On the other side of the city, Donald lay on his bed, lost in thought.
His mistress' head rested lazily on the pillow beside him.
He had called her over last night to silence the storm still raging inside him after yesterday's conference.
The thick duvet covered him up to his navel, revealing the ridges of his abs.
But his mind wasn't on pleasure. Grace's questions haunted him like a shadow. He couldn't shake her voice off.
He sat up abruptly, running a hand through his messy curls.
Then, almost as if escaping his own thoughts, he hurried into the bathroom.
Minutes later, he was rushing down the stairs.
Dressed in a designer black shirt and trousers, his chest slightly exposed, the wolf tooth pendant at his neck dangled on his necklace.
His hair curled loosely, a few strands brushing against his forehead.
He nearly collided with the head of the servants.
"Good morning, Mr. Cole," she greeted, almost bowing.
Donald walked past without a glance, then turned back slightly.
"Settle her," he said flatly. "I don't want her in my room when I get back."
She nodded silently.
Outside, his driver already stood by the black SUV.
"The office," Donald ordered, sliding into the back seat.
At a red light, the car halted.
A small boy ran up to the window, tapping with both hands. His clothes were ragged, his eyes sunken but hopeful. He lifted a rusted tin cup.
Donald's gaze lingered. Then he smirked.
"The rich stay rich, the poor stay poor," he muttered. "That's the order of the world."
But Grace's voice echoed in his mind. "It's not noise. It's life."
It lingered in his mind; sharp, alive, unsettling.
The light turned green as the SUV rolled forward.
When he arrived at Cole Oil Group, the welcome was grand.
Cameras flashed, smiles were plastered, and rehearsed greetings filled the air.
They showed him around the building before leading him into his office: a glass fortress that could hold a hundred people.
He stood before his late father's portrait.
"I'll do you proud," he murmured. "I'll keep your legacy alive."
A knock broke his silence. Collins, his Personal Assistant, stepped in.
"Good afternoon, sir. I have the day's agenda. The board..."
"I want a tour," Donald cut in. "All factories. Every one of them. I want to see the working conditions myself."
"Okay, sir," Collins said. "But..."
Donald waved his hand, signaling for him to leave. Collins left immediately without debate.
******************
That afternoon, Grace continued her search for answers
She stood under the blistering sun outside one of the Cole factories, waiting for lunch break.
Workers filed out, sweaty and exhausted. One by one, she questioned them; some spoke briefly, others brushed past her. None gave her what she wanted to hear.
Frustrated, she flipped open her battered notebook, scanning her scribbles.
Her eyes fell on one name: Bernard.
She hadn't asked about him yet.
Spotting an older worker, perhaps in his sixties, she hurried over.
"Good afternoon, sir. Please, just a few minutes," she said.
The man stopped, wiping sweat from his brow.
"How may I help you?"
"Do you know anyone named Bernard who worked here?"
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, leaving Grace frozen.
Before she could make sense of his words, the low growl of an engine pulled her attention.
A sleek, black SUV entered the compound, sunlight bouncing off its surface.
Workers immediately straightened, some bowing slightly, as though royalty had arrived.
Grace's heart skipped.
The car door opened.
Donald Cole stepped out, tall, sharp, commanding. His black shirt clung perfectly to his frame. The noise of the machines dimmed as all eyes turned to him.
Then his gaze found hers.
Grace felt her throat tighten. She wished she could disappear.
Donald's eyes narrowed.
"You," he said, walking toward her. "The journalist from the conference."
His voice cut through the noise like a blade.
For a moment, she thought the ground might as well swallow her.
But then, a surge of courage gathered in her, the same that made her ask the question no one else dared.
"I asked a question, Mr. Cole," Grace replied, steadying her breath. "That's what journalists do."
He laughed softly, but without humor. His eyes scanned her from head to toe.
"Is that what you call it? You, standing here with that little notebook, pretending to be the voice of the people?"
"If speaking for those who've lost everything makes me pretentious," she said, "then I'll wear it proudly."
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
The more he talked, the clearer it became that he wasn't used to being challenged.
Donald leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Careful, Miss…?"
"Grace."
"Grace," he repeated, almost testing the name. "Bravery like yours gets people killed. And you're not even dressed for the fight."
She glared back.
"I don't need to dress up to tell the truth. And maybe," she said, her voice tightening, "you're not half the man your father was."
The words hung between them, hot and electric. She didn't know why she said it.
Maybe because it was true, or maybe because she needed to hurt him before he saw how much his nearness unsettled her.
He forced a cold smile. "Every woman wants my attention. Don't act like this is about journalism."
"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped. "I don't want you. I want answers."
Donald's expression hardened. "Keep her outside," he ordered his guards, and walked away.
Grace's pulse pounded in her ears. Anger, humiliation, and something unexplainable churned inside her.
She whispered, "It's not about him. It's about the truth."
She scribbled furiously in her notebook:
Donald Cole: cold, arrogant, classist. Hides behind his father's name.
Bernard: must ask again.
Inside the factory, Donald walked past rows of workers and machines.
He didn't hear the noise or smell the oil, all he could see was her. Her courage. Her defiance. Her voice echoing in his head.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his mother:
I'm coming home tonight. I've mourned enough. It's time we discuss the company.
Donald exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
The woman was infuriating. Sharp-tongued, stubborn. She was brave enough to speak to him like no one ever had.
"Grace," he muttered under his breath. The name lingered in his mind