Vance Black Phone Novels & Stories

Zion frowned. "What have you done? I feel disgusted to even talk about it." Mr. Black rubbed his face before speaking, "You tried to rap a girl. I feel so ashamed. How can you forget with your IQ of 150+ that you have a wife? How can you be so low?" With that the colours on his face faded. That bitch made a complaint against him. She hasn't learnt her lesson yet. "Mom, give me Hannah's phone number." They heard him saying.

Chibuzor Victor Obih was born in the southern part of Nigeria. Delta State to be precise. His writing includes essays, poetry and short stories. He likes to play soccer, read, study and above all, write. He is currently a fourth year student of a renowned public university in Nigeria. The University of Port-Harcourt is where he is pursuing a bachelor's degree in Mechanical Engineering. Shading Black is his first book and his first attempt to explore the beautiful world of a novelist. To stay connected with him and his works, you can follow him on Instagram using the account name: Chibuzor Victor Obih or follow him on Facebook using the account name: Author Chibuzor Victor Obih.

Winston blurted out before she could answer. I immediately dialed Mr. Carson’s number, it rang for long but there was no answer. Then I remembered that Mr. Vindell was one of his most important customers. I looked toward him. “Mr. Vindell, please could you call my boss so Vanessa can speak to him? If we don’t do it now, she might go back on her word.” He nodded. “Mr. Vincent, hold off on the blacklisting for now.” “Okay. I will be waiting to hear your decision.”

Was it one of Vance's other competitors making a move in the shadows? Just then, her phone vibrated. It was her mother, Susan. Katherine frowned and answered on speaker. "Katherine! Oh my god, why is my investment fund down so much today!" Susan's signature anxious, complaining voice came through. "The fund manager said it was dragged down by something called Vance Capital! I told you, your luck has been bad lately, stay away from that Vance man. Now look, you've jinxed the entire Wall Street's fortune! Did you wear that black outfit out again? I've told you before, black is unlucky!"

At four in the morning, Blake sat slouched on the couch in a loose, dark green silk robe, the lapels hanging wide open. He drank in silence, one glass after another, smoking just as relentlessly. After a long while, he picked up his phone and called Vance. Vance rushed over in a haze of yawns. The moment he stepped into the study, he nearly choked on the thick smoke. "M-Mr. Thorne… you haven't slept all night?" Vance coughed several times.

Holding a baby with a black birthmark on his forehead at the edge of the cliff. "I saw it..." Black tears were flowing through her angelic face. "I saw.. it...this child." She pointed a black dagger made up of her blood to her son's face. "Rean! put my son down!!" A sudden thunder has struck the woman, lighting up the whole place. Kepler grins. His son was growing way too far from his grip. The other team has lightened up the torch with the red smoke, Alkhun lighted up the torch with black smoke...

The room hesitated. “She issued a neutral statement,” another aide said carefully. “No public alignment.” Victor’s fingers paused against his cufflinks. Neutral. Not supportive. Interesting. “Leave us,” he said quietly. The room emptied immediately. Only Marcus Hale, his head of private intelligence operations, remained. Victor poured himself a drink, gaze distant. “Update,” he said. Hale activated a tablet. “Surveillance confirms Evelyn Vance met Damian Blackwood yesterday evening. Private location. No staff present.”

I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand, trying to clear my thoughts. After a moment of silence, I met his gaze again. “Fine,” I said, my voice softer this time, though still carrying a tinge of irritation. “You want to make it up to me? Take me somewhere decent. But this isn’t me forgiving you. This is just... you getting me out of the street for a bit. Got it?” His eyes lit up, but his smile was small, careful, as though he wasn’t sure if he had truly won me over or if I was just humoring him. “Got it,” he said, stepping back toward the car. “I’m Vance, by the way. Vance Black.”

The screen was badly cracked, it sliced across a picture of us at the beach. My fingers trembled as I turned it on. I didn't know what I was looking for. Maybe a final text? A voice note? I found a nightmare instead. I opened his messages. My heart stopped. There were three texts from a number eith the caller ID, Vance, sent back-to-back on the evening of his accident. 7:25 PM: "You think you can hide the files? We own the courts, and we own you." 7: 36PM: "We have Alina. If you want her to see tomorrow, come to 4421 Blackwood Street. Alone."