Empire of Desire - by Shedrach Ojodomo Tijani

Chapter 1: The Funeral and the Fortune The black silk of Sharon Kelly’s dress clung to her like a second skin, elegant and suffocating. Rain pelted the sleek limousine as it pulled up to the gates of St. Michael’s Cathedral, the final resting place of George Kelly—billionaire, empire builder, and the man she had barely begun to forgive before his sudden death. Sharon adjusted her veil, exhaling slowly. Cameras clicked from behind velvet ropes as paparazzi gathered like vultures outside the church. The Kelly name still commanded attention, even in death. She stepped out, every movement deliberate. Weakness was not an option today. Inside the cathedral, mourners filled every pew—power brokers, politicians, competitors dressed in black Armani and crocodile smiles. Among them sat her mother, Joy Kelly, dignified in gray, with unreadable eyes. They hadn’t spoken much in years. As Sharon approached the altar, her eyes scanned the crowd. There, in the fourth pew, sat a man she didn’t recognize—tall, sharp-suited, and watching her with quiet intensity. Not corporate. Not press. Something in his gaze unsettled her. The service was long and cold, like her father’s love had always been. When the final hymn faded and the crowd began to drift out, the family’s legal counsel, Victor Lang, approached her with a sealed envelope. “Your father requested this be given to you immediately after the service,” he said. “Private reading.” She took it with a steady hand. The paper inside was thick, cream-colored, and embossed with the Kelly seal. My dearest Sharon,If you're reading this, I'm gone. You always wanted the truth—now you’ll have it. You are the sole heir to Kelly Global Industries. I trust no one else. Not even your mother.Be ruthless. Or you won’t survive. —Dad The words hit like a blow. Not just the empire—but a warning. Hours Later – Kelly Tower, Executive Boardroom The transition meeting was brutal. Half the board looked at her like a threat. The other half is like a child playing dress-up. “I understand this is sudden,” Sharon said, voice cool. “But my father was clear. I’m stepping in as CEO.” A cough. Then Board Member Nolan Wright—sixty, slick, and always too confident—smiled. “You’ve got style, Ms. Kelly. But running a billion-dollar operation takes more than charm.” “I wasn’t hired. I was born for this,” she replied. “And I’ve studied every move this company made since I was sixteen. I won’t pretend to be my father—but I will be better.” Murmurs. Meena Styles, CEO of Styles International and a long-time corporate rival, had sent flowers—and a subtle PR campaign questioning Sharon’s leadership just hours after the funeral. “She’s circling,” Nolan warned after the meeting. “Smells blood in the water.” “Then let her come,” Sharon said. Later That Evening – Kelly Penthouse The stranger from the funeral waited in her private lobby. “Clay Ethan,” he introduced himself. “I knew your father. We weren’t friends. We were... competitors. But we respected each other.” Sharon folded her arms. “And now?” “Now I want to help you. I know Meena Styles. Better than most. If she’s targeting you, she’s not just after profit. She’s after power.” She eyed him warily. “And you’re offering your expertise out of the kindness of your heart?” His smile was maddeningly calm. “Let’s just say I don’t like what Meena does to good companies—or good people. I can be an ally. Or a rival. You choose.” Before she could answer, her phone buzzed. A message from Victor. There’s something you need to see in your father’s office. Now. In Her Father’s Office – Midnight The room was untouched, dark wood and iron trimming glowing in the moonlight. His scent still lingered—leather and smoke. She searched his desk and found a hidden compartment. Inside: a folder labeled PROJECT PHOENIX. She opened it. Bank transfers. Offshore accounts. A timeline. At the bottom, a single line handwritten in ink: “If she finds out the truth, everything falls.” Her pulse quickened. Her father had secrets—dangerous ones. And now they were hers.

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