Six months after the disastrous wedding, life had changed irrevocably. I was now the sole trustee of Crown Royalty Records, navigating board meetings and legal challenges. Marcus was embroiled in multiple lawsuits, stripped of all assets, and officially persona non grata in the industry. The label, though reeling from the scandal, was slowly stabilizing under my guidance, a new chapter beginning.
My sons, Malachi, Isaiah, and Xavier, were no longer anonymous teenagers. Their faces, their story, their DNA match to Marcus, were now etched into public consciousness. As 51% voting power holders, they were suddenly heirs to a music empire.
At first, they seemed unfazed by the attention, more interested in their music studies and basketball. But then, the invitations started.
Red-carpet events. VIP access to exclusive parties. Designer lifestyle brand endorsements for their “unique triple threat” image. Each week brought a new deluge of opportunities, all wrapped in glitter and promises of fame.
I saw the shift subtly at first. Malachi, always the most observant, started asking about “brand partnerships.” Isaiah, usually focused on perfecting his drum patterns, began scrolling through social media feeds, tracking engagement. Xavier, the quietest, found himself drawn to interviews, enjoying the spotlight.
“Mom, this producer, he wants to fly us to L.A. for a studio session,” Malachi announced one evening, his eyes gleaming. “He worked on Chloe’s first album. He thinks we have ‘star potential.'”
I felt a cold dread creep into my stomach. Chloe’s first album. The producer was one of Marcus’s old guard, a man whose loyalty had always been to the highest bidder.
“No, boys,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “Not yet. We need to focus on rebuilding the label, on finding real artists, not just chasing trends.”
They nodded, but I saw the flicker of disappointment in their eyes. They were beginning to enjoy the perks, the attention, the validation that came with being “the Beauchamp Triplets,” as the media now called them.
“It’s not just about the music anymore, Mom,” Isaiah said, shrugging. “It’s about the image. The brand. That’s what sells now.”
Their words echoed Marcus’s own cynical philosophy. They were absorbing the very lessons I had tried to shield them from. I saw them wearing clothes from expensive brands I didn’t recognize, talking about “networking opportunities” at parties, and critiquing other artists’ “marketability.”
I tried to warn them. I told them about the superficiality, the backstabbing, the constant pressure to conform. I shared stories of artists chewed up and spat out by the industry.
They listened, but their eyes held a new, intoxicating light. They were too young to truly understand the price of that golden lure. They saw the shine, not the cage. The taste of power, of fame, was already intoxicating them, slowly drawing them into the vanity-driven world that had consumed their biological father. And I realized, with a chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning.
+ There are no comments
Add yours