Was Laila eating? Was she safe? Roy didn't know a thing. The only images in his mind were of her lying weak and helpless in some damp, dark corner, starving and dehydrated. Just the thought of it made his throat tighten painfully—he couldn't even force down a single bite of food.
And then, suddenly—a phone rang.
The shrill sound jolted him. He leaped toward the phone, praying with all his heart that this call would finally bring good news about Laila.
But the voice on the other end was someone he didn't expect.
"Roy." A deep, commanding voice came through.
"…Grandfather?"
"It's me. I want a full report on the situation." Oswald Moran had had enough of the vague, repetitive updates like "progress is being made" or "results are imminent." He suddenly remembered that there was still someone he could trust—someone who would tell him the truth.
You couldn't blame him for not thinking of Roy sooner. When Laila had first left, Roy hadn't even been listed among the official crew members. If the old man hadn't questioned Laila's secretary, he wouldn't have even known Roy had gone with her.
Roy was the same. Having grown up never knowing familial warmth, it hadn't occurred to him to notify the family when things went south. Now that the call had come, he realized with a jolt that he hadn't even thought to contact anyone back home for days.
"I'm sorry, Grandfather. It's my fault. I didn't protect her…"
Oswald heard the anguish in Roy's voice. Now wasn't the time to dwell on guilt or pleasantries.
"Tell me everything you know. Are the people we sent—and the South African authorities—doing their jobs? Are they searching for Laila?"
That topic opened a floodgate inside Roy. He had so many complaints bottled up—and for once, he finally let them pour out. And he did so to someone who mattered.
He didn't realize that this emotional outburst would have far-reaching consequences—consequences that would ripple all the way into the upcoming presidential election.
"I understand." Oswald's voice remained calm when he responded. But if anyone had seen his eyes at that moment, they would've witnessed the razor-sharp glint of fury.
Those officials had claimed they were deploying their best teams to rescue Laila. But all they'd done was sit around and discuss things. If he wanted empty talk, he could've summoned an entire team of professional pundits from his media empire.
He had already spoken to the White House his words hadn't been taken seriously.
After ending the call, the old man pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a business card.
"If the Republican Party can't get her back, then why should I keep supporting them?" he sneered.
Without hesitation, he dialed the number on the card.
"This is Oswald Moran. If your side can bring my granddaughter home, I'll throw the full weight of the Moran Group behind your campaign."
There was no doubt about it—this phone call was an earthquake for the Democratic Party's presidential candidate.
They didn't even hesitate. They agreed on the spot.
Laila, completely unaware of the storm her disappearance had triggered, had been enjoying an unexpected stretch of quiet. Martin hadn't shown up for several days—perhaps still struggling with the script, or simply stalling. Either way, she was getting a rare break. Her days consisted of eating, drinking, and reading—she had even requested books to be brought to her.
Since her rebirth as Laila, this was perhaps the first time in ten years she'd been able to truly relax, empty her mind, and enjoy a quiet, private vacation. She'd once tried road-tripping, mostly because it had been a wish of the original Laila. But truthfully, if it were up to her, she'd have preferred to stay at home—tea in one hand, a book in the other, savoring the power of words.
The vacations she'd taken with Roy had been joyful, no doubt. But as a homebody at heart, no amount of outdoor fun could compare to the comfort of staying in.
So now, these peaceful few days had almost lulled her into forgetting her troubles.
While she relaxed in silence, the outside world had fallen into chaos over her disappearance.
As the days passed with no news, the public's hunger for information grew desperate. They would've settled for any sign—a rumor, a trace, a whisper. But there was nothing. The media only repeated that the President had dispatched elite teams to assist in the search. And yet, still, there had been no updates.
At this point, the only good news was the lack of a body. No corpse meant there was still hope she was alive. If she'd been held for this long, it likely meant her captors wanted something from her—which implied she was still useful, and therefore still alive.
That was the most optimistic take one could have.
But this was South Africa, a country filled with remote, lawless regions. Hiding a foreigner's corpse forever wouldn't even be difficult.
The only way the public could stay informed was through the media. And as the media continued to fail to provide meaningful updates, frustration started to build. It was clear—whichever outlet landed a major scoop next would instantly dominate headlines and public attention.
And let's not forget what the Moran family did. Oswald had initially chosen to downplay the situation to give the White House a chance—to let them act without escalating matters. But now he realized that his patience had been a mistake. His granddaughter, his most precious heir, had been missing for days, and there was still nothing.
Roy's phone call had been the final straw, snapping the last thread of reason in Oswald's mind.
If they can't get Laila back, then find someone who can!
So the old man turned his back on the Republicans and reached out to the opposing party—the Democrats.
If the White House had been given more time, perhaps they really could've brought her home. Slowly, quietly, without fanfare—something discreet, diplomatic. A way that wouldn't strain U.S.-South Africa relations or reignite talk of American hegemony.
But that was their fantasy.
What they forgot was that in this world, wealth is power. And when someone like Oswald Moran—a man who controlled obscene levels of wealth—lost patience, he didn't wait for diplomacy.
Laila wasn't just important to the Moran family. She mattered to Hollywood, to the United States, to the world. Her influence was far too great for this to be handled with gentle diplomacy.
She was not a woman you could afford to lose.