Perfect. Here's Chapter 2: Paper Crown of
"It's not the truth that rules the world. It's the story with the highest budget."
Tonia Wale had always believed in the power of truth. Once.
She remembered sitting on plastic chairs in a cramped press room, back when her sandals had holes and her voice shook whenever she held a mic. Her first article was about a neighborhood evicted for a foreign company's luxury hotel project. She'd cried writing it—angry tears, righteous ones.
It got two likes.
No one paid attention. No one cared.
Then one day, she wrote a piece titled "Pastor's Wife Caught With Governor in Abuja Hotel". Half of it was unverified gossip—but it went viral.
The editor called her in.
"Good job, Tonia. This is the kind of content people want. Truth is important, but traffic is king."
That was the beginning of her rebirth. That day, idealism died, and influence was born.
Ten years later, Tonia sat in a private office at Wale Media Group—one of the biggest digital news companies in West Africa. The skyline of Lagos gleamed through her glass windows. She didn't write anymore. She signed contracts, cut deals, filtered scandals.
Her phone rang.
"Boss, it's him," her assistant whispered. "Minister of Petroleum's aide. Line two."
Tonia picked up.
"Wale Media."
"Madam," a shaky male voice said, "My oga has been accused of embezzling ₦9.2 billion. You need to help us control the story."
"How much are we talking?"
"₦15 million. Cash."
"Hmm. I'll give you trending coverage, two denial articles, and one planted op-ed blaming opposition. That's my standard PR package."
"Done."
Tonia hung up, leaned back in her chair, and smiled faintly.
Truth?
Justice?
Not her business.
In her world, information was a commodity, and she was the queen of spin.
But even queens wear crowns made of paper.
That evening, Tonia entered a high-society banquet in Victoria Island—media executives, politicians, and billionaires mingling like they were all born rich. The champagne flowed. The laughter was rehearsed.
She stood beside a senator and a popular actor, both holding wine glasses and fake smiles.
"Madam Tonia," the senator said, "you've become too powerful o. One word from your website, and elections can swing."
She laughed. "It's not power. It's narrative control."
"Same thing," he replied.
As the night went on, she noticed something unsettling.
People didn't greet her as "Tonia the journalist" anymore. They greeted her like a weapon—a tool to be used.
When the National Security Adviser approached her with a fake smile, her stomach twisted.
"Good evening, ma," he said. "Hope your team is not planning any sudden exposés about the presidency."
"Only the ones you pay us to avoid," she replied flatly.
He chuckled. "Ah, that's why I like you."
Later that night, alone in her penthouse, Tonia removed her earrings and stared into the mirror.
She had the money. The name. The fear. But she no longer recognized the woman behind her own reflection.
She had become what she used to fight.
And she didn't know how to undo it.
Meanwhile, on the other side of Lagos, Jude Ikenna watched the same banquet stream live on social media. He saw Tonia clinking glasses with billionaires.
He smiled coldly.
She was next.
He had already hacked Wale Media's cloud archives. He had dirt on senators, tycoons—even church founders. All protected under her digital fortress.
But Jude didn't need to break her. He just needed her to serve his next move.
One scandal. One leak. One lie wrapped in truth, and she'd come crawling.
He wasn't just chasing money anymore.
He wanted leverage.
The next morning, Tonia received a file anonymously in her inbox.
Subject: WaleMediaLeaks — Internal Files: Confidential
Her hands trembled as she clicked.
Invoices. Bribes. Altered headlines. Censored exposés.
It was her career in pieces.
Attached was a simple message:
"Work with me, or fall with them." — J.I.
She froze. The initials made her blood run cold.
She remembered the name in her own headlines.
Jude Ikenna.
Later that day, her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
"Tonia," the voice said, smooth and sharp. "You made a name destroying reputations. I need yours."
"You're blackmailing me?"
"I'm offering you a role in something bigger. A new platform. A digital empire that exposes everyone—from the ground up."
"And why would I trust a criminal?"
"Because you're not innocent either. We're both just surviving the only way the system allows."
A pause.
"Think about it," Jude said. "You can keep playing queen in a broken game—or help me flip the whole board."
The line went dead.
Tonia stared at the phone for minutes.
She had once dreamed of being a voice for the voiceless.
Now the voiceless had grown teeth—and they were calling.