The silent hum of the dummy server, now exposed, felt like Julian’s whispered lies. My mind reeled from Mac’s revelation, a fresh wave of nausea washing over me. Julian hadn’t just been careless; he had systematically hidden his tracks, deliberately building a digital fortress around his depravity. The hidden server was a physical manifestation of his calculated deceit.
“A dummy server,” I repeated, the words tasting like ash. “You actually installed it?”
Mac nodded slowly, his gaze avoiding mine, fixed instead on the blinking lights of the equipment. “He said it was for redundant backups of obsolete recording equipment, ‘just in case’ we ever needed to access old projects. Made it sound like a smart, proactive move for estate management.”
“And you believed him?” I asked, a sharp edge to my voice I instantly regretted. Mac had always been fiercely loyal to Eleanor, and by extension, to me.
He finally met my eyes, a look of genuine hurt and self-reproach etched on his face. “He’s charismatic, Nia. And he’s your husband. He made it sound like he was looking out for Eleanor’s legacy, protecting her older, unreleased material from digital degradation. I had no reason to doubt him.”
“Did you ever question it?” I pressed, trying to soften my tone.
Mac sighed, a long, weary sound. “A few times, yeah. The encryption was overkill for what he described. And he was very specific about it being completely isolated from the main studio network, ‘for security reasons.’ But I’m a technician, not a detective. He always had a smooth answer, something about ‘proprietary formats’ or ‘preventing piracy of historical tracks.'”
The way Julian had leveraged the studio’s prestige, her mother’s name, to attract aspiring talent and then exploit them, now came into horrifying focus. It wasn’t just about the money, or the affairs. It was about power, about control. He blurred the lines between legitimate business and personal betrayal so expertly, it was almost undetectable. He had used Mac’s loyalty against him, twisting his good intentions into a cover for his own nefarious deeds.
“So, all the footage of the women, the sales ledgers—they’re all on this dummy server?” I asked, gesturing to the complex setup.
“Not the ledgers, those were physical documents,” Mac clarified. “But the digital trail of the master sales, the communication with the offshore labels, the forged publishing contracts—a lot of that would have passed through here. And yes, all the internal security footage from the private areas Julian frequented, especially the lounge and dressing room, was being rerouted and stored here, not on the main, audited server.”
I closed my eyes, picturing Julian, smooth and confident, telling Mac exactly what he needed to hear. He’d probably smiled that easy, charming smile he reserved for convincing people to do exactly what he wanted. It was a physical punch to the gut, picturing Mac, a good man, unknowingly enabling Julian’s sordid activities.
“He specifically asked for isolated footage feeds?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Yes. Said it was ‘Eleanor’s preference’ for privacy in her creative spaces, especially the lounge. He knew she had recording ideas sometimes in there. He even pointed out a specific corner camera in the lounge, said that feed should only go to this ‘secure’ server. I never questioned it. It sounded like something Eleanor *would* have wanted. I remember her saying once, ‘creative flow needs privacy.'”
The cold calculation of it all. Julian hadn’t just used the studio, he had *weaponized* my mother’s own principles against her. The idea of privacy, something Eleanor cherished, had become a tool for his deception. He took her words, twisted them, and built a digital cage for his lies within the very walls she held sacred. The specific mention of the “corner camera” in the lounge, a spot where Eleanor often sat composing, amplified the personal sting. It felt like he was mocking her directly.
“He used my mother’s memory, her own words, to cover his tracks,” I said, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. It wasn’t funny, but the sheer audacity of it was almost unbelievable.
Mac hung his head. “I’m so sorry, Nia. If I’d known…”
“It’s not your fault, Mac,” I assured him, though the words felt hollow even to my own ears. “He fooled us all. He’s good at it.”
My mind raced, connecting the dots. The “clients” Mac had mentioned, who came late at night. They weren’t just business associates. They were likely aspiring artists, drawn in by the mystique of Eleanor’s studio and Julian’s promises. He was probably dangling opportunities, using her name as bait, before exploiting them for his own pleasure.
“Mac, did Julian ever bring any other… ‘clients’ here late at night?” I asked, forcing myself to use Julian’s deceptive term. “People you didn’t quite recognize as business partners?”
Mac shifted uncomfortably, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, a few. Young artists, mostly. He’d bring them in, give them tours, let them sit in the control room. I always thought he was scouting talent for Eleanor’s label, trying to keep her legacy alive.”
“Did any of them seem… uncomfortable?” I pressed. “Or confused?”
He thought for a moment. “There was one girl. Early twenties, I think. Very talented voice, I remember hearing her warm up. But she seemed a little… overwhelmed, maybe. Julian was very intense with her, I remember. He kept talking about ‘exclusive deals’ and ‘fast-tracking her career’ if she just ‘trusted his vision.'”
“Do you remember her name?” I asked, a new surge of protectiveness washing over me.
“Serena. Serena Bell, I think,” Mac replied, snapping his fingers as the name came to him. “Julian was very keen on her. Said she had ‘star quality.’ He set up a few demo sessions for her, used some of Eleanor’s old microphones. He was really pushing her to sign something.”
The details painted a vivid picture of Julian’s predatory tactics. He wasn’t just leveraging the studio’s prestige for affairs; he was leveraging it to ensnare vulnerable, ambitious artists. Serena Bell. Another pawn in his elaborate, self-serving game. The personal cruelty here was insidious, preying on a young woman’s dreams.
“He’s not just having affairs, Mac,” I said, my voice low and fierce. “He’s systematically destroying my mother’s reputation, using her name to exploit other people. Financial exploitation, emotional exploitation, physical exploitation. It’s all connected.”
Mac just stared at the dummy server, a look of profound disgust on his face. “I should have known. I should have seen through him.”
“We all should have,” I admitted, the ache in my chest tightening. “But now we know. And now we act.”
My mind was a whirlwind of rage and determination. Julian’s carefully constructed web of lies was beginning to unravel. The dummy server, meant to conceal, would now become a key to his downfall. It was a bitter irony, one Eleanor, with her astute sense of justice, would have appreciated. This quiet, unassuming technician had just handed me a weapon.
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