft in a warm room.
He stood there, studying the smooth slope of her jaw, looking for any sign of the tension that had plagued him all weekend.
She wasn’t flustered.
Her breathing was steady, her fingers already clicking away at the keys as if he were just another piece of office furniture.
She looked perfectly normal.
It should have been a relief.
Instead, a sharp, uninvited prick of irritation flared in his chest.
“Did you review the documents I sent on Friday?” He set the folder down on the edge of her desk, the heavy thud interrupting her rhythm.
“Yes.” Chisimdi reached smoothly for a folder beside her keyboard, flipping it open with a practiced snap of her wrist.
“I marked the specific sections that require your final clarification.”
She extended the folder toward him, her gaze remaining fixed on the tab of the file rather than his face.
Damian took it, his fingers brushing against hers for a fraction of a second.
His eyes lingered on her downturned eyelashes, searching.
“Anything else?”
She shook her head, her braids shifting over her shoulder.
“Not from what I saw.”
He offered a curt nod, turning on his heel to head back to his sanctuary.
He made it exactly two paces before his boots came to a sudden halt against the floor.
“Chisimdi.”
Her head tilted up again, her pen hovering an inch above her notepad.
Damian kept his expression locked behind his usual stoic mask, but his dark eyes tightened, betraying a sudden, internal conflict.
“Have you had breakfast?”
The sudden shift from corporate to personal caught her off guard.
Chisimdi blinked, her gaze automatically drifting to the porcelain mug near her elbow.
“I’m drinking tea.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of her lips, breaking her professional facade.
“I’ll eat later.”
“Later usually means you forget.”
Chisimdi arched a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow, leaning back slightly in her chair.
“You seem to know a lot about my eating habits, Mr.
Adetola.”
“I’ve noticed you.”
The admission cut through the air before he could deploy his usual filters.
An abrupt, heavy silence crashed down between them.
Damian’s jaw clenched so hard a small muscle ticked beneath his skin.
He wanted to pull the words back the moment they left his mouth.
Chisimdi stared at him, her breath catching in her throat for one heartbeat, then two.
Under his intense gaze, she quickly dropped her eyes back to the documents, her cheeks warming.
“I’ll eat,” she murmured, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
Damian gave a single, tight nod and walked back into his office without another word, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft click.
The moment the latch engaged, Chisimdi let out the breath she’d been holding, a wide, genuine smile breaking across her face.
She pressed her palms against her cheeks, wondering why a stupid, brief exchange about breakfast was making her heart race.
It was nothing.
Just a boss checking on an assistant.
Yet, her eyes kept drifting back to that closed mahogany door, refusing to let her focus on the screen.
He didn’t sit down.
He just stood there, staring blankly at the wall, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
I’ve noticed you.
He closed his eyes, cursing himself silently.
That was exactly the threshold he had sworn he wouldn’t cross.
He had spent forty-eight hours over the weekend drilling reality into his own head, reminding himself of the invisible, bloody line drawn between their families.
The Nwankwos and the Adetolas didn’t mix.
His father’s ruined reputation, Emeka’s tragic death, and the weight of the past were too heavy to ignore just because his assistant had a pretty smile.
She was just an employee.
The daughter of a man who represented a dark chapter in his family’s history.
Nothing more.
He repeated the mantra until it should have felt like truth.
It still felt like a lie.
A light, rhythmic knock rattled his door.
“Come in.”
Chisimdi stepped through the opening, holding a fresh, blue folder against her chest like a shield.
“You asked for the revised schedule.”
Damian straightened his posture, throwing up his usual emotional walls.
“I did.”
She crossed the room with fluid, unhurried steps, placing the folder directly in front of him.
“I also pushed the meeting with the suppliers to Thursday morning.
They sent a confirmation email a few minutes ago.”
He flipped the folder open, his eyes scanning the neatly typed rows.
“You remembered.”
“I wrote it down.”
His eyes snapped up, meeting hers.
Chisimdi offered a small, playful smirk, tilting her head.
“I’m your administrative assistant.
Remember?”
The teasing note in her voice acted like a release valve, instantly draining the suffocating tension from his chest.
A faint huff of laughter escaped him.
“Unfortunately, I do.”
Chisimdi laughed softly, a bright, melodic sound that seemed to linger in the corners of the room long after it faded.
She turned to leave, her skirt swirling around her knees, but before Damian could stop himself, his voice cut through the space again.
“Chisimdi.”
She stopped, pivoting on her heel to look back over her shoulder, her eyes curious.
For a second, the urge to tell her to stay—to just sit across from him and talk about anything other than work—almost choked him.
He looked down at the schedule instead, his fingers tightening on the edge of the paper.
“Nothing.”
Her lips curved into a knowing smile.
“You do that a lot.”
Damian looked up, defensive but intrigued.
“Do what?”
“Call my name and then suddenly decide you have absolutely nothing to say.”
There was no heat in her tone.
Her eyes were bright, dancing with amusement as she openly teased the most feared executive in the building.
For the first time in his career, Damian didn’t mind the insubordination.
“Maybe I’m still deciding.”
“Then decide quickly next time.” She gave him one last, lingering smile before slipping out the door.
As the latch clicked shut, Damian leaned back into his leather chair.
A slow, unprompted smile spread across his face—the first genuine one in days.
The days that followed shifted into a different rhythm.
Not easy, but lighter.
Whenever other staff members were around, the distance between them returned like an iron curtain.
Damian kept his voice formal, calling her into his office only when necessary, and Chisimdi never lingered a second longer than the job required.
But the moment the floor cleared and they were left alone, the air changed.
A few words exchanged by the coffee machine.
A shared, knowing glance across a meeting room.
Small, unspoken milestones that neither of them dared to acknowledge out loud.
On Wednesday afternoon, Chisimdi was standing by the heavy-duty printer at the end of the hall, aggressively tapping the digital screen.
The machine had apparently decided to take a report hostage, displaying a flashing red error light.
Hearing footsteps, she glanced over her shoulder to see Damian walking past.
He slowed down, his eyes darting from her frustrated expression to the blinking machine. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“Don’t,” Chisimdi warned, pointing a finger at him.
His mouth twitched, a dimple threatening to appear.
“I haven’t said a word.”
“You’re about to.”
Damian stepped closer, his expensive cologne overriding the scent of warm toner and paper.
He looked down at the jammed machine, then back at her flustered face.
“You’re losing an argument with a piece of office hardware.”
“I’m not losing.
We are currently negotiating.”
Right on cue, the printer emitted a loud, violent grinding sound.
Chisimdi glared at the plastic casing as if she could burn a hole through it.
Damian folded his arms across his chest, his shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed amusement.
She pointed a finger at him again.
“Do not laugh.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You are actively about to.”
“I am heavily considering it, yes.”
She rolled her eyes, turning her back to him to face her mechanical enemy.
“You can go, Mr.
Adetola.
I have this entirely under control.”
He didn’t move an inch.
“Step aside.”
“I can fix—”
“Move, Chisimdi.”
She stepped back, huffing.
Damian stepped into her space, his hands moving with surprising efficiency.
He bypassed the digital screen, pressed two hidden latches on the side, and swung the main panel open.
Within three seconds, his fingers located the crumpled paper, pulling it free with a smooth, satisfying slide.
Chisimdi stared at the pristine report now resting in his hand.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Several times.”
“So the fearsome Managing Director has a secret, late-night feud with the floor printer too?”
He handed the warm pages to her, his fingers brushing hers again.
“This machine has a personal vendetta against the entire board of directors.”
Chisimdi burst out laughing.
Damian watched her tap the edges of the report against her thigh to straighten them.
For a long moment, neither of them made a move to break the distance between them.
The hallway felt incredibly small.
Then, she looked up, her eyes soft.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She smiled.
He smiled back.
And that was it.
Just a five-minute interaction by a supply closet.
Yet, as Damian walked back toward his office, a unsettling thought crept into his mind—he had enjoyed those five frustrated minutes with her more than any high-stakes corporate meeting he’d sat through all week.
He forced the thought down before it could take root.
He knew how attraction worked.
It rarely arrived with a grand announcement or a crash of thunder.
Usually, it sneaked in through the back door.
It crept into the specific smile you started scanning a crowded room for.
It settled into the tone of a voice you could pick out of a noisy hallway.
It manifested as a strange, hollow disappointment the exact moment a person walked out of your sight.
Damian didn’t want any of it.
Especially not with a Nwankwo.
But as his hand gripped his office doorknob, his head turned against his will.
Chisimdi was still standing by the printer, leaning against the wall as she flipped through the freed report, a lingering, happy smile playing on her lips.
He looked away, his chest tightening.
It was already too late.
He had noticed her, and there was no going back.