Trapped in a $85 Million Hollywood Scandal, a Self-Made Pop Star Endures Brutal Abuse from Her Mogul Stepfather Before Unleashing an Online Paper Trail That Spells Mutual Ruin
The initial euphoria of freedom began to curdle, replaced by a growing knot of apprehension. My eyes kept returning to the logo on Julian’s tablet: Apex Media Group. The name echoed in the recesses of my mind, a vague, unsettling memory from the periphery of the industry.
“Apex Media Group?” I asked, my voice flat, the relief suddenly hollow. “Who are they, Julian?”
Julian’s hand, still resting on mine, subtly stiffened. His smile faltered, replaced by a more neutral, almost rehearsed expression.
“They’re a conglomerate, Nova,” he explained, his gaze shifting from my face to the glowing screen. “A new player, but with massive resources. They specialize in digital media acquisitions.”
He scrolled through another document. This one, unlike the complex financial ledgers, was a clean, crisp corporate transfer form. My name, Evelyn Ward, was prominently displayed. Underneath it, in bold, were the words: “ASSIGNMENT OF ALL MASTER RECORDING RIGHTS AND INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY.”
And the assignee? Apex Media Group.
“Wait,” I said, pulling my hand away. The prickle of unease intensified, spreading through my limbs. “My $85 million catalog. It’s not just ‘secured.’ It’s been… transferred to them?”
Julian nodded, still avoiding my direct gaze. He cleared his throat. “It was the only way, Nova. Milo’s assets were in federal seizure. To protect your catalog from being tied up in litigation for years, we needed a clean transfer.”
“We?” I pressed, my voice rising. “Who is ‘we’? And since when does ‘protecting’ my assets mean handing them over to a corporate entity I’ve never heard of?”
My gaze snapped back to the document. Underneath the assignment, there was a new contract. Not a Kincaid Entertainment Group contract, but an Apex Media Group Artist Agreement. My eyes scanned the fine print, and a chill snaked down my spine.
The terms were… familiar. Eerily similar to Milo’s original predatory contracts, but somehow even more binding. Performance clauses, creative control provisions that were effectively nullified by vague “corporate guidelines,” a percentage split that seemed weighted heavily against the artist.
“Julian,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “This looks like another contract. A binding one.”
He finally looked at me, his expression carefully neutral, devoid of the triumphant warmth he’d shown moments before.
“Apex Media Group facilitated the entire operation,” he explained, his words measured. “They provided the legal team, the forensic experts, the secure channels for the data leak. Their resources are unparalleled. This was part of the deal.”
“The deal?” I stared at him, my mind racing. The initial relief had evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard dread. “What deal, Julian? What did you give them in exchange for ‘saving’ me?”
He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of the tablet. The silence in the armored SUV, once a sanctuary, now felt like a suffocating pressure.
He had saved me from one monster, only to deliver me to another. My $85 million catalog, my life’s work, was now out of Milo’s hands, but not truly free. It belonged to Apex Media Group. And the architect of this transfer was my own brother.
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