Five Days Earlier
The Hall was packed. Reporters leaned forward, pens over notepads, recorders blinked red. Camera flashed from every corner.
Everyone had been waiting for this moment; Donald Cole, only son of the late billionaire Chief Cole, was about to speak publicly for the first time since the burial.
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 appeal.
He looked at the crowd and the camera's flashing, then he spoke in a steady voice.
"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 applauded him.
Grace McCarthy sat quietly in the middle row, noticeable only to those who cared to look. 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.
The moderator opened the floor for questions. One by one, journalists 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, his eyes sweeping across the hall.
Grace raised her hand.
The moderator's eyes fell on her.
He reluctantly nodded at her. Grace stood up. Her voice was calm but carried the weight of 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 toward her as he looked at her outfit.
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.
Grace's heartbeat was loud in her ears, but she refused to look away.
There was something about the man's composure: too smooth, too practiced. He wasn't just powerful; he was unreadable.
And that made her want to dig deeper, to see what kind of soul hid behind those perfect suits and smiles.
"The law?" she repeated, her tone sharp with disbelief. "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?"
A ripple of murmur swept through the hall.
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 any right to question the Coles?" he asked. His voice stayed calm but the sting was real.
"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."
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.
"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.
Donald stepped down from the podium leaving the Hall.
The room felt colder without him, but her skin still tingled as if he were standing right beside her.
Grace shook it off. She had work to do, not time to think about men like Donald Cole.
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 city, the air was thick with heat and noise.
Donald slipped into his black SUV, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his jacket.
His mind raced. He kept replaying Grace's questions. It made him lose his cool, which he struggled to keep in check.
The stare in her eyes, no fear. 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 or her questions.
Behind her, a man in dark clothes watched, face half-hidden. He tapped his phone, then slid it back into his pocket.
He did not smile. He spoke one sentence into the phone: "She asked the name. She knows enough."