My Hollywood Mother Forced My Pregnant Wife to Kneel at Her Feet — Then I Checked Our Studio Account and Found $684,000 Missing
The silence in the mansion was shattered two days later by my phone. It buzzed relentlessly with calls from unknown numbers, then the screen lit up with Raymond Finch’s name.
“Julian, you need to see the trades,” Raymond said, his voice clipped. “Hollywood Reporter just dropped a piece. It’s… not good.”
I opened my laptop, navigating to the Reporter’s website. The headline screamed at me: “Lansbury Scion Accused of Volatile Behavior, Abuse Against Elderly Mother Amid Financial Dispute.”
Below it was a blurred photo of Evelyn, looking frail and distraught, walking out of the mansion. The accompanying article quoted anonymous “sources close to the family.”
Then, the audio file. A short, grainy clip of a man’s voice, raised and agitated. It was clearly me.
“I’m telling you, this is *my* house now! You have no say in how I manage *my* assets!” the voice roared. “You think you can just take what’s mine?”
It sounded like a full-blown meltdown. The article painted me as an emotionally unstable executive, cutting off his mother’s funds and throwing her out of the estate just weeks after my father’s death.
Gavin. This was his work. He’d spun the account freeze into a PR nightmare, exploiting the image of a grieving son gone rogue.
My phone rang again. This time, it was Victor Harte, the studio board chairman. His voice was grim.
“Julian, we need to talk. The board is receiving calls. Shareholders are nervous.”
“Victor, this is a smear campaign,” I stated, trying to keep my voice even. “Gavin leaked a doctored recording.”
“Doctored or not, it’s out there. The board is calling an emergency meeting. We need this settled, immediately.”
He paused, then delivered the ultimatum. “Unless Evelyn is granted full, immediate access to the estate, and her financial accounts are restored, we will be forced to suspend your audio restoration contract. Effective immediately.”
My stomach tightened. My contract, the work I poured my life into, was being held hostage. The board didn’t care about truth; they cared about appearances and the studio’s stock value.
“Victor, this is blackmail,” I said, the words feeling like ash in my mouth.
“It’s business, Julian. Bad press is bad for business. Fix this, or your work for Lansbury Studios is over.”
He hung up. I stared at the screen, the image of Evelyn’s ‘distraught’ face mocking me. Gavin hadn’t just fired back; he’d lobbed a tactical nuke straight at my career.
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