Trapped in a $85 Million Hollywood Scandal, a Self-Made Pop Star Endures Brutal Abuse from Her Mogul Stepfather Before Unleashing an Online Paper Trail That Spells Mutual Ruin
“So,” Milo said, leaning back in the plush leather chair opposite the desk. “Let’s review these terms, shall we?”
He picked up a thick legal binder, slapping it onto the mahogany. His eyes gleamed with a predatory satisfaction, a hunger for my remaining $85 million in master rights.
“I want assurances,” I stated, pushing past the pain, my voice gaining a surprising strength. “A written guarantee of my artistic freedom. No more forced collaborations. Full creative control over my next three albums.”
The last thing I needed was to sign another predatory contract, even if it was a ruse. Every minute I could stall, Julian’s script would be working, pulling in data from every hidden corner of Milo’s digital life.
Milo chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that always set my teeth on edge. “Artistic freedom, Nova? After what you just pulled?”
“It’s a condition of the transfer,” I insisted, meeting his gaze. “Or I don’t sign. You want this catalog, you play by my rules for once.”
His face tightened. He hated being challenged, especially by me. One of the security guards shifted his weight, a silent warning.
“Fine,” Milo bit out, grabbing a pen. “Gideon, make a note. Draft an addendum. ‘Full creative control, subject to market viability and Kincaid Entertainment Group’s approval rights.'”
He underlined “approval rights” with a flourish, making the “guarantee” worthless. But it bought me time.
Just then, his personal assistant, a young woman named Chloe, rushed into the study, her face pale. She clutched a tablet, her knuckles white.
“Mr. Kincaid,” she stammered, her eyes wide. “There’s… there’s something breaking on social media.”
Milo frowned, his attention immediately diverted from my “demands.” “What is it?”
Chloe nervously held out the tablet. “It’s a report from ‘Entertainment Insider.’ About Nova. About her ‘erratic behavior’ and a ‘private rehab stay’ last year.”
My stomach clenched. This was it. Milo’s preemptive strike. The public smear campaign.
He snatched the tablet. The screen displayed a grainy, out-of-focus video clip. My face, distorted by a wide-angle lens, was partially visible. A voice-over, heavily edited and spliced, made it sound like I was screaming obscenities at a wall, interspersed with unsettling silence.
“It’s doctored,” I said, my voice steady despite the nausea rising in my throat. “He’s using old footage from my mother’s illness, twisting it to look like a breakdown.”
Milo ignored me, his gaze fixed on the screen. Another headline flashed beneath the video: “Pop Diva Nova Lee’s Secret Battles: Sources Close to Kincaid Entertainment Reveal Disturbing Patterns.”
“The PR team is already on it,” Chloe added, wringing her hands. “They’re pushing the narrative that she’s unstable, a danger to herself. Just as you instructed, sir.”
Milo finally looked at me, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. “See, Evelyn? This is what happens when you resist. I control the narrative. I control *you*.”
The fabricated videos, the leaked “sources”—it was designed to destroy my credibility, to make any future accusations sound like the ravings of a madwoman. He was escalating, using my own history against me, just as he always did.
But I had Julian. And Julian was digging.
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