Maya stirred the melted sugar into her coffee, the spoon clinking against the ceramic cup. Her stomach felt hollow.
Four-year-old Toby pushed a red toy car across the diner table, making a soft vrooming sound.
Evelyn Navarro slid a stack of bank statements across the Formica, her expression tight.
“Damon didn’t just freeze your account, Maya,” Evelyn said, her voice low. “He filed for emergency conservatorship.”
Maya’s hand froze mid-stir. The $180,000 advance was gone.
“What does that even mean?” Maya asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“It means he claims you’re mentally unfit to manage your own finances due to ‘severe psychological exhaustion’ from touring,” Evelyn replied, tapping a page. “He’s trying to take control of everything.”
Maya pulled out her phone, dialing Damon’s number. It went straight to voicemail. She tried again. Same result.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text message from an unknown number. It was a photograph of Toby, bundled in his bright blue jacket, walking into his daycare that morning.
The message beneath the photo read: “Sign the five-year management extension before noon, or you lose him.”
Maya’s fingers trembled, the phone almost slipping from her grasp. She looked at Toby, engrossed in his plastic car, then back at the chilling image.
“He wouldn’t,” she whispered.
Evelyn watched her, her face hardening. “Oh, he absolutely would. That’s his entire play.”
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