Eighteen months into my tenure as head trustee of Crown Royalty Records, the changes in my sons were undeniable. The initial excitement had curdled into something more profound and concerning. The boys were now sixteen, their voices deepening, their musical talents undeniable. But their priorities had shifted dramatically.
The boardroom, once a place of cautious optimism, now felt like a battleground. I advocated for a conservative catalog release strategy, focusing on artist development and ethical royalty distribution. I wanted to nurture talent, not exploit it.
But studio executives, many of whom had served under Marcus, saw my approach as “old-fashioned” and “risk-averse.” They spoke of market share, viral trends, and rapid monetization. And they found a willing ear in my eldest son, Malachi.
Malachi, articulate and increasingly confident, had become their unofficial spokesperson. He’d spend hours with these executives, absorbing their rhetoric.
“Mom, we have to leverage our momentum,” Malachi argued during a tense board meeting, his voice firm. “This vintage R&B catalog release, it’s not going to move units like a new pop-trap single would. We need to sign that TikTok sensation.”
I looked at him, my heart aching. He was echoing the exact arguments Marcus used to make. The same greed. The same short-sighted pursuit of immediate profit over artistic integrity.
“Malachi, that ‘TikTok sensation’ is sixteen years old and her contract is predatory,” I countered, trying to keep my frustration in check. “Marcus signed contracts like that. We are better than that.”
“But it’s what the market demands!” he shot back, frustration etched on his face. Isaiah and Xavier, though quieter, nodded in agreement. They were being groomed, subtly but effectively.
The studio executives around the table exchanged triumphant glances. They were playing a long game, driving a wedge between me and my sons, pushing them toward Marcus’s methods. They saw Malachi’s ambition, his desire for immediate success, and they exploited it.
I felt a chilling sense of history repeating itself. I had fought Marcus’s greed, his manipulation, his toxic influence. I had won the corporate war, taking back the label. But now, I watched as the very executives who once enabled Marcus were slowly, insidiously, turning my own sons against my integrity.
They were learning to value the numbers, the fame, the power – the very things that had corrupted their father. I had hoped to build a legacy of honor and art. But they were being drawn into the same gilded trap, captivated by the siren call of celebrity and profit. The pattern was repeating, and I felt powerless to stop it.
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