Chapter 1: Before the Storm
The city was already awake before Amara Blake opened her eyes.
Honking horns and the hum of early traffic crept through the thin walls of her tiny apartment, carrying with them the faint scent of roasted corn and exhaust. Lagos never slept,it only shifted moods, like a restless giant.
Amara lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling fan that groaned with each turn. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but she was too wired to sleep anyway. She always woke up before it rang part anxiety, part ambition. Maybe both were the same thing by now.
The cracked screen of her phone blinked 5:42 a.m. One new email: Intern Orientation Rhys Media Group.
She read the subject line three times before it sank in.
Rhys Media Group.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it.
Congratulations, Miss Blake. You have been selected as one of twelve interns for the upcoming investigative program at Rhys Media Group, beginning Monday, June 10th…
She didn’t read the rest. Her breath hitched in her throat as a smile stretched across her face, tired, disbelieving, but real.
After six months of rejection letters, she’d finally gotten in.
Amara swung her legs off the bed and pressed her palms together, whispering a quiet “thank you” before rushing to the mirror that hung crooked on her wall. Her reflection looked as sleep-deprived as always dark curls barely tamed, brown eyes ringed with fatigue, but alive with the kind of fire that had carried her through journalism school.
“This is it,” she whispered to herself. “Don’t mess this up.”
By 7:15 a.m., she was on a danfo bus heading across the Third Mainland Bridge, her worn notebook clutched to her chest. The city was already a blur of colors, yellow buses, blaring radios, street vendors shouting prices over one another.
Rhys Media Group’s building stood like something out of another world. Sleek glass, silver panels, and a revolving door that looked too expensive to touch. Amara felt her stomach twist as she stepped inside, surrounded by people who looked like they belonged pressed suits, polished shoes, not one wrinkle out of place.
She smoothed down her thrifted blouse and joined the small crowd of interns waiting in the lobby.
“First time?” a voice asked beside her.
She turned. A tall girl with sharp eyeliner and a confident smirk extended her hand. “Tasha. Broadcast track.”
“Amara. Investigative.”
Tasha arched a brow. “Brave. You know that’s Damien Rhys’s division, right?”
Amara nodded, though her throat tightened at the name. Everyone in the media world knew him….. Damien Rhys, billionaire founder of Rhys Media Group. Ruthless, brilliant, dangerously private. He was the kind of man headlines were afraid to misquote.
They said he fired people for breathing wrong.
Hours later, Amara sat in a conference room that felt more like a luxury suite. Everything smelled of coffee and ambition. The HR coordinator, a woman in red heels droned on about protocols, confidentiality, and “the privilege of being part of an elite media family.”
But Amara’s mind kept drifting to the top floor. To him.
Damien Rhys.
She’d never seen him in person, but she’d read enough to know he built his empire from nothing. The youngest billionaire in West Africa’s media industry. A man whose influence touched politics, finance, and journalism alike.
And yet, no one really knew him. No interviews. No social media. Just the occasional photo, all suits, shadows, and rumors.
Her pen tapped against the table as the coordinator’s voice faded into background noise. She’d come here to tell real stories not gossip pieces or press fluff. Real truth. The kind that burned when you touched it.
But she didn’t know then that her first real story would come sooner than expected.
By the end of the day, Amara’s feet ached, her throat was dry, and her stomach hadn’t seen food since breakfast. Still, she lingered by the elevators, watching as people in tailored suits swiped their badges and disappeared to the upper floors.
She didn’t mean to be curious. She just was.
The elevator dinged. A security guard stepped out, eyeing her. “You heading out, miss?”
“Yes,” she lied quickly, stepping aside.
He nodded and walked off, but Amara’s eyes caught something, a sleek black ID card left on the floor beside the elevator doors. No name, just the Rhys logo in silver.
Her pulse quickened.
She looked around. No one.
She bent, picked it up, and turned it over in her hand. The card felt heavy like a key to somewhere she wasn’t supposed to go.
A reckless idea sparked in her chest. What if she just… peeked?
Just one floor.
Maybe she’d finally see the newsroom everyone whispered about.
Maybe even him.
The elevator hummed quietly as it rose, floor after floor, higher than any intern had permission to go. By the time it stopped, her palms were damp.
The doors opened into silence.
This floor wasn’t like the others,no chatter, no phones ringing, just soft light spilling from glass-walled offices. Amara stepped out slowly, her sneakers barely making a sound on the marble.
Down the hall, she saw a door slightly ajar. Voices floated from inside low, tense, male.
She froze.
The smart thing would’ve been to turn around. Leave. Pretend none of it happened.
But she didn’t move.
Her hand, almost on instinct, slipped into her bag and tapped her phone screen. Voice Recorder: ON.
The first voice was unfamiliar, calm but firm. “We can’t keep delaying it, Damien. The board wants answers.”
Then came the second voice. Smooth, deep, and unmistakably in control.
Damien Rhys.
“If the board wants results, they’ll get them when I say they’re ready,” he said, his tone clipped. “Not before.”
“This project isn’t stable……’’
“It’s not your concern.”
A pause. Then a sound like a folder hitting the desk.
“You start questioning my methods now, and you’ll regret it,” Damien continued. “Aether stays off the books until I decide otherwise.”
Amara’s heartbeat slammed in her ears. Aether? What was that? A company? A product?
Her phone trembled slightly in her grip. She leaned closer to the door too close.
A floorboard creaked.
Silence.
Then Damien’s voice colder now.
“Someone’s outside.”
Amara’s breath hitched.
She fumbled to turn off the recorder, but her phone slipped, clattering softly against the floor.
“Hey!” a man’s voice barked.
Amara bolted.
Her shoes pounded against the marble as she ran for the elevator. She jammed the button, once, twice, three times. The doors opened just in time, and she threw herself inside, gasping.
As the elevator descended, she caught one last glimpse of a tall figure emerging from the office sharp suit, dark hair, piercing eyes that locked with hers for a split second before the doors slid shut.
Damien Rhys had seen her.
And he never forgot a face.
When Amara stumbled out into the street minutes later, the city’s noise felt louder, sharper, more alive. She clutched her bag tightly to her chest, heart still racing.
She didn’t know what “Aether” was.
She didn’t know why he’d sounded so dangerous.
She didn’t know what she’d just recorded.
But she knew one thing she’d stepped into something far bigger than herself.
And there was no going back.
