Murmurs rippled through the grand glass ballroom. The spotlight on my sons, Malachi, Isaiah, and Xavier, felt like a physical heat against my back. Eight hundred industry executives and three hundred paparazzi cameras flashed, each lens trying to capture the identical jawlines, high cheekbones, and Marcus Beauchamp’s unmistakable silhouette.
I guided the boys toward a quiet corner near the bar, away from the immediate crush of reporters now swarming the main aisle.
That’s when a man in a crisp navy suit, holding a small notepad, detached himself from the crowd. He moved with a focused urgency that cut through the celebratory din.
He wasn’t looking at my sons. His eyes fixed on me.
“Evelyn Saint-Claire?” he asked, his voice low, almost swallowed by the jazz quartet playing near the stage. He held up a press badge: *Devon Hollis, Billboard Legal*.
I gave a short, curt nod. My hand tightened on Isaiah’s shoulder.
Devon didn’t waste time. “I need a moment of your time. About Crown Royalty Records.”
I expected him to ask about the triplets, about Marcus, about the spectacle unfolding. My breath hitched, ready to deflect.
Instead, he gestured subtly toward a less crowded balcony hallway. “It’s about the $14.5 million in missing royalties. Specifically, your original 1998 catalog masters.”
My gaze sharpened. The jazz music faded into background noise. This wasn’t about the present drama. This was about the past, a wound I thought had scarred over.
“Marcus and Gerald Fontenot,” Devon continued, his voice barely a whisper, “have been running an offshore diversion scheme for over a decade. It started with your foundational rights.”
My fingers tingled. Gerald Fontenot. The name tasted like ash in my mouth. Marcus’s lead accountant, a man whose smile always felt too wide, too eager.
“I’m not here for personal drama, Mr. Hollis,” I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the shock that seized me. I glanced back at the boys, who were still taking in the grandeur of the wedding, oblivious to the quiet conversation.
“No, ma’am,” Devon said, a slight, knowing tilt to his head. “I didn’t think you were. I think you’re here to settle an old score. One written into the very foundation of Crown Royalty Records.”
He produced a slim file from inside his jacket. It wasn’t thick, but the weight of it in his hand felt enormous.
“I have audit trails,” he said. “Digital copies, offshore transfers. Everything pointing to a systematic theft of your publishing and master rights, starting from the year the label went public.”
The room, the music, the flashing cameras—all of it receded. My focus narrowed to Devon, to the file, to the quiet fury that had simmered beneath my skin for fourteen years. Marcus had invited me here for a spectacle.
He had no idea what kind of show I was truly here to put on.
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