The old, musty scent of archived paper filled Maya’s nostrils as she walked into the record label’s legal office in Burbank. Filing cabinets lined the walls, stretching to the ceiling.
Evelyn Navarro pulled a heavy binder from a shelf labeled “Kincaid, Maya.” She flipped through the original representation contract, signed three years ago when Maya was just fifteen.
“Here it is,” Evelyn said, her finger tracing a line on the page. “Your signature, dated six months before your eighteenth birthday.”
Attached to the back of the seven-year publishing transfer was a single, separate rider. It moved all her song catalog rights directly to Damon’s personal LLC.
Maya stared at the looping signature, a crude imitation of her own. Her breath caught in her throat.
“That’s not my signature,” Maya said, a metallic taste filling her mouth.
Evelyn shook her head slowly. “It’s a forgery, yes. But it was notarized. By a mobile notary who conveniently left the state shortly after.”
The weight of it settled on Maya. Her entire career, every song she’d ever written, had been stolen from her before she was old enough to vote.
She closed her eyes, picturing Damon’s smooth, confident smile. It had all been a lie.
Her phone buzzed. It was Julian Cruz, her lead sound engineer.
“Maya, you there?” Julian’s voice was low and urgent. “Damon’s here. He’s replacing half the crew, bringing in his own security guards for tonight.”
The line crackled. “He’s trying to cut off your access to everything.”
+ There are no comments
Add yours