Chloe finally let me out of her office, ushering me back towards the green room with stern warnings about “professional conduct.” Richard was gone, probably hiding in a broom closet somewhere.
Leo, silent and thoughtful, caught my eye as we re-entered the green room. He held out the tablet again.
“Mom,” he said, his voice tight. “There’s more.”
My heart sank. What else could there possibly be?
He tapped the screen, opening another folder within Richard’s recovered text logs. This one was marked “Ventures – RH.”
The messages detailed a series of increasingly desperate communications between Richard and another contact, a real estate developer.
“He signed a deal,” Leo explained, scrolling rapidly. “Pledging your future voice rights. And your digital likeness. As collateral.”
My breath hitched. “Collateral for what?”
“For a failed real estate venture,” Leo said, pointing to a document. “A twelve-unit condo development in Palm Springs. Lost everything.”
The number on the screen jumped out at me: a $1.2 million loan, secured by *my* future.
Richard had used my identity, my legacy, my potential earnings, to bail himself out of a disastrous personal investment.
This wasn’t just about my past earnings. This was about my entire future. My ability to ever work again, to secure new contracts, to simply exist as a performer.
“He basically sold you,” Leo finished, his young face etched with disgust. “The deal says the lender gets exclusive rights to your digitized voice for commercials, AI-generated appearances, whatever they want, if he defaults.”
A cold sweat broke out on my skin. I wasn’t just broke. I wasn’t just struggling to keep my mother safe. My entire professional identity, my very essence as a performer, was now a commodity, a debt repayment for Richard’s greed.
The idea of my voice, my image, being used without my consent, echoing in some AI-generated commercial, made me feel physically ill. I imagined my cheerful sitcom laugh, hollowed out and repurposed for a credit card ad, with none of the money ever reaching me.
I looked at the studio clock. Ten minutes until showtime. Ten minutes until I had to walk out there, smile, and pretend everything was perfectly fine, while the man who had stolen my past, present, and future stood beside me.
I wasn’t just a victim of financial sabotage. I was a prisoner, my every move chained by Richard’s contracts, my mother’s vulnerability, and the network’s corporate greed.
+ There are no comments
Add yours