The hall was packed with reporters. Their pens were ready to take notes, and their recorders were glowing red. Cameras flashed from every corner of the hall. Everyone had been waiting for this moment. Donald Cole, the only son of the late billionaire Chief Cole, was about to address the crowd for the first time since the burial.
It had been two weeks since Chief Cole was laid to rest. The whole city watched as Chief Cole's Casket was lowered into the ground. His death, burial, and the future of Cole oil had been the headline of every newspaper and press release. Just as expected, here was his son, already stepping forward, ready to take control.
Donald Cole stood tall behind the podium. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with dark curly hair and sharp brown eyes. The designer black suit he wore was fitted to his body perfectly, giving him a gentlemanly look. His face was calm and his voice steady. He had just returned from London after 7 years, and now, the whole of Ovren waited to see if he could fill his father's shoes.
"Cole Oil," he began. "Was built on strength, discipline, and vision. My father had always believed in Melvonia's future in the oil sector. I will ensure his work is continued and his legacy protected."
The crowd politely applauds him. It was the kind of speech everyone expected. Smooth, polished, calm, and also reassuring. Everyone knew this was more of a coronation than a conference for just questions. You could imagine the number of people waiting for this event. Stockbrokers, government officials, shareholders, lawyers, and employees were all glued to their televisions and media devices to know the fate of Cole Oil.
Grace McCarthy sat in the middle row, visible just to anyone who was looking. An ordinary woman who was dressed in a plain black blazer that had seen better days. She held firmly to her battered notebook and a second-hand recorder. She wasn't present for the fancy stories, plans, or transfer of ownership. She was there for justice and the real truth. She had come for the stories about the oil spills, the unpaid workers, the silenced workers, and citizens who tried to stand up to Cole Oil.
The moderator opened the floor for questions. One by one, journalist stood to ask their questions. Some of them asked about profit and the future of Cole Oil, others asked about stockholders and shareholders.
To Grace, these were safe but useless questions.
"We will take one last question." The moderator said as his eyes swept through every corner of the hall.
Grace raised her hand. The moderator's eyes fell on her. Grace could see from his eyes that he judged her poor choice of outfit. She wasn't dressed like other reporters who wore their best dresses or carried fancy pens and notebooks.
He reluctantly nodded at her. Grace stood up. Her voice was calm but strong, like it carried the weight of all the oppressed.
"Mr. Cole," she began. "There have been several reports from communities near your drilling sites. Oil spills have destroyed many farmlands, and workers have gone months without their pay. Families claimed they were threatened when they spoke up. Will you allow an independent investigation into these claims?"
The room went still. This wasn't the question they were expecting.
Donald's head turned towards her as he first observed her dressing. He didn't plan for questions like this. He planned for simple questions concerning the future of Cole Oil, not accusations. For a moment, his eyes were sharp, showing annoyance and disgust. He already didn't like her.
"This is a press conference. Cole Oil has always followed the law. If there are issues, they will be addressed properly and through the right channel. Not through accusations shouted in public." He said calmly, but his anger could be felt in his words.
Soft chuckles broke out from other reporters who wanted to stay on his good side.
Grace didn't care. She was there for serious business. She took a step forward.
"The law?" she asked almost mockingly. "The law has failed those people. Mr. Cole, do you know that some of them spoke up, and they vanished; families were silenced. If your company insists on handling things privately, how can the public trust you? Who do they turn to if not to you?"
A ripple of murmur swept through the hall. Some reporters leaned forward in their seats as if they were watching a show and they had just gotten to the interesting part. While others glanced at each other. This wasn't the script they expected.
Donald let out a fake smile while trying to keep his cool. He hated being questioned, especially by someone of a lower class.
"Do you think a woman scribbling in an old notebook has the right to question the Coles?" he asked. His voice stayed calm but his eyes burned with anger. "You only speak from the edges, from the peripheries. People like you stir up noise without proof. It's very unprofessional."
The word peripheries cut Grace like a blade. She knew what he meant by peripheries. Middle-class, lower-class, people without wealth, people like her. Still, she stood her ground. She gripped her notebook tighter. "Maybe, you call it noise, but for the farmers who lost their farms, families who lost their health, children who lost their parents, it's not noise, it's life."
Their eyes locked. Her pulse quickens.
For the first time, Donald really looked at her. His eyes swept over her cheap blazer, her old notebook and her cheap recorder. She wasn't rich or dressed like the women who hovered around him. She wasn't painted, polished or desperate to impress. She wasn't intimidated by his wealth, his name or presence. Her eyes burned with defiance. She looked at him like he was just a man. And for the first time that day, he felt off balance. Something stirred in him. He didn't like her words; he didn't like her tone but he noticed her.
She noticed him too, not the polished speech or the expensive suit, but the man behind it. She despised his pride and contempt. She could see that her questions infuriated him.
Donald Smirked. "Cole oil doesn't answer to the streets," he said, almost shouting. "I will not have people like you destroy my father's legacy with your conspiracy theories."
"Conspiracy theories?" Grace shot back. "These claims…"
"We will stop here for now. Thank you for coming." The moderator said.
The conference hall broke into whispers. Journalists packed up, murmuring among themselves. Grace bent to close her recorder.
Behind her, were two older journalists. They whispered almost too loudly
"Remember Bernard? And how he almost exposed them back in the day." She paused
"And his wife. Both gone. Covered up, just like that. No one dared to follow the case."
Grace froze. Then quickly opened her notebook and scribbled the name Bernard. She didn't know if it was true or just gossip but it was worth looking into.
Outside, the Ovren City air was thick with heat and noise. Donald slipped into his black SUV, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his jacket. His mind raised. He was angry about Grace's questions. It made him lose his cool, which he struggled to keep in check. The stare in her eyes, no fear. He was always used to the lower class bowing to him, almost licking his feet. But she, she wasn't scared at all. He couldn't stop thinking about her and he hated it.
Grace walked down toward the bus stop. She knew it would be difficult for Donald to forget her face, her words and her questions. She may not have gotten the answer she wanted but she had laid a good foundation. She couldn't stop seeing the anger on his face and hearing his voice in her head and it infuriated her. She told herself it was just the heat of the fight and the thrill of standing up to power, but she wasn't sure.