My Mother Managed My Hollywood Career While Enabling My Husband’s Affair in My Home — An Expired 2014 Contract Clause Destroyed Her Entire Agency
My fingers flew across the keyboard of my laptop, the screen a harsh blue light in the dim room. I hadn’t slept. The numbers, the dates, Harrison Gable’s name—they spun in my head. I was still in the same nightgown, the one I’d worn when I discovered Chloe’s bra.
Before I could even formulate a plan, my phone buzzed with an alert from a Hollywood trade blog: “Studio Insider Exclusive: ‘Obsessive Tendencies’ Plaguing Lead Star Amidst High-Risk Pregnancy?”
My heart leaped into my throat. The article was a thinly veiled hit piece. It claimed “sources close to production” were concerned about my “erratic behavior” and “delusional episodes” supposedly brought on by my “complicated prenatal prescriptions.”
I clicked on another link. *Variety* ran with: “Maya Sorenson’s Health Scare: Is Hollywood’s Golden Girl Losing Her Grip?” It detailed anonymous quotes about my “increasingly paranoid accusations” and “stress-induced breaks from reality.”
The blood drained from my face. This wasn’t a leak. This was a coordinated attack.
Just then, the television in my living room, which I’d left on for background noise, caught my attention. A cheerful entertainment news anchor was smiling, her voice bright and sympathetic.
“And in heartbreaking news this morning,” she began, “reports are circulating that beloved actress Maya Sorenson is facing significant health challenges.”
The screen cut to a tight shot of Eleanor. She sat on a plush velvet couch, dressed in a muted gray suit, her eyes red-rimmed. She held a tissue to her nose, dabbing at eyes that, even from this distance, looked suspiciously dry.
“This is a very difficult time for our family,” Eleanor said, her voice wavering with practiced emotion. “Maya is experiencing… profound emotional fatigue. And, as you know, her pregnancy is extremely high-risk. We’re asking for privacy as we navigate these very sensitive medical challenges.”
She paused, taking a deliberate, shaky breath. “My priority, as her mother and her manager, is Maya’s health. Her mental well-being is paramount right now. We are exploring every avenue of support for her during this crisis.”
A single, perfectly timed tear traced a path down her cheek. The camera lingered.
The anchor broke back in, her tone grave. “Such a trying time for Eleanor Sorenson, managing her daughter’s mental crisis while also juggling her high-profile career. Our thoughts are with the Sorenson family.”
I pressed the mute button on the remote, the sudden silence in the room jarring. Eleanor wasn’t asking for privacy. She was building a public narrative. One where I was unstable, paranoid, and incapable of managing my own affairs.
The medical proxy, the stolen money, the affair—it all clicked into place. She was preemptively destroying my credibility, painting me as a delusional pregnant woman hallucinating betrayals. Anything I said would be dismissed as “pregnancy-induced paranoia.”
My hands trembled, not with fear, but with a cold fury I hadn’t known I possessed. The phone rang, startling me. It was Dr. DeWitt.
“Maya, I just saw the news,” she said, her voice tight with concern. “Are you alright? I’m deeply worried by these reports. Your blood pressure has been completely stable, and there’s no indication of any mental health issues associated with your pregnancy. This is simply not true.”
“I know, Dr. DeWitt,” I replied, my voice raspy. “I’ll explain everything soon. Just… don’t talk to anyone else from my family about my medical condition, please.”
“Of course,” she said immediately. “My loyalty is to you and your baby, Maya. Not to your family’s public relations.”
I ended the call. Eleanor had turned my own body, my own pregnancy, into a weapon against me. She’d made me sound like a hysterical woman. The sheer audacity of it left me speechless.
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