Grace woke up sweating. The small fan at the center of her ceiling had stopped spinning for hours when the power cut. The room was hot and full of mosquitoes. She groaned while pushing the thin bedsheet aside. She sat up by the side of her small bed.
Her eyes were heavy and her mind restless. The image of Donald, standing tall and arrogant at the press conference yesterday, was still clear in her head. She remembered how he stared at her like she was nothing. She hated it, yet for some reason, she could not stop thinking about him.
Grace shook her head as if that were going to take him off her mind. "Focus." she whispered. She had books to organize, a story to chase, and bills to pay. She did not have time to think about the spoiled son of a billionaire.
She reached out to her phone. No power meant no charging. The battery of her phone had already died. She sighed. "Another struggle." She said to herself, picking up her notebook from beside the bed. The same notebook where she scribbled one last word before falling asleep: Bernard?
She looked at the name, pondering where to start with this name. Another thought came to her mind; what if it's a dead end, nothing but a rumor? She left the book on her desk and rushed through her morning routine. She left her apartment for the office, locking her metal door behind her. She walked down the noisy street filled with hawkers and impatient drivers honking endlessly.
At the office, the newsrooms buzzed with chatter, keyboard tapping, and phones ringing. Grace made her way to her desk, hoping to get a head start on her notes. She had barely settled in when her editor, Mr. Paul, sent for her. She stood up immediately, walking into his office.
He didn't look happy. His shirt was rumpled, his tie loosened and he looked tired, though it was morning.
"Grace," he said as soon as she stepped in. "Sit."
She obeyed.
He rubbed his forehead, "I've been getting calls. People are not happy with your questions at the press conference yesterday."
Grace's eyes lit up. "That means they were the right questions, sir. If people aren't comfortable, it means I touched something real."
Mr. Paul sighed. "This is not about truth. This is about survival. We cannot afford to fight people like the Coles. They are too powerful. Do you want this paper shut down? Do you want your name blacklisted? Grace, you are still young. Don't waste your future chasing Shadows."
Grace leaned forward, her voice calm. "Sir, it's not shadows. The Cole Oil business is destroying lives. We cannot keep looking away."
Her editor's eyes soften for a moment, but just for a moment. "I understand. But I also understand how this country works. Sometimes, silence is safer than the truth. I'm warning, drop this story. Focus on something else. Write about the tomato shortage or fuel queues. Those won't get you killed." He turned his face toward his keyboard, showing that he is done with her and doesn't want to discuss further.
Grace clenched her fists under the table. She is tired of being told what to do, tired of brushing secrets, scandals under the rug. Her chest burned with frustration as she forced a smile and nodded. "Yes, sir."
He dismissed her with a wave. But she had already made up her mind. She isn't dropping this. She isn't stopping.
On the other side of the city, Donald lay on his bed, lost in thought. His mistress's head lay on the other side of the bed. The thick duvet covered his legs up to his navel. His muscular abs could be seen. He had called her over to calm the storm he felt after yesterday's conference. For some reason, Grace's questions haunted him like a shadow. He couldn't get her out of his head. He stood up gently from the bed, trying not to wake his mistress. He rushed to take his bath.
Donald rushed down the stairs to the living room. Dressed in a black shirt and black trousers. His chest, exposed. The wolf tooth pendant on his neck chain dangled. His hair curled and a few strands dropped, touching his forehead. He bumps into the head of the house. "Good morning, Mr. Cole." She greeted him, almost bowing. Mr. Cole walked past without acknowledging her greeting. Then he turned back. "Listen, settle her, I don't want her in my room by the time I get back." The head of the house nodded.
He stepped out, signaling his driver. His driver quickly rushed toward the black SUV, starting the engine. Donald enters the car.
"The office." He said. The driver sped off.
The car had stopped at a red light. A small boy ran up and tapped on the window with both hands. He looked thin and hungry. His clothes were old, full of patches. His eyes met Donald's. He raised a tin cup asking for money. Donald smirked. "The rich stay rich. The poor stay poor. That's the order of the world." He said as if talking to himself. Grace's words rang in his head almost immediately as he made that statement. "It's not noise, it's life." It sank deep in him. The light turned green as the car sped off.
When he got to the Cole oil group building, He was welcomed in a grand style. He was given a little tour and shown to his office. His office was more like a house. It was huge and wide. It could contain at least 200 people. It had a large glass table and an executive chair.
He stood in front of his late father's portrait. He touched the picture and he said. "I'll do you proud, I'll keep your legacy." He was interrupted by a knock on his door. His Personal Assistant, Collins, walked in.
"Good afternoon, sir." He said, almost bowing. "I have a list of activities which is necessary for you to do on your first day in office. The board of…"
"I want a tour. I want to see the working conditions of all the factories in this city." Donald said as he interrupted Collins abruptly.
"Okay, sir," Collins said. "But..."
Donald waved his hands, signaling for him to leave. Collins left immediately without debate.
******************
That afternoon, Grace continued her search for clues. She went over to one of the Coles' factories. She went to interview and ask some questions. She waited outside the factory for workers to come out for their lunch break. She began questioning them individually. Some spoke, some kept mute, some ignored her and walked away. No one said what she wanted to hear or gave her a clue to a new lead. Frustrated under the hot sun, Grace flipped the pages of her notebook. She stumbled on Bernard. She remembered that she hadn't asked about that name. Another worker walked towards her. An elderly man, in his sixties. Tired and weary from years of work. She rushed to the man
"Good day, sir, can I have a few minutes of your time?" She asked.
The man agreed. "Go on. How may I help you?"
"Do you know of any Bernard who worked here?" Grace asked
The man paused for a while. "You are playing with fire. Leave before it's too late." He said with a shaky voice. He walked out without letting her continue.
Grace stared at him, confused as he walked past her. "What does he mean?" She muttered to herself.
The low rumble of the engine drew Grace's attention. She turned to look behind her. A sleek, black SUV, polished like a mirror under the sun, had arrived. Immediately, workers went to their respective posts, some straightened, others bowed like royalty had just arrived. Grace's heart raced. She didn't expect to see him.
The car door opened with a deliberate slowness. Donald Cole stepped out, tall and commanding. His black shirt fitted to his frame. The air was thick with silence. He adjusted his cuff as his eyes swept across the yard. Then he froze. He saw her, the fearless journalist who had challenged him.
Their eyes locked. Grace stiffened, holding tightly her notebook to her chest. She wished she could just vanish. His eyes were sharper than yesterday at the conference.
"You," Donald said. Walking towards her. His voice was louder than the machines at work. "I know that face. You were the one at the press conference. The journalist who thought she could embarrass me."
Grace lifted her chin. Her pulse increased, but she refused to show fear. "I asked a question, Mr. Cole. In case you don't know, that's what journalists do."
He let out a short, humorless laugh as his eyes fell on her old blazer and dusty shoes. "Is that what you call it? Look at you, scribbling in your little notebook, pretending you are the voice of the people. You think you can hold me accountable."
She tightened her grip on the notebook. "If speaking for farmers who lost their farms and families makes me pretentious, then so be it. At least, I am not hiding behind money and bodyguards."
The workers around the area began to whisper. Donald leaned towards her while clutching his fist. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. "Careful, Miss…?"
"Grace," she said firmly, meeting his stare.
"Grace," he repeated slowly. "You think bravery is standing in front of me with second-hand shoes and loud words. Let me tell you, in this world, bravery gets you killed." He smirked. "And you… aren't even dressed for the fight."
Something inside her snapped. "I don't need a designer or your approval to do my job. I only need the truth. And if you are afraid of questions, maybe you aren't half the man your father was."
Her words hit him hard. His eyes were sharper, his fist clenched. For a moment, his confidence level dropped. He forced a laugh. "Every girl wants my attention. Don't pretend this is about journalism. If you wanted to get close to me, you could have chosen better tactics."
Grace froze. Those weren't the words she was expecting to hear. "Don't flatter yourself, I don't want you, I want answers."
Donald looked at her sternly. His eyes moved from her head to her foot. He turned to the security at the gate and said abruptly, "Keep her outside." He said coldly before moving to the factory.
Grace stood frozen, her chest rising and falling. Her blood boiled with anger, but beneath it, she hated the way her body betrayed her. How she feels unsettled around him. She whispered to herself, "It's not about him, it's about the truth."
She opened her notebook and scribbled: Donald Cole - Cold, arrogant, Classist. Hides behind father's name. Bernard – must ask again. She sighed and walked away. Her mind raced from her editor's warning to the old man's warning. And now the arrogance of Donald.
Inside the factory, Donald adjusted his cufflinks as he walked through the machines. The workers bowed their heads as he passed. Some were greeting him while others were too scared to look at him. Donald didn't care about what was going on around him. To him, they were background noise. His mind kept drifting to Grace, her lack of fear, her stubbornness and her cause. For a moment, he thought of her cause. Why couldn't she just let go? Why is she so adamant? What is her drive? He wandered as he strolled through the factory.
Collins was busy explaining safety rules but Donald was lost in his thoughts.
His phone buzzed. It was a message from his mother. "I'm coming home tonight. I have mourned enough. It's time we discuss the company."