Stolen Blues, Spectral Frequencies, and the $40 Million Studio Betrayal: Former Addict Songstress Nia Dupree Confronts Her Predatory Stepfather Marcus Holloway in a Gothic Battle Over Her Late Moth...
The news of the injunction hit Marcus hard. Devante’s sources within Holloway Sound confirmed it: Marcus was livid. The flow of millions from “Hollow Soul” had abruptly ceased. The global hit, his crowning glory, was now a frozen asset.
Trevon’s foreclosure notice, while still active, was now a public spectacle, proving Marcus’s tactics. The bank, seeing the federal court’s intervention, agreed to a temporary halt on the proceedings, giving us a crucial breathing room.
“He’s bleeding money,” Devante said, leaning back in his chair, a rare smile gracing his lips. “Every day that song isn’t generating direct income for him, it costs him. This kind of legal freeze can last for months, even years.”
But the victory felt hollow. Trevon was safe for now, but the battle was far from over.
Later that evening, a call came from one of Devante’s inside contacts. Marcus was at the studio. Alone.
“He’s locked himself in the main control room,” the voice whispered, fear evident. “He’s been there for hours. Ever since the news broke.”
“Is he okay?” Devante asked, concern in his tone.
“He’s… playing the track,” the contact replied. “On loop. But it’s… different. The meters are spiking. The lights are flickering. It’s like the whole studio is alive.”
I felt a chill despite the warm night air. The ancestral resonance. Mama’s curse. It was acting up.
“He’s distressed,” I said, a dark certainty settling in. “The spectral frequency. It reacts to his presence, to his fear.”
Twist 2. The static frequency wasn’t just a glitch. It reacted physically to Marcus’s presence, causing hardware meltdowns. It was happening now.
“I need to go there,” I decided.
Devante’s eyes widened. “Nia, no. He’s volatile. And if what you say about the ‘resonance’ is true, that studio might be dangerous.”
“He’s vulnerable,” I countered. “He’s cornered. This is my chance to face him, not with lawyers or reporters, but with the truth. Mama’s truth.”
The thought of Marcus, alone in that studio, haunted by the very song he stole, was a compelling image. It wasn’t about revenge, not entirely. It was about confronting the monster.
“At least let me come with you,” Devante insisted.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “This needs to be just me and him. This needs to be private. He needs to know I’m not afraid.”
I hailed a taxi, the night air thick with the smell of jasmine and impending rain. The Holloway Sound estate loomed in the distance, a dark silhouette against the bruised sky.
As I approached the studio gates, I could hear it. A low, throbbing hum, vibrating through the ground, almost imperceptible but undeniably there. It was the ancestral resonance.
The main entrance was ajar, a sliver of light escaping. Marcus hadn’t even bothered to properly lock up. He was too consumed.
I slipped inside, moving silently through the labyrinthine corridors. The hum grew louder with every step. The studio air was heavy, charged, like before a lightning strike.
I pushed open the control room door.
Marcus sat slumped in the producer’s chair, bathed in the eerie blue glow of the main LED screen. On the console meters, “Hollow Soul” was playing. It wasn’t just playing; it was looping spontaneously, the waveforms spiking erratically, the sound distorted, echoing.
Next to him, gleaming under the flickering light, was his newly awarded “Producer of the Year” trophy.
But Marcus wasn’t celebrating. His face was pale, his eyes wide and fixed on the console, on the ghost of my mother’s music. He was lost in a waking nightmare, tormented by his own theft.
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