My Mother Managed My Hollywood Career While Enabling My Husband’s Affair in My Home — An Expired 2014 Contract Clause Destroyed Her Entire Agency
I slid my fingers across the cool glass of my phone, the screen still displaying Eleanor’s name on the security log. Fourteen times. Fourteen separate prenatal appointments. Each time, the system showed a bypass initiated directly from Eleanor’s registered device.
My stomach knotted, but the nausea wasn’t from the pregnancy. It was from the cold, hard clarity settling in.
I closed the security app. My gaze drifted to the framed photo on my nightstand: Marcus and me, laughing on our honeymoon. His arm was around me, my head resting on his shoulder. It felt like a lifetime ago. Like a completely different life.
I tapped open my corporate banking app. My production company’s main reserve account popped up, showing a balance that always felt impossibly large, a testament to years of work.
I scrolled through recent transactions. My breath hitched.
Three wire transfers, each for a staggering amount. One for $1,200,000. Another for $1,000,000. And a third, $1,000,000 more. Totaling $3,200,000.
All dated within the last two weeks. Each one timestamped precisely during my ultrasound appointments. The exact windows when Eleanor had disarmed the house alarm.
My thumb hovered over the transaction details. Below the recipient name – “Sorenson Holdings LLC,” a shell company I knew Eleanor used for various “project development” funds – was a small notation: “Authorized by medical proxy, Notary: Harrison Gable.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Medical proxy? I hadn’t signed any medical proxy that gave Eleanor financial authority. I hadn’t signed anything allowing her to touch my production funds.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the expensive silk sheets tangling around my ankles. The scent of Eleanor’s perfume still lingered faintly in the air, a sickly sweet reminder of her presence.
My corporate banker, Mr. Davies, answered on the second ring. His voice was bright, professional, unaware.
“Maya! Good morning. Everything all right?” he asked.
“Mr. Davies,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “I’m looking at my production reserve account. Can you tell me about three recent wire transfers to Sorenson Holdings LLC?”
There was a brief pause, the faint rustle of papers on his end. “Ah, yes, those. They were initiated under the emergency executive signature rights granted to Eleanor Sorenson.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “Emergency executive signature rights? What are you talking about?”
“The medical proxy, Maya,” he said, sounding confused. “It came through two weeks ago. Signed and notarized. Gave your mother full financial authority to manage your assets in case of ‘incapacitation due to high-risk pregnancy complications.’ It specifies your production funds are to be used for ‘ongoing management and asset protection.'”
My vision blurred for a second. Incapacitation? High-risk complications? I’d never given such a thing, and Dr. DeWitt had only described my pregnancy as a “standard but carefully monitored” one.
“Who notarized that document?” I asked, forcing the words out.
“A Harrison Gable,” Mr. Davies confirmed. “He’s a reputable high-end notary. We verified everything according to procedure, Maya.”
A high-end notary. Paid to sign whatever was put in front of him. My own mother, using my pregnancy as an excuse to drain my accounts, all while coordinating my husband’s affair to keep me distracted. The chill that ran through me had nothing to do with the cool morning air. It was pure, unadulterated ice.
I ended the call, my mind racing. Three point two million dollars. Just gone. The sound of the birds chirping cheerfully outside my window only highlighted the sudden, terrifying silence in my bedroom.
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