Sandra okoye sat poised behind the New Line Political News desk, her sleek gray jacket sharply pressed, tablet in hand.
Beside her sat Martin Cole, equally composed, fingers laced on the desk.
Red lights blinked above the cameras. A live stream banner ran across the lower third of the screen:
"ELECTION SPECIAL: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW – RISA EBONE BREAKS HER SILENCE."
Sandra (bright voice): "Good afternoon. Welcome to New Line Political News, where the country gets clarity. I'm Sandra Okoye—"
Martin (nodding): "—And I'm Martin Cole. Thank you for joining us."
Sandra turned slightly toward the camera.
"Today, we bring you an exclusive sit-down with one of the most talked-about figures in this election season. From reforms to controversy, her name has dominated headlines for weeks."
Martin gestured smoothly to the side.
"With us now in the studio is Honourable Risa Ebone — former councilwoman, national business advocate, and candidate in the upcoming Clinical Elections."
The camera cut to Risa Ebone walking into the frame.
She wore a navy suit with soft gold trimming, hair pulled neatly back. Her heels clicked sharply on the floor as she crossed into view. She offered a cool smile, shook hands with both reporters, and settled smoothly into the center seat.
Risa (greeting formally): "It's an honor to be here. Thank you for having me."
Sandra glanced at her notes.
Sandra: "Honourable Risa, let's begin directly. The footage released at the National Unity Summit shook the public. Do you deny that you were involved in the case of intellectual theft from a young inventor?"
Risa's lips parted in a practiced smile.
Risa: "Absolutely. And I'll repeat this as clearly as I can: the video was clipped, contextless, and politically targeted. It's election season. I expected this."
Martin raised an eyebrow, calm but sharp.
Martin: "You believe this is politically motivated?"
Risa (soft laugh): "Don't we all, eventually?"
Sandra: "Let's go deeper. The footage doesn't just imply your involvement—it shows you receiving documents, nodding in agreement, and later speaking with men linked to the revocation of that young man's patent. Are you saying the public misinterpreted what they saw?"
Risa kept her voice steady, her gaze unwavering.
Risa: "What the public saw was an edited moment. Yes, I was in that meeting. But what wasn't shown is that I advised him to secure his idea legally. I have long supported youth innovation. This is a trap, designed to remove strong female candidates from the race."
Martin: "And the boy? He's filed a formal petition through the National Legal Council. Are you concerned?"
Risa (sharply): "I'm concerned that in this country, emotions are mistaken for evidence. Let due process speak. Until then, I will stand by my record."
Sandra tilted her head.
Sandra: "Two government panels have suspended you. A third is under review. Can you still run?"
Risa: "The people will decide. Not edited clips. Not cowardly smears."
Suddenly—
CUT TO: A modest apartment across town.
A flat-screen TV glows in a darkened room. A personal assistant in a white shirt stands watching the screen, arms crossed. His face is tense, unreadable. The camera closes on his eyes as Risa's voice echoes.
"I will not be bullied out of this race."
He taps something on his phone.
A message appears:
> "She's playing strong. How long do we hold?"
There's no reply.
He turns back to the screen, just as Martin asks—
> Martin: "Do you know who leaked the footage, Madam Risa?"
Back on set, Risa's eyes narrowed—just for a second.
> Risa: "Let's just say… some people prefer their politics clean, but only when it suits them."
The cameras held steady. Lights hummed.
Risa's last answer had landed well — confident, dismissive, bold. But Martin Cole didn't blink. He simply leaned forward, flipping casually to the last page on his notepad.
> Martin: "Madam Risa, there's something else the public has been wondering…"
A beat. Sandra glanced sideways — sensing something unscripted.
Martin tapped the file gently.
Martin: "You've spoken about supporting youth innovation, and the importance of protecting ideas. But what do you say about the confidential memo from two years ago — the one signed by your firm's legal counsel — suggesting direct acquisition of a similar patent, one week before it was filed?"
Risa froze.
It was subtle — half a breath, the slight tightening at her jaw. But the silence said more than words ever could.
Risa (smoothly): "That document, if it exists, was not authorized by me. I don't sign memos written in secret."
Martin: "So your team acted independently to suppress competition?"
Risa (with steel): "My team is large. If you're implying intent, you'll need more than fragments and whispers."
Behind the cameras, the producer's hand hovered near the signal light.
Sandra (cutting in quickly): "That's all the time we have today. Madam Risa, thank you for joining us on New Line Political News."
Risa turned slightly, smile returning — but her eyes no longer smiled.
Risa: "Always a pleasure."
As the broadcast faded to outro music, Martin's pen stopped moving.
Risa stood, shook their hands, and walked off set without a glance back.
The apple gave a satisfying crunch between his teeth.
Jet stood barefoot in his kitchen, still half-wrapped in hand tape, sweat drying on his back.
On the screen above the counter, New Line Political News blared its hour's replay.
RISA EBONE DEFENDS HERSELF – "I WON'T BE BULLIED OUT OF THE RACE."
Jet rolled his neck. Took another slice.
He bit into the apple, chewed once, and scoffed.
"Still dressing lies like leadership," he muttered.
A buzz came from his phone.
Unknown number:
"Still watching her, Jet?"
He didn't reply. Just turned the volume up and stared at the screen.
Still watching.
But not just her.
The private lounge of the velvet-gold restaurant was dim and quiet, lit by soft chandeliers and guarded by silence. A hush fell over the room as Valen entered — black suit, hands in his pockets, cool gaze sweeping the place without urgency.
He was early.
He sat at a private booth tucked in the back of the golden-velvet lounge, cool and detached, one arm sprawled on the chair beside him. When the waiter poured his drink, he didn't sip. He just stared at the swirling burgundy.
The door opened precisely seven minutes late.she arrived like a model in a campaign poster — elegant, sure of herself, with eyes that scanned like they'd been trained to appraise people and rooms. Her burgundy dress caught the light as she stepped forward.
Valen stood. "You're late."
She smiled. "You were early. That says something."
He extended a hand with casual grace. "Habit of mine."
She took it. "Power move."
They sat.
"So this is what political matchmaking looks like," he said dryly.
She smirked as they shook hands. "Only if you plan on marrying power."
For a moment, the hum of the violin through the walls filled the silence between them.
"My mother says you run your father's empire like a shadow," she said.
"Yours says you've never lost a debate," Valen replied.
"She also says you're untouchable," she added.
"That's a polite way of saying difficult."
The wine was poured. Neither touched it.
"Do you even want to run RHL one day?" she asked.
"Not with a leash around my neck," he said.
She laughed lightly. "You're bold. I like that."
"You're not what I expected," she said, crossing one leg over the other.
"Good. I hate being expected."
"My mother said you'd be cold."
"I save the warmth for things I choose."
She smirked, studying him.
"So tell me," she said, "are we here as pawns or as players?"
"We're both," Valen replied. "But only one of us knows how to cheat."
She leaned forward. "And you think it's you?"
"No. I know it's you," he said, swirling his wine. "You wear charm like it's battle armor."
She laughed. "I didn't come to seduce you, Valen. I came to secure a future."
"With me or through me?"
That question caught her off-guard — for just a breath.
"Does it matter?"
"Only if I plan to stay in your way."
A flicker of tension passed. Silence thickened between the wine and the unspoken.
She softened slightly, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
"Do you ever let your guard down?"
"Only when it's useful."
He stood abruptly.
"Already?" she asked, raising a brow.
"I came, I saw, I questioned my sanity." He straightened his jacket. "That's enough exposure for one evening."
"So what will you tell our parents?"
He leaned closer, voice low.
"That you were beautiful. Brilliant. And very polite… until you realized I wasn't buying the campaign pitch."
She smiled, almost approvingly. "Fair enough."
His PA interrupted them
"Sir, the board meeting will begin soon"
"Okay, he said still looking at her.
"Her Royal Highness am sorry I need to be at the office" he said getting up as he adjust his suite.
Valen walked away — smooth, sharp, leaving the scent of quiet rebellion in his wake.
The driver opened his door.
He didn't look back.
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the RHL Chamber as Aria moved through the polished corridors, file in hand. Her heels were soft against the marble, but her presence was firm — focused.
Eliara's office door was ajar.
Aria knocked once, then stepped in.
Eliara looked up from her desk, brows lifted. "Back so soon?"
Aria offered a polite smile and placed the case file gently on her desk. "I reviewed it thoroughly. A few inconsistencies stood out — minor timestamp shifts in the victim's statement, and a mismatch between the complaint record and the court submission."
Eliara tilted her head, curious. "Is that so?"
Aria nodded. "It might be nothing. But if it's a mistake, it's a subtle one. If it's intentional… it's sloppy."
A long pause.
Then, Eliara leaned back, lips curling into the faintest smile. "You're careful."
Aria didn't reply.
Eliara tapped the file slowly. "Most new prosecutors rush to make conclusions. Or worse — they ask no questions. You asked the right ones."
"I just followed the paper," Aria said simply.
"Good." Eliara stood and circled the desk, her heels echoing with calm authority. "This wasn't about the case, by the way."
"I figured," Aria replied.
Another pause. This time, Eliara offered something like approval.
"There's more coming. Real cases. The kind that make enemies."
Aria met her gaze. "I don't scare easy."
"I hope not," Eliara said, brushing past her. "Because the wolves never sleep in this place."
Aria stood there a moment longer — then turned, leaving the office with her head held high.
Aria stepped out of Eliara's office just as a cluster of staff shifted aside in the hallway. She adjusted the strap of her bag and turned — nearly colliding with a figure in a charcoal-gray suit.
Valen.
His stride was smooth, focused, his PA beside him rattling off updates about board pressure and upcoming legal reviews.
Their eyes met briefly. Aria bowed with quiet formality.
"Good morning, sir."
Valen gave a small nod.
"Morning."
He kept walking, but something snagged in his chest — subtle. Inconvenient.
His PA continued speaking, oblivious. But Valen's brows furrowed faintly.
That voice… That face…
Why does she feel familiar?
He didn't look back. Just kept walking.
But the echo of her presence followed.
Aria had barely stepped into her office wing when she heard it — the unmistakable sound of three adult men arguing over a stapler.
Again.
She turned the corner to find exactly what she expected: controlled chaos with a scent of meat pie and mischief.
Felix, tall and rail-thin like a walking USB cord, waved a bent paperclip dramatically in the air.
"I'm telling you, this isn't a paperclip. It's a bugging device. Look at the curve—this is espionage-grade!"
Aria blinked.
Mr. Ebe — proudly round and currently cradling a meat pie like it was gold bullion — shot him a look.
> "Felix, if someone wanted to spy on us, they wouldn't use a paperclip. They'd just follow your voice — it carries louder than my cholesterol report."
Felix gasped. "Ebe, you're just mad because your stomach now qualifies for a security escort."
Aria's lips twitched.
Mr. Ebe grinned, unbothered. "This stomach has seen three promotions, two failed diets, and one heartbreak. Respect it."
Just then, Uche popped up from behind a file cabinet — glasses crooked, tie off-center, holding a folder upside down like it owed him money.
> "Gentlemen, I believe I've cracked it! The court didn't misplace the file — I was reading it upside—"
His shoe caught the cabinet.
Crash.
Papers. Air. Gravity. Disaster.
A meat pie hit the floor.
Felix dove. "Nooo! That was a limited edition spicy beef—"
Mr. Ebe held up a hand solemnly. "We have lost one of our own today."
Aria covered her mouth, choking on a laugh.
Uche sat up like a fallen hero. "That chair moved. I swear."
Felix nodded. "Everything's moving. We're in a simulation."
Mr. Ebe groaned. "The only thing simulating is your common sense."
Aria finally spoke through her giggle. "Are you all like this every day?"
Uche stood up with fake dignity. "Only on days that end with Y."
Felix pointed dramatically. "Beware, Prosecutor Aria. These two will corrupt you faster than your first court loss."
Mr. Ebe winked. "Speak for yourself. I came here for justice and jollof rice."
Aria laughed — really laughed — for the first time since joining RHL.
For one brief, joyful moment, the politics,
> "Doomed?" Uche added.
"Hungry," Mr. Ebe finished, eyeing the meat pie's remains.
She shook her head, chuckling as she helped gather a few scattered papers. "Honestly, I thought working in RHL would be intimidating. But I think I found the comedy department."
Felix struck a pose. "We are the last line of defense against depression in this place. You see that poster on the wall?"
Aria looked. It was a poster of a gavel with bold text: "JUSTICE NEVER SLEEPS."
Felix whispered, "We made it say 'JUSTICE NEVER SNACKS' for a full week."
Mr. Ebe snorted. "Until the chief prosecutor nearly collapsed."
Uche stood up, straightened his tie dramatically, and said, "Welcome to the team, Aria. We take law seriously. Everything else? Not so much."
The garden at Minister Rahim Kessari's estate smelled of lemon grass and burnt cedar. The stone paths were raked clean, the vines trimmed just so. Nothing here was accidental — not even the silence.
A black sedan pulled up at the gates. From it stepped Senator Dalton, crisp in a charcoal suit, shoes glinting with a mirror polish. A practiced smile curved his lips as he approached the veranda, where Kessari was already waiting in a loose ivory tunic, sipping from a clay mug.
"Rahim," Dalton greeted warmly. "You look younger every time I see you. What's the secret? Retirement or red wine?"
Kessari laughed, rising with a steady grace.
"Neither. Just the pleasure of staying out of the mess."
They shook hands like old friends. Their laughs didn't touch their eyes.
Inside, they settled into a shaded patio where a sharp-eyed young man — possibly Kessari's ward or house assistant — brought them drinks. The boy's presence was quiet but alert. He served, bowed, and lingered just long enough to make Dalton glance twice.
"Your new help?" Dalton asked casually.
"Family. He hears everything but says nothing. Like a proper politician."
Dalton chuckled, then leaned in, swirling his drink.
"I'll get to the point. I have a young man I'm backing. Brilliant speaker. Charismatic. Sharp on policy. I think he's the future of the Assembly."
Kessari nodded slowly.
"Let me guess… Phillip."
"He needs someone behind him who still commands the old loyalty. Someone with weight. If you endorse him publicly — speak at the Unity Broadcast next week — it'll settle the nerves of the older blocks."
Kessari's eyes didn't blink. He sipped his tea, then set it down gently.
"You want my name. My legacy."
Dalton smiled faintly.
"I want progress. You and I built the old house. It's time to pass the torch, no?"
Kessari leaned forward, voice soft but precise.
"I've seen too many torches burn the house down."
Dalton didn't answer right away. He studied the rim of his glass, as if calculating.
"He's got potential."
"He has puppeteers," Kessari corrected. "And I won't dress corruption in my robes just because it's fashionable."
A beat of silence passed. Then Kessari smiled again, but it was a different kind of smile — knowing, sharp-edged.
"But I'll consider it."
Dalton stood.
"That's all I ask."
As he turned to leave, he caught the sharp-eyed boy again, watching from the doorway.
The lights in the penthouse were dimmed to gold, casting soft halos over the marble floors and glass walls. A low jazz record spun in the corner, smooth and slow — like everything in Renzo Kael's world. The CEO of Dalcom holdings
He stood by the open bar in a dark silk robe, sipping something rich and expensive. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show a chest that still held arrogance, even if time had taken its youth.
Across the room, she sat on the edge of the suede couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs, trying not to look nervous. The young intern — barely twenty-two — had been invited for a "casual career talk." That was how the message read. That was how she'd convinced herself to come.
"You're too stiff," Renzo said, pouring a second drink. "You'll never rise in this world if you always play safe."
He walked over, slow and measured, and handed her the glass. Their fingers brushed. She flinched — just slightly.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I just believe in getting to know the people I invest in."
She gave a tight smile, unsure how to respond. Her throat was dry.
"I read your proposal," he continued, sitting beside her. "Smart. Raw. You have instinct — the kind that can't be taught in law school."
She relaxed, just a little. Compliments made things feel normal. Safe.
Until he shifted closer.
"But instinct's not enough," he added, his voice lower now. "You need backing. You need someone powerful to say, 'She's one of mine.'"
His hand moved to the back of the couch — not touching her, not yet. His fingers drummed once. Slowly.
"And I help the people who... understand the game."
There it was. No threat. No promise. Just suggestion — velvet-wrapped pressure.
She looked down at the untouched drink. Then at him.
"I thought this was about my pitch."
"It is," he said, softly. "But in this world, success comes with trust. Chemistry."
He leaned closer, the scent of his cologne filling the space between them. One hand moved gently from the back of the couch to the edge of her hair, grazing it with a softness that made her stomach tighten.
"You're special," he whispered. "Don't waste your moment."
She stood quickly, her voice steadier than she expected.
"I think I should go."
He didn't stop her. He just smiled and leaned back.
"Doors close fast in this city."
She didn't reply. Just turned and walked toward the elevator, heels sharp against the silence.
When the doors closed behind her, Renzo swirled his glass and chuckled.
"Smart girl," he murmured. "They're the most fun to break."
Later, the elevator doors opened on the private garage floor.
She walked out. Not running. Not crying. Just… empty.
Her jacket hung over one shoulder. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. A deep scratch marked the strap of her purse. Her phone buzzed. She didn't check it.
The cemetery sat on the quiet edge of Langford City, where the wind carried no traffic, no chatter — just silence and time.
Prosecutor Kayden Locke , stood still before a freshly restored gravestone, hands clenched deep into the pockets of his long coat. His frame was rigid, yet the set of his eyes was soft — as if caught between memory and fury.
The headstone read:
"Julian K. Wade – Beloved Friend. Defender of Truth.
1985 – 2022."
There were no flowers on the grave — only a smooth, worn badge resting atop the stone. A small token that Kayden placed there every year.
> "You always said the truth was heavier than the law itself," he muttered. "Turns out you were right."
He crouched down slowly, brushing a few dead leaves aside with care. Then he sighed, and spoke again.
"They called it an accident. Faked the autopsy, buried the report, cleaned your apartment like it never had a mind of its own."
His voice hardened.
"But I know what case you were working on."
"You found something you weren't supposed to. You saw what they did — or who they paid to make it disappear."
He stood again, slipping a black leather notebook from his coat. Inside, tucked carefully, was a faded photo of Julian. In it, both of them were younger — suits too big, smiles too proud. Fresh off their bar exam. Before the rot showed.
He stared at the photo for a long beat.
"I let you down by not digging sooner."
"But I swear to you, Julian… I'll finish what you started."
He replaced the notebook and looked up at the gray sky. A single crow circled overhead, then disappeared behind the chapel roof.
Behind him, far in the distance — a black car passed slowly by the gates.
Someone watching?
He didn't turn to look.
He just whispered:
"The case file's open again. They won't see me coming this time."
Laughter echoed across the wide, manicured lawns of the Dalton estate — not the kind born from jokes, but the kind rich men mastered when lying felt like leisure.
Seven men, all clad in crisp white golf polos and tailored trousers, stood scattered around the private green. Their caddies lingered at respectful distances. Two had cigars between their teeth. One kept checking his watch, though no one asked why. This wasn't about golf. It never was.
Senator Dalton swung his club with quiet precision. The ball soared, landing inches from the hole.
One of the men, paunchy and red-faced, clapped. "Still got it, Dalton."
Dalton grinned, eyes hidden behind designer shades. "Politics teaches you patience. Golf teaches you when to strike."
Laughter rippled.
Senator Dalton, poised at the center of the group, lined up his swing like a man with nothing to prove. His wristwatch gleamed under the sun, and the gold ring on his finger caught light with every slight movement. He made his shot — smooth, calculated — and didn't bother to watch the ball land.
"You know," he said casually, brushing invisible dust from his glove, "I still don't trust that judge on the Borno deal. He votes with his conscience. Dangerous habit these days."
One of the men chuckled. "Then maybe his conscience needs a raise."
Another leaned on his club, smirking. "Or a reminder of whose court built his house."
Dalton smiled, but his eyes remained sharp. "Gentlemen, influence is an art form — not a bribe. You paint it. Frame it. Let them hang it on their wall and call it ethics."
More laughter.
Across the lawn, a young man — shirtless, gagged, and hands tied behind his back — lay inside a secured utility tent. No one mentioned him. No one looked that way. But they all knew. He'd tried to leak documents from Dalton's infrastructure firm. He wouldn't try again.
A discreet voice called out behind them.
"Sir… she's here."
Dalton turned.
His butler stood respectfully, hands folded. "Your daughter. Miss Dahlia just arrived."
The senator's face softened instantly — lines that had seemed etched in stone smoothed into something warmer.
"Dahlia?" he repeated, almost to himself. "It's been too long."
He handed off his golf club and began walking toward the estate, removing his glove with care.
Gentlemen, I believe that's my cue. Don't let the country collapse while I'm gone."
The politicians murmured and laughed behind him, but he didn't hear them anymore.
The front doors opened to the scent of imported lilies and old money. Dahlia Dalton stood radiant in a pale blue blouse, her carry-on beside her, a passport still peeking from its side pocket. Her hair was pinned in a simple twist, her expression calm and bright.
Senator Dalton's wife, Marielle, emerged from the hallway with outstretched arms.
"My baby girl!"
"Mom," Dahlia smiled, allowing the hug as her suitcase rolled to a halt behind her.
Then came Dalton, arms wide, face beaming like a father who believed the world should bend for his daughter.
"Welcome home, Dahlia. The country missed its brightest mind."
She hugged him tightly. "Don't exaggerate."
"Never. I'm a politician, not a poet."
They laughed.
They moved into the parlor, the housekeeper already directing staff to prepare lunch. Glass pitchers of chilled wine and lemon water waited on polished trays.
Dalton sat beside her, studying her with pride.
"So, what brings you home? Not just family, I hope."
"Graduation's over. Offers came in, but…" She paused. "I want to serve here. This country needs more than foreign consultants and fake saviors."
Dalton raised a brow, hiding his unease. "You sound like a reformist."
She smirked. "Just someone who's tired of reading headlines that sound like cover-ups."
Marielle laughed lightly, pouring her daughter a glass. "Well, your father will guide you. He knows the ropes."
Dalton smiled, but his fingers tapped once against the chair.
"Of course, darling. And if you ever want to try law, we've got a few friends at RHL who owe me favors."
Dahlia sipped her wine, then glanced out the window toward the green.
"Actually… I want to build something new. A legal aid network. Independent. Transparent."
Dalton's smile didn't falter — but something in his jaw tightened.
"Then you'll need protection. And allies."
"I'm not afraid of enemies," she said.
Dalton paused — the smile still on his lips, but his eyes unreadable.
"You sure about that?" he asked.
"I am."
Her mother beamed. "That's wonderful."
Dalton sipped his drink slowly.
"Then welcome home," he said. "You'll make a fine lawyer."
But his tone — for just a beat — held the weight of calculation.
The chrome-glass doors of PulseFront Media House swung open with a force that made the receptionist flinch.
Risa Ebone walked in like a storm on heels.
A tailored navy suit hugged her frame with precision, her black shades glinting beneath the crystal lights of the lobby. Two of her guards followed at a distance, but Risa didn't need muscle—she was the threat.
She strutted past confused interns, past a startled delivery man, past a junior editor whose mouth opened slightly as she passed.
Her voice cracked through the tension.
"Where's the editor-in-chief?"
The receptionist, rattled, stammered, "U-Um—he's on the top floor—ma'am, you can't just—"
But Risa was already in the elevator.
Top Floor – Office of Chris Whitman (Editor-in-Chief)
Chris stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at Langford's skyline. When the elevator dinged, he didn't flinch.
She walked in like it was her building. Dropped her purse. Pulled off her sunglasses with the flair of a villainess in a political thriller.
"You've got some nerve," she said.
Chris turned slowly. Late 40s, button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up. Calm, tired eyes.
"Morning, Honourable Ebone."
"Don't give me that. Who gave you permission to post that garbage?"
He gestured to the two leather seats in front of his desk.
"Why don't you sit—"
"Do I look like I came here for tea?"
He didn't answer. Just walked over to his desk.
"Risa, your team knew the risk when they stepped into the game. The footage came from multiple sources—don't blame me because your camp lost the plot."
She stepped forward, voice laced with venom.
"Take it down."
"I'm not the only one who ran it. Four other outlets broke it within the hour."
"But you're PulseFront," she hissed. "You lead the news cycle. When you say something—it sticks. I want it buried."
He sighed, sitting slowly.
"You're used to threats working. I get it. But this isn't council hall. This is the press. And I don't work for you."
Risa leaned over the desk, lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile.
"You think you're safe behind that desk, don't you?"
"I think I'm doing my job."
"Is your job to destroy people?"
He met her gaze.
"Is yours?"
The room went silent.
She let out a low, eerie chuckle—a sound that didn't belong in daylight.
"Fine," she said, turning to the wall of awards behind him. "I always knew power didn't come from titles. It came from fear." She looked over her shoulder. "You're not afraid enough."
Chris didn't blink.
"And you're too used to being worshipped."
built cities," she snapped.
"You bought them," he corrected. "But they're crumbling, and now you want to tear down truth with them?"
Her fingers twitched. Then she smiled—cold, poised.
"You'll regret this."
"Maybe," he said softly. "But I'll still sleep better than you."
She stared at him for a beat—then turned and walked out, heels clapping like war drums on polished wood.
As she entered the elevator, one of the interns whispered behind a screen:
"Did she just—laugh like a witch?"
The door closed.
Silence lingered in the office until chris leaned back, running a hand down his face.
"That woman's going to burn the whole country before she steps aside," he muttered.