We waited in a small, cramped green room backstage. It was far from the lavish dressing rooms of the stars; just a worn couch, a smudged mirror, and a small TV mounted in the corner, flickering with a muted news channel. My sister, Chloe, had arrived, looking pale but resolute. I hadn’t wanted her here, but she insisted.
“I need to be with you, Maya,” she’d said, her hand tight in mine. “After everything.”
Marcus paced, occasionally checking his phone. The air was thick with anticipation. The news channel on the TV showed endless replays of Donald’s stumbling, flustered retreat from the red carpet. His face, frozen in panic, was everywhere.
Suddenly, Marcus’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his eyes widening.
“Breaking news,” he announced, holding up his phone. “Donald Kincaid’s talent agency, Kincaid Management, just issued an emergency press release.”
Chloe and I leaned forward, our eyes glued to Marcus’s screen.
He began to read aloud, his voice steady. “Effective immediately, Kincaid Management is severing all ties with Donald Kincaid. In light of serious allegations that have come to our attention, Mr. Kincaid’s executive credentials have been revoked, and his asset control within the firm is being surrendered to a court-appointed receiver.”
A stunned silence filled the small room. Chloe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“They’re abandoning him,” she whispered, her eyes wide.
“Completely,” Marcus confirmed, scrolling further. “The statement emphasizes ‘zero tolerance for unethical practices’ and pledges full cooperation with ongoing investigations. They’re making it clear: he’s on his own.”
The news anchor on the TV, no longer just replaying Donald’s humiliation, was now reading the exact same press release, her tone somber. The logo of Kincaid Management, once a symbol of power and influence, was now being overlaid with unflattering stills of Donald’s downfall.
“His corporate partners just threw him under the bus,” I said, a dry taste in my mouth. It was swift, brutal, and utterly predictable. The industry protected its own, but it also knew when to cut bait. Donald was no longer an asset; he was a liability.
“This is huge, Maya,” Marcus said, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Not only is he facing criminal charges, but his entire professional life is being dismantled, in real-time. No more agency. No more power. No more access to clients or funds.”
I pictured Donald, likely still trapped somewhere in the venue’s parking garage or a service hallway, checking his own phone, seeing the press release, watching his empire crumble before his very eyes. The irony was almost unbearable. He had stolen my future, and now, in a matter of hours, his own was being taken from him.
“So, he’s lost everything,” Chloe murmured, still staring at the TV, her voice a mix of awe and lingering disbelief.
“Everything,” I confirmed. “And it’s not even midnight yet.”
The door to the green room opened quietly. Detective Miller stood there, his expression grim but purposeful. “Ms. DeWitt. Mr. Reynolds. We have eyes on Mr. Kincaid. He’s near the loading dock. We’re moving in now.”
The final act was about to begin.
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