Solara Bay is the capital city of Narevia, nestled in the heart of Southern Africa. The city is built on a foundation of immense wealth—abundant resources, deep mines, and treasures that whisper of pleasure and power. But these treasures belong only to those fortunate enough to find them. Those who didn't are swept to the outskirts of the city, left to survive on scraps and the discarded leftovers of the rich, their dreams buried beneath the weight of a system that never gave them a chance.
The city is starkly divided into three distinct worlds. First, there is the upper class—the wealthy elite who breathe privilege and exhale influence. Then comes the middle class, the government working class, whose salaries stretch just enough to feed a family, though never enough to truly live. And finally, the poor class—those who have the bare minimum, or nothing at all, waking each day to a battle for survival that the other classes cannot begin to fathom.
In Solara Bay, three powerful families dominate, their grip tightening around both wealth and influence as they claw for dominance year after year. Their rankings shift like tectonic plates, always grinding against one another, yet one family consistently rises above the rest—so powerful that the mere whisper of their name makes people drop everything just to run an errand for them. A family whose command outweighs any degree, any title, any lifetime of study.
The Samuels Family.
The Samuels family is led by Victor Samuels, the visionary CEO of the Samuels Group—a business empire whose reach extends into nearly every sector, both public and private, across Solara Bay. He is a genius mogul, worshipped by many and held up as a role model to all who dare to dream of greatness. But tragedy struck yesterday. Victor Samuel perished in an explosive fire at his mother's house—a blaze so ferocious it claimed both his life and his mother's, while injuring most of the servants working at the Samuels' Ancestral Mansion.
Now, the entire city mourns. The sudden, violent death of this titan has left a wound that may never fully heal. Victor died at the age of fifty-five, leaving behind his wife, Magano, and their two children.
Magano sits motionless in her master bedroom, her eyes wide open but seeing nothing. Tears carve silent paths down her cheeks as she drifts through a quiet terror of thoughts, her mind a storm she cannot escape. Something is deeply, horribly wrong. Victor was a man of immense power, surrounded by impenetrable security. With his high-technology gadgets, Victor could practically predict the future. So how did the fire start?
The police and FBI, who have already gathered substantial evidence from the scene, claim the fire began in the kitchen when an explosive gas ignited, blowing everything apart in an instant. Yet the servants who were in the kitchen are merely injured. Victor and old Mrs. Samuels, who were seated on the balcony having tea, died on the spot.
How did the fire reach the balcony in less than a minute? Where was the security system? A single needle could drop in that ancestral mansion, and within ten seconds Victor's robots would surround it—one armed with an extinguisher, others spraying water, and the rest smashing the tiny harmless object into oblivion. But when the fire erupted yesterday morning, not one robot moved. No phone calls were made. They called it a security malfunction. But Victor always had backups. Backups of backups of backups. Where were those backups?
"Ma'am, Mr. Sam—" The maid caught herself, because only one man is referred to as Mr. Samuels in this house. "Sir Jonas is calling for you at the terrace," she finished, her voice barely above a whisper.
Magano didn't answer. She simply raised a trembling hand and signaled the maid to leave. When she tried to stand, she winced, a sharp pain slicing through her chest. She suffers from a heart condition—one that escalated viciously when she received the news that her husband was no more. The doctors assured her she was out of danger, but only if she avoided thinking too much. An impossible request, given the man she loved, the father of her children, is gone forever.
Magano rose slowly, clutching the bedpost as pain rippled through her. Her voice emerged hoarse and fragile. "What is the time, ICE?" She sat back on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a thick nightgown, her slippers soft against the cold floor. ICE is the AI Assistant installed throughout the house—one of Victor's many inventions.
"Good morning, Mrs. Samuels," ICE replied, her voice echoing gently through the room. "Despite the circumstances, I hope you managed to rest. I am monitoring your vitals, and you are doing an incredible job. You are so brave, Mrs. Samuels."
Magano yawned, her fingers rising to scratch at her eyes. They were swollen and red from crying, the tears long since spilled, but now the itch was unbearable.
"I asked about the time," Magano repeated, her voice empty as she shuffled toward the bathroom.
"It is 7:37 a.m.," ICE replied softly.
"Too early," Magano murmured, almost to herself. "What does Jonas want this morning?"
"He is seated on the terrace, quite impatient, wearing a very cold expression," ICE informed her.
Magano sighed, the weight of understanding settling deep in her bones. She knew exactly what Jonas wanted—especially now that his older brother was dead. Jonas had always hungered to take over the Samuels Group.
"Tell him to find me in the living room," Magano said after freshening up and changing into comfortable clothes.
The mansion lay draped in an eerie stillness. Only the servants were awake, moving quietly as they prepared refreshments for the stream of mourners who would soon arrive to pay their respects. The duplex was steeped in grief-soaked silence.
Magano entered the spacious living room and found Jonas already seated, an envelope the color of sand clutched in his hands. The moment he saw her, he threw it onto the center table like a challenge.
"Oh, there you are," Jonas scoffed, rising to his feet. His voice dripped with impatience and barely concealed triumph. "You need to wake your children and leave. This house, and the entirety of everything my brother owned, belongs to me now. The proof is in there." He spoke in a single breath, as if he had rehearsed the words a hundred times.
Magano sat down with deliberate calm, completely ignoring his outburst. She exhaled slowly and motioned for a maid to bring her some green tea.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?!" Jonas barked, his face flushing. Her indifference infuriated him far more than any scream or tear could have.
"I heard you just fine, Jonas," Magano replied, her voice steady as stone. She lifted her teacup and took a slow sip, utterly unbothered. "I am mourning my husband. And you, fighting for his property while his body is still in the morgue, is the least of my problems."
She set her cup down with a soft clink, crossed one leg over the other, and fixed her eyes on him. Her gaze was sharp, unblinking, piercing straight through his bravado. Jonas felt his confidence splinter under the weight of it.
"So, Jonas..." Magano's voice dropped to a cold, quiet whisper that somehow filled the entire room. "Is this why you killed my husband?"
The words landed like a physical blow. Jonas stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing, shock stealing every rehearsed response he had prepared. How could she—so boldly, so calmly—accuse him of murdering his own brother?