She rose from her bed and moved toward the window. The moonlight spilled across her room, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and the books scattered across her desk. Her notes, clippings, and recordings filled every corner—her private archive of questions with no answers.
Some nights, the weight of her obsession suffocated her. She wondered if she was chasing shadows, if she was doomed to live her life digging into graves no one wanted opened. But then she would look at the photo again, and the fire inside her would reignite.
Menalla was not like everyone else. She could not be.
And she would not rest until justice is served.
---
The Elizur mansion stood like a monument to wealth and legacy. Its iron gates gleamed under the morning sun, stretching open as if bowing in reverence to its heir. The estate itself was a fortress of luxury grand pillars rose from polished marble steps, fountains danced in choreographed streams, and the gardens were sculpted with almost unnatural perfection.
For any visitor, it was a paradise. For Damian Elizur, it was his home the only one he knows gilded with gold.
That morning, Damian dressed in silence. His room was filled with expensive trinkets a chandelier that glittered even without sunlight, velvet curtains heavy enough to drown sound, and a row of suits that could each buy a small house. He chose a shining brown suit, its fabric catching the light like liquid bronze. His shoes, made of the finest Italian leather, reflected his face when he bent down to tie them. He adjusted his tie slowly, as though every knot was a battle with the man he saw in the mirror.
When he finally stepped out, six maids were already waiting in the corridor. They stood in perfect alignment, their heads bowed, their voices unified:
"Good morning, Boss."
Damian only offered them a curt nod. He had no patience for rehearsed loyalty, no strength to smile at faces paid to admire him. Without breaking stride, he walked past them, his footsteps echoing through the mansion's grand hallway.
The air smelled faintly of lilies and polished wood, a fragrance that made his stomach tighten. This house held too many memories, too many ghosts whispering in the silence.
When he reached the main sitting room, he froze.
There, lounging across a velvet couch, was Abigail.
She wore a dark, short dress that clung to her like a second skin. The neckline plunged lower than decency should allow, and her lips were painted in a shade that burned like wine. She crossed her legs slowly, deliberately, her every movement a silent invitation.
Damian's jaw tightened.
Abigail had once been the woman he thought he loved, the woman for whom he had sacrificed years of his freedom. And now she was the wife of his father.
"Good morning, Damian," she purred, her voice dripping with sweetness that felt poisonous to his ears.
He didn't respond immediately. His eyes darted to the file in her hands, its edges sharp against the crimson of her nails. Bold letters across the cover read: STOCK FIRM.
"Mr. Jacob has long left for the office," she said, rising gracefully. "But he asked me to give this to you."
She held the file out, but when Damian reached for it, her hand didn't release it. Instead, she tightened her grip, letting her fingers brush against his. Their eyes locked, hers glimmering with mischief, his hard and guarded.
A silence stretched between them, thick enough to suffocate.
Finally, Damian pulled the file free, his voice low but sharp.
"Thank you."
Abigail tilted her head, a sly smile curving her lips. "That's all? No smile? No warmth? You used to look at me differently, Damian. You used to…"
"Enough." His tone cut her like glass.
She chuckled softly, unfazed, and leaned closer. "You can pretend all you want, but we both know history doesn't die that easily. You and i… (she pause) and then look into his eyes and in a low voice spoke out "I am still in love with you Damian and I never forgot you not once"
Damian's hand tightened on the file. He wanted to say something—anything—to push her away, to erase the twisted web she had spun around his family. But his throat burned with words he couldn't release. He turned sharply and walked away, his footsteps heavy against the marble floor.
---
Damian carried the file into his study, slamming it onto the desk with more force than necessary. He sat down, burying his face in his hands. The scent of Abigail's perfume still lingered on his skin where she had touched him, and it made his stomach churn.
He opened the file, scanning its contents reports, numbers, projections of the Stock Firm's future. The empire his family had built over generations. The empire he was expected to inherit.
But his mind was not on the pages. His thoughts drifted back to his mother.
"Family is everything, Damian," she had once told him. "Business is good, wealth is powerful, but without family, all of it is dust."
He clenched his fists. What family do I have left now, Mother? His father had married the woman he once loved. His mother was gone. His own heart was a battlefield between duty and betrayal.
And yet, he knew one thing: he could not walk away. Not from the Stock Firm. Not from the Elizur name. His mother's voice was etched into his bones, and abandoning it would be abandoning her.
But if Abigail thought she could twist her way into both his father's life and his, she was mistaken. Damian swore silently, I will not be your pawn. Not anymore.
---
The faint clatter of plates echoed through the stillness of dawn. Somewhere downstairs, porcelain met porcelain with a sharp crack, followed by the muffled groan of an old woman.
Menalla's eyes snapped open.
She lay still for a moment, listening. Sometimes it was the sound of spoons clinking against pots. Sometimes the squeal of the rusty tap that never seemed to stop leaking. This morning, it was the crash of plates familiar, harmless, and yet a reminder that she had overslept,
Menalla turned her head toward the old clock on the nightstand. Her stomach tightened when she saw the time.
7:15 a.m.
"Oh, no." She bolted upright, her hair tumbling around her face. Panic coursed through her veins like electricity.
Her office opened at 8:30 a.m. sharp, and the journey from her grandmother's town to the city was a battlefield against traffic and time. She normally woke before six to make the trip manageable. But now? She was late, and being late wasn't something she allowed herself. Not when her credibility as a reporter already dangled by a thread.
"Not again," she muttered, swinging her legs off the bed.
The room was large but old, a relic of better times. The wallpaper was a pale shade of blue that had faded into gray, peeling at the corners. The furniture was sturdy oak but dulled with age. A grand piano stood in one corner, its surface covered in scratches, its keys taped with strips of pink and blue paper where the ivory had chipped away. Beside it leaned an electric guitar, its strings rusted, its body patched with the same colorful tape.
The house had once been beautiful, a symbol of her parents' stability. Now it looked like a wounded soldier—standing, but scarred.
Menalla dressed in haste, pulling on a simple blouse and trousers. She wasn't the type to waste time on heavy makeup or jewelry. Her beauty, understated yet undeniable, lay in the strength of her eyes and the determination of her stride.
But as she buttoned her blouse, her mind spun with familiar frustration.
She was good—she knew she was good—but in the world she lived in, talent wasn't enough. She poured her soul into articles, working harder than anyone in her small newsroom. She researched, she investigated, she wrote pieces that could shake hearts. But her stories never made it to the front page.
Connections did. Money did. Flattery did.
Her editor always told her she was "promising," but promising was just another way of saying invisible. Hard work meant little when there were bigger names, wealthier writers, and louder voices willing to pay their way into recognition.
She thought bitterly of the last article she had written, a three-week investigation into a local corruption scandal. She had risked arguments with officials, dug through hidden records, and even traveled at night to confront witnesses. And yet, her piece was buried in the forgotten corner of a local website, tucked behind headlines about celebrities and fashion shows.
Her articles never even reached the sixth page of most sites.
"Hard work doesn't feed the world," she whispered to herself as she tied her hair into a ponytail. "Connections do. And I have none."
Her only hope—her only dream—was to uncover something so monumental, so undeniable, that no editor, no company, no powerful hand could bury it. Something the world had to hear. Something that would finally give her the platform to speak the truth about her parents' death—the "accident" that was never truly an accident.
She closed her eyes briefly, clutching her necklace, a small locket with a faded picture of her parents. "One day. One story. That's all I need. Then they'll listen. Then I'll make them pay."
---
The smell of frying eggs reached her before she even left her room. She rushed downstairs, nearly stumbling over the loose carpet on the landing.
The kitchen, though dated, was filled with warmth. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains, falling on a table already set with bread, butter, eggs, and tea. At the stove stood her grandmother—frail, silver-haired, but with a spark in her eyes that age could not dim.
"Morning, child," her grandmother said without turning. Her voice carried both sternness and affection, like a melody played on two notes. "You're late."
"I know," Menalla sighed, sliding into a chair. "The plates woke me."
Her grandmother chuckled. "My hands aren't as steady as they used to be. One day, all these plates will end up shattered, and then you'll finally have the excuse to buy me plastic ones."
Menalla smiled faintly, buttering her bread. She ate quickly, her mind already on the clock, but her grandmother wasn't about to let her escape without a lecture.
"You work too much," the old woman said, setting a steaming cup of tea before her. "Every day, rushing to that city. And for what? A job that pays little more than scraps. You're like a candle burning at both ends."
"It's not about the money, Grandma," Menalla replied, swallowing her bite. "It's about the work. About making a difference."
Her grandmother sat opposite her, folding her wrinkled hands. "Work, yes. But a woman needs more than work. You're twenty-three, Menalla. Look at you—still alone, still chasing dreams that give you nothing in return. When will you think about marriage? About building a life with someone who can share your burdens?"
Menalla nearly choked on her tea. "Marriage? Grandma, not now. I don't even have time for myself. How do you expect me to have time for a man?"
Her grandmother's eyes softened, but her tone stayed firm. "Because, child, a life without companionship is a heavy one. Work will not hold your hand when you are old. Work will not sit by your bedside when you are sick. You need someone. Don't you see?"
Menalla set her cup down with a sharp clink. "What I need is justice. What I need is truth. You raised me to be strong, to fight, to survive. Marriage won't give me back my parents. Marriage won't uncover the lies that destroyed our family. Until I do that—until I expose what really happened—I can't think about anything else."
Her grandmother's eyes glistened. She reached across the table, covering Menalla's hand with her trembling one. "Your parents would not want you to sacrifice your happiness for revenge."
"And I can't rest until I do this," Menalla whispered. Her voice cracked, but her gaze was steady. "It's not just about revenge. It's about truth. And I will not stop."
Silence fell between them, broken only by the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
Finally, her grandmother sighed, releasing her hand. "Then eat quickly. The world won't wait for you to argue with an old woman."
Menalla smiled faintly, finishing her breakfast. She glanced at the taped piano in the corner, the taped guitar beside it, and thought again of the house they lived in—beautiful once, broken now. Just like her family.
She gathered her bag, kissed her grandmother's cheek, and rushed out the door.
The world outside was waiting. And she was determined to face it head-on.