Her Legendary Producer Father-in-Law Tried To Trap Her For His Shares, But A Hidden Clause Blew Up His Whole Empire
My research into Silver Screen Rights continued over the next few days, conducted in stolen moments while Leo played in the sprawling gardens. Each click, each legal document, each financial statement I unearthed confirmed my initial fear and added new layers of urgency. Twist 4 solidified with every discovery. This wasn’t just a subsidiary; it was the crown jewel of the Beaumont empire.
I learned that Silver Screen Rights didn’t just *manage* the rights to Arthur’s films. It *owned* them outright. The master copies, the distribution licenses, the merchandising deals—everything flowed through this single entity. Arthur’s most famous works, the ones revered by critics and adored by audiences, were generating untold millions every year. This company was the goose that laid the golden eggs, ensuring Beaumont Pictures remained a powerhouse long after Arthur was gone. Veronica’s hunger for it made chilling sense. She wasn’t just seeking control; she was seeking absolute, generational wealth and influence.
I tried calling Dominic again, hoping that now, armed with concrete information about Silver Screen Rights, he would finally grasp the gravity of the situation. I found a quiet corner in the library, the heavy drapes muffling the distant sounds of the household.
He answered on the third ring, his voice distant, tinged with a familiar weariness. “Clara? Everything okay? I’m kind of in the middle of a shoot here.”
“No, Dom, it’s not okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though my heart pounded. “I’ve been looking into Silver Screen Rights. It’s huge. Veronica isn’t just talking about Arthur’s will, she’s trying to get total control of his most valuable asset, his entire film catalog.”
There was a long pause on the other end. I could almost hear his dismissive sigh.
“Clara, honey,” he said, his tone patronizing, “you’re getting worked up over nothing. That’s just corporate jargon. Dad always had a lot of intricate shell companies. It’s how the old guard did things. Veronica just wants to manage it all, keep things tidy. She’s always been obsessed with the business side.”
“But she’s trying to make me sign away our rights!” I insisted, my voice rising slightly. “She presented a fake will, Dom. An old draft that cuts us out. Don’t you see how manipulative this is?”
“Look, I know Veronica can be intense,” he conceded, “but she’s family. And Dad is, well, he’s Dad. He wouldn’t let anything truly bad happen. He always looks out for us, in his own way.”
“He’s not looking out for us, Dom!” I countered, frustration bubbling over. “His health is a complete illusion. He’s on a cocktail of drugs just to appear presentable for these ‘negotiations.’ Evelyn Reed warned me—”
“Evelyn Reed?” he cut in, a note of irritation in his voice. “Clara, that woman is an embittered old publicist Arthur fired years ago. She has an axe to grind. She’s hardly a reliable source.”
His words hit me like a physical blow. He still had blind faith in his father, dismissing my concerns, dismissing a warning from someone who clearly knew Arthur’s darker side. My husband, who should have been my strongest ally, was an insurmountable wall of denial. The call ended shortly after, leaving me feeling more profoundly alone than ever.
The following afternoon, as I supervised Leo’s sandbox adventures near the estate’s secondary gate, a delivery van pulled up. A man in a plain uniform hopped out, scanning the gate. He held a small, unmarked envelope.
“Clara Jensen?” he asked, his voice low.
I nodded cautiously, my heart giving a little thump.
He handed me the envelope. “From Evelyn Reed. She asked me to make sure you got this directly.”
He didn’t wait for a response, simply got back into his van and drove away, leaving me holding the crisp white envelope. My hands trembled slightly as I tore it open. Inside was a single, elegant business card, the paper thick and textured. It read: “Evelyn Reed, Public Relations Consultant.” Underneath, a handwritten note in a surprisingly strong, elegant script:
“Central Library. Tomorrow. 10 AM. Don’t tell anyone. It’s about *Sunset Requiem*.”
Twist 1 fully unfolded. Evelyn Reed, the stranger on the bus, was indeed Arthur’s former publicist, confirming her identity and her connection to the Beaumont world. The mention of *Sunset Requiem*, Arthur’s Oscar-winning magnum opus, sent a shiver down my spine. It was a cryptic clue, yet it promised the critical information Evelyn had hinted at, the missing piece of the puzzle that could expose Arthur’s true past and potentially dismantle the Beaumonts’ carefully constructed deception.
My mind raced. A clandestine meeting in a public library, a specific time, a specific film. It felt like something out of one of Arthur’s own thrillers. The isolation I’d felt after Dominic’s dismissive call now sharpened into a desperate need for answers. I knew I had to go. No matter the risk, no matter the mounting pressure from Veronica and her proxies, I had to understand what *Sunset Requiem* had to do with anything. This was my chance to gain an ally, to find out what Arthur had truly hidden in his illustrious past.
I folded the card carefully, tucking it deep into my pocket. The sun beat down, warm and innocent, on Leo’s giggling face as he molded sand into castles. But for me, the golden cage had just revealed another, darker lock. And I was about to find the key.
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