After receiving a lead from the Council Dinner, Elara meets Adewale Olumide, a ghostlike political fixer who once worked for her father. In exchange for anonymity and protection, he hands over key blackmail files including NDAs, payment ledgers
The church was falling apart when they found it.
Cracked stained glass. Rusted bells. A steeple that leaned like it wanted to collapse. The name on the sign had peeled away, lost to years of rain and neglect.
Elara stepped through the iron gate alone. Khalid waited in the car, engine running, eyes on the rearview mirror. Neither of them trusted the street.
Inside, the church was empty. Colder than outside. Dust drifted in the light like something half-dead. A broken piano slouched against the far wall. No pews. Just shadows and silence.
A man stepped out from behind the altar.
Tall. Grey-bearded. Wearing a priest's collar stitched onto a secondhand shirt.
"You came alone," he said.
"Was that a condition?" Elara replied.
He gave a hollow smile. "No. But it means you're serious."
"Adewale Olumide?"
"Used to be," he said. "These days I prefer 'ghost.'"
They sat across from each other on a rotting confession bench.
"Why me?" Elara asked.
"Because you're the only one asking the right questions."
She pulled the note from her pocket the one slipped to her at the Council Dinner.
"You were there. The night Amara died."
"I wasn't the cause," he said quietly. "But I made sure it never made the news. Like they paid me to."
"They?"
"The Council. Your father. His partners."
She leaned forward. "And what did you do?"
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he pulled a worn leather folder from a duffel bag beside him and slid it across the bench.
"Sign it," he said. "Non-disclosure agreement. In exchange for this."
Elara raised an eyebrow. "You think I care about contracts?"
"I think I care about surviving," he replied. "If this comes out, they'll hunt anyone connected to it. I need protection."
She studied him. He wasn't bluffing.
"Fine," she said, signing the paper with the name, her current alias.
He slid her the folder.
Inside were payment ledgers. Council internal memos. Bank receipts.
Signed NDAs.
And then Amara's name.
Next to it, scribbled in looping pen:
Paid in full – via intermediary
Elara froze.
"Who was the intermediary?"
Adewale didn't speak.
"Elara—" he started.
"Who," she repeated, sharper.
He met her eyes.
"Your mother."
The words didn't make sense.
Elara's lips parted, but nothing came out. Her hand clenched the paper like it might tear.
"She didn't take the money for herself," he said softly. "She thought she was protecting you. She thought if the truth came out, the backlash would ruin the family. She said Amara was already too far gone."
"She let her die," Elara whispered.
"She believed she had no choice."
"There's always a choice," Elara snapped, standing up.
She turned from him, fists trembling.
It was too much. Too many betrayals. Too many versions of love twisted into silence.
Behind her, Adewale spoke again.
"He's stepping down."
Elara turned.
"Your father. He's stepping down. Quietly. He's grooming someone to take over everything."
"What do you mean 'everything'?"
"The Council. The money. The machinery. The control. The future of this... empire."
She stared at him.
"Who?"
He hesitated.
"Someone close," he said. "Younger. Smart. Loyal."
Elara's voice dropped. "Khalid?"
The silence was louder than anything he could have said.
"He doesn't know," Adewale said quickly. "Not fully. But your father's watching him. Testing him. Looking for ruthlessness."
"He wouldn't," Elara said, more to herself than to him. "He wouldn't take it."
Adewale leaned back.
"Everyone says that until the crown fits."
Elara took the folder and turned to go.
"Be careful," Adewale called after her. "You're close now. Close enough to bleed."
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
The fire in her chest was already burning.