The air backstage was thick with the scent of hairspray, sweat, and impending performance. Crew members shouted into headsets, hurrying across my path. The thumping bass of the opening credits music vibrated through the floorboards.
I spotted Richard. He was leaning against a stack of prop storage racks, half-hidden behind a giant fake palm tree, talking to someone on his phone. His back was to me.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it.
I walked silently, my heels sinking slightly into the worn carpet. The studio audience’s muffled roar was a distant, mocking counterpoint to the quiet desperation building within me.
“Richard,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise.
He spun around, nearly dropping his phone. His eyes, already wary, widened when he saw the tablet in my hand.
“Maya,” he said, forcing a smile. “What a coincidence. Just heading to the stage.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I hissed, pushing the tablet forward, displaying the damning text messages. “Three hundred and twelve messages. Gentry Media LLC. Two point eight million dollars. And the $450,000 lien on my home.”
His face paled, the fake smile faltering. He looked around nervously, but the hallway was thankfully empty. The floor managers were all on the main stage, preparing for the countdown.
“I also know about the six thousand dollar nursing home fees,” I continued, my voice trembling with rage. “And your twelve thousand dollar ‘administrative consulting charges’ that bled me dry for twelve years.”
Richard swallowed hard, his eyes flickering towards my chest, towards the tiny microphone. A flicker of suspicion crossed his face.
“And your medical power of attorney,” I added, stepping closer, cornering him against the prop racks. “The one you used to block my statements and now threaten to move Diana with. It’s all here, Richard. Every single twisted, greedy detail.”
He tried to push past me, but I blocked his way. “Not until you sign the release. The one giving me full control over my mother’s care trust. Right now.”
His face contorted, a mixture of fear and fury. “You can’t do this.”
“I can,” I retorted, pressing the tablet closer. “And if you don’t, I will walk out onto that stage and tell everyone.”
A frantic voice boomed over the overhead speakers. “Two minutes to air! Talent to positions, please!”
Richard’s eyes darted frantically between me, the tablet, and the door leading to the stage. He was trapped.
“Sign it, Richard,” I demanded, holding out an imaginary pen. “Or I burn your entire empire down.”
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