On Her Son's Wedding Day, a Media Mogul's Hair Was Shaved and Gown Slashed — The Bride Didn't Know She'd Called Her Fixer
Finding Harold Green proved to be more challenging than expected. Lena, with her digital prowess, quickly located a likely candidate living in a small, unassuming town in upstate New York, far removed from the glitz and clamor of the entertainment world. He had no public social media presence, no recent articles, just a single, outdated professional listing from decades ago. He had truly retreated.
I called him myself, using a burner phone Lena provided, hoping the direct approach would cut through any reluctance. It rang several times before a gravelly voice answered.
“Green,” the voice stated, terse and wary.
“Mr. Green, my name is Eleanor Albright,” I began, choosing to be direct. “I’m calling because Aunt Beatrice Albright suggested I reach out to you.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, long enough to make me think he might hang up. Then, a low chuckle.
“Bea Albright,” he mused. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a blue moon. Sharp woman, that Bea. What could she possibly want from an old relic like me?”
“She believes you might have some insight into a particular individual,” I explained. “Vivian Maxwell.”
Another pause, this one heavier. “Vivian Maxwell,” Harold repeated, the name tasting like something unpleasant. “That takes me back. Not exactly fond memories, I assure you.”
“I understand she had a reputation,” I said carefully. “And my chief of staff has been investigating her daughter, Sera Maxwell, who seems to be following a similar pattern.”
I quickly summarized Sera’s recent actions, the conservatorship, Julian’s manipulation, and the string of ruined careers Lena had uncovered. I connected it back to Aunt Bea’s recollections of Vivian.
“Sera, is it?” Harold Green finally responded, his voice losing some of its initial wariness and gaining a bitter edge. “So the serpent has offspring, and they hiss the same tune. Not surprising. Vivian was a piece of work. A real master manipulator.”
“Aunt Bea mentioned you covered some of her more… notorious incidents,” I prompted.
“I did,” he confirmed. “Spent a good year chasing that woman’s shadow. She was a talent scout for trouble, that one. Always leaving someone in tears, or worse, financially ruined. And always with that sweet, innocent smile.”
The chilling familiarity of his description of Vivian mirrored my own experience with Sera. The casual cruelty, hidden behind a facade of charm, was clearly a family trait.
“Mr. Green, we believe Sera is attempting to do the same thing to me,” I confessed. “We need more than just a pattern. We need proof. Do you recall any specific incidents, any victims, who might be willing to speak now?”
Another long silence. I could hear the faint sound of birdsong in the background, a stark contrast to the cutthroat world we were discussing.
“There was one,” Harold finally said, his voice dropping. “A good kid. Full of ambition. Marcus Holloway. He partnered with Vivian on a venture, years ago. A tech startup. Very promising. Then, poof. Gone. Disgraced.”
“Marcus Holloway,” I repeated, Lena’s earlier findings about GlowUp Tech and David Chen flashing through my mind. The parallel was uncanny.
“Vivian ran a smear campaign against him,” Harold explained, his voice low and deliberate. “Accused him of embezzlement, intellectual property theft. Ruined his name overnight. He disappeared. Never heard from him again. Always felt that one was particularly dirty.”
The specific, personal cruelty of destroying a young man’s reputation, robbing him of his future, resonated deeply. This was Sera’s playbook, decades before.
“Did you ever follow up on Marcus Holloway?” I asked, a sense of urgency building within me. “Did you ever find out what truly happened?”
“I tried,” Harold admitted. “But Vivian had connections. Powerful ones. The story got buried. Holloway himself went into hiding. Became a ghost. Said he was going to expose her, but then… nothing. Just vanished.”
“Do you know where he might be now?” I pressed. “Anything? A last known address, a family member, a friend?”
Harold sighed. “The trail went cold, Eleanor. It’s been decades. But if I had to guess… he was always a man who preferred solitude. Loved the mountains, fishing, quiet places. If he didn’t want to be found, he made sure he wasn’t.”
He paused, a reflective quality to his voice. “He hinted, once, that he kept meticulous records. Knew Vivian was crooked from the start. Said he had enough to bury her if he ever needed to. But I think the public humiliation broke him. He just wanted to disappear.”
“Meticulous records,” I repeated, a surge of hope igniting within me. That was precisely what we needed.
“Mr. Green,” I said, my voice filled with earnestness. “Thank you. This is more than I could have hoped for. You’ve given us a name. A lead. We won’t let his story be buried this time.”
“Good luck, Eleanor,” Harold said, a note of genuine sincerity in his voice. “Vivian Maxwell was a formidable opponent. And if her daughter is anything like her, you’re in for a fight. But if Marcus Holloway still lives… he might just be your ace in the hole.”
He hung up, leaving me with the name, the cryptic clue, and a renewed sense of purpose. Marcus Holloway. A victim of Vivian Maxwell, likely with a treasure trove of evidence, and a deep-seated grievance. He was the ghost we needed to find, the voice from the past who could shatter Sera’s carefully constructed empire of lies. This specific lead, this named victim, was the most concrete evidence we had found linking Sera’s tactics to her mother’s, and the casual way Harold spoke of the destruction of a promising life made the generational cruelty stark.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours