My Mother Managed My Hollywood Career While Enabling My Husband’s Affair in My Home — An Expired 2014 Contract Clause Destroyed Her Entire Agency
The silence in the house was heavy, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. Eleanor was on the phone in the living room, her voice a low murmur. I needed to move, to act.
I pulled out my laptop again, my fingers shaking as I navigated to the Sorenson Management portal. This was my agency, my career. I could fire her, officially, if I could just get in.
I typed in my username. Then my usual password.
“Incorrect Password,” the screen flashed back, stark white against the dark background.
I tried again, slower, double-checking each character. Still “Incorrect Password.”
A cold dread seeped into my bones. Eleanor must have changed it. I clicked “Forgot Password,” but the system required an administrator override, which she undoubtedly controlled. My administrative privileges were gone. Deleted.
My hands clenched into fists. She wasn’t just managing me; she was locking me out. From my own career, my own company.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prick at me. I needed to get out. To think. I reached for my purse, pulling out my wallet. My platinum credit card, the one linked to my personal accounts, felt heavy in my hand. I would book a hotel, anywhere away from here, and figure things out.
I opened a hotel booking app on my phone. Selected a quiet boutique hotel far from the city. Entered my card details.
“Payment Declined.”
I tried another card, my reserve Amex.
“Payment Declined.”
Then another. And another. Every single account associated with Sorenson Management, with my name, had been frozen. I was financially cut off. Stranded.
A sharp clatter echoed from the hallway. I looked up. Marcus stood in the doorway of my home office, holding a stack of legal folders. He looked distraught, his brow furrowed with what looked like genuine concern.
“Maya, darling, I’m so worried about you,” he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. “Mom told me everything. These past few weeks, you’ve been so stressed. It’s not good for the baby, for you.”
He walked further into the room, his eyes scanning the shelves where I kept personal documents. “She asked me to help tidy up some of your paperwork. Just so you don’t have to think about it right now.”
I watched him, my breath catching. He was moving my personal legal paperwork. My property deeds, my investment statements, my birth certificate. All the sensitive documents I kept in a locked drawer.
“What are you doing, Marcus?” I asked, my voice flat.
He stopped, turning to me, a folder in his hands. “Just helping, honey. You need to rest. Mom said we need to make sure everything’s organized. You know, just in case.”
His eyes flickered to the locked drawer, then back to my face, a practiced look of care. But beneath it, I saw a subtle glint of something else. Something calculating. Something greedy.
He was in on it. He wasn’t just enabling the affair; he was actively participating in my financial ruin. The thought solidified with sickening certainty. My husband, the man I shared a home with, was stealing my life with my mother’s help. He smoothly tucked my file into his stack of papers.
“I’ll just take these to Mom’s office,” he said, already turning to leave. “Less for you to worry about.”
He walked out, leaving me surrounded by screens displaying “Access Denied” and “Payment Declined.” I was locked out, cut off, and completely alone in my own home.
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