My Boss Locked Down Soundstage 4 After a Celebrity Broke My Late Wife's Cane — The Brass Key Inside Soundstage B-17 Exposed a 40-Year Studio Lie
Marcus Finch, defeated, stood aside, grumbling about paperwork and legal ambiguities. He tried to maintain a shred of dignity, but Evelyn’s presence had deflated him completely. My path to Vault B-17 was technically clear, but I knew Julian wouldn’t simply roll over. He would try to stop me physically, use security, find some other way.
I needed an audience. Not just a legal one, but a public one.
I pulled out my burner phone, the one I used for contacting shady prop dealers, and dialed Chloe Bennett. She was an ambitious entertainment journalist, known for breaking stories that made waves. She craved viral content, and I had a bombshell that could blow up Hollywood.
“Chloe,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady. “Arthur Pendelton. I have a story that will make your career, but you need to be here, now, with a live broadcast crew. Sub-Basement 3. Sovereign Pictures. I’m about to open a vault that CEO Julian Kross doesn’t want anyone to see.”
There was a moment of silence, then a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Pendelton? The broken cane story? B-17? You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No jokes, Chloe. And I need it live. Every second. If it goes dark, you know Julian got to me.”
Within forty-five minutes, a chaotic energy descended upon the usually sedate soundstage alley. A white news van, emblazoned with Chloe’s network logo, barreled through the studio gates. A small army of camera operators, sound technicians, and producers swarmed, their equipment glinting under the afternoon sun. Chloe, microphone in hand, her eyes alight with a hunger for a scoop, strode purposefully towards the sub-basement entrance, her producer shouting last-minute instructions.
“We’re live in T-minus sixty seconds!”
I stood by the entrance, Buster by my side, facing the glare of the cameras. Studio security guards, usually intimidating in their black uniforms, looked bewildered and overwhelmed. They exchanged frantic whispers into their comms, clearly receiving conflicting orders. Julian Kross was caught flat-footed.
Chloe, positioned squarely in front of me, turned to the camera, her voice already taking on that urgent, breaking-news cadence. “We are here at Sovereign Pictures, outside a restricted sub-basement, where veteran archivist Arthur Pendelton alleges a decades-old corporate cover-up is about to be exposed. Mr. Pendelton, what exactly are you about to reveal?”
“The truth, Chloe,” I stated, looking directly into the lens. “The truth that Julian Kross has gone to extraordinary lengths to hide. My late wife, Clara, was involved. And the key in my hand, the one from her cane, will open the door to it all.”
On Chloe’s phone, which she held up for the camera, the live viewer count surged. 50,000. 200,000. Then, a dizzying climb: 1.4 million. The comments section exploded with speculation. Julian Kross had tried to silence me in the shadows, but now, thanks to Chloe Bennett’s ambition, his secrets were about to be revealed under the blinding light of a global audience. The sheer volume of public pressure was an unstoppable force.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours