If you walk out of Apex Media to play live-in nurse to that washed-up recluse, you are dead to this family and blacklisted from Hollywood, my uncle Victor Cross told me five years ago.
The call from Damon Reyes, head of acquisition at Summit Streaming, came late that afternoon. I was still reeling from the discovery in Eleanor’s ledgers, trying to process Chloe’s complicity.
Damon’s voice on the phone was tight, formal, completely different from our previous enthusiastic conversations about *Golden Gate*.
“Leo, I need to be frank with you,” he started, without preamble. “We’re going to have to pull our offer on *Golden Gate*.”
My breath hitched. “Pull the offer? Damon, we had a handshake deal. The contracts were practically ready for signing. You loved the pitch. You loved the sizzle reel.”
“I did. My team did,” he conceded, a sigh escaping his lips. “But things… shifted. Rapidly.”
“What shifted?” I demanded, a cold anger beginning to prickle at my skin. “Is this about the First Entertainment Bank loan? Because we’re solving that.”
“No, this is… bigger,” Damon said, his voice sounding genuinely regretful. “Victor Cross called me personally this morning. He was very clear.”
My knuckles whitened as I gripped the phone. “Clear about what?”
“He said if Summit Streaming acquires *Golden Gate*, Apex Media will pull its entire A-list talent roster from all Summit projects,” Damon explained, the words feeling like a recitation. “That includes our flagship series. He would instruct every Apex client to terminate their contracts with us within 48 hours.”
“He threatened you?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief from my voice. Victor wasn’t just freezing my bank accounts; he was actively sabotaging my career, throwing a $1,200,000 distribution deal into the fire.
“It wasn’t a threat, Leo,” Damon corrected, his tone weary. “It was a statement of intent. Apex’s talent roster represents a significant portion of our platform’s value. Losing them would be catastrophic. Our board would fire me.”
“So you’re just… capitulating?” The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
“I have no choice,” he said, his voice clipped now, the regret fading into corporate pragmatism. “I run a company, Leo. I can’t jeopardize billions in shareholder value for one indie film, no matter how much I personally believe in it. I’m sorry.”
The line went dead. I stood there, phone still pressed to my ear, the dial tone a buzzing accusation. Victor wasn’t just playing hardball; he was trying to choke the life out of everything I had built, everything Eleanor had quietly encouraged me to pursue. *Golden Gate*, a project born of passion and resilience, was now completely broke, its $1,200,000 distribution deal wiped out.
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