I HID MY SON FROM THE BILLIONAIRE WHO DESTROYED MY LIFE FOR SIX YEARS

It was my agent.

Her name was Celia Burke.

For five years, she had represented me with fierce determination.

She'd negotiated my first major contract.

Celebrated my first magazine cover.

Once stood outside a casting director's office for four hours because she believed I deserved an audition.

Then the video appeared.

And suddenly Celia stopped returning my calls.

Three days later, she sent a formal termination notice.

I hadn't spoken to her since.

Until Mara discovered her name in a set of internal Blackwood Entertainment emails.

One message, written shortly after my scandal, identified Celia's agency as a preferred partner for an upcoming slate of productions.

A separate memorandum noted that certain talent relationships had to be resolved before that partnership could move forward.

My name appeared in an attachment.

I read the documents twice.

"Are you saying Celia received business because she dropped me?"

Mara folded her hands.

"We have evidence that her agency benefited from a commercial arrangement made around the same time. We don't yet know whether that benefit was conditioned on abandoning you."

I stared at the emails.

"She told me she couldn't represent someone with my reputation."

"Then let's ask her what she knew."

We met Celia in the private dining room of a quiet restaurant.

She arrived wearing a cream-colored suit and expensive perfume.

For a moment, I saw the woman who used to call me her girl.

Then I remembered the day she'd refused to answer my desperate voicemail.

"Claire," she said warmly.

I didn't stand.

"Hello, Celia."

She sat opposite me.

"You're looking well."

"That's a strange thing to say to someone whose life you helped ruin."

Her smile disappeared.

Mara placed the documents on the table.

"We'd like to discuss the circumstances surrounding the termination of Ms. Bennett's representation."

Celia glanced at the first page.

Then the second.

Her fingers tightened around the paper.

"Where did you get these?"

"We're not discussing our sources at this stage," Mara replied. "We're asking about your involvement."

Celia looked at me.

"Claire, the industry was different then."

I almost laughed.

"Six years ago wasn't the Middle Ages."

"You don't understand the pressure."

"Then explain it."

She looked toward the door.

"Blackwood Entertainment represented a significant percentage of the agency's potential revenue."

"And?"

"Victor Sloane made it clear that the company wouldn't work with agencies continuing to represent people it considered a liability."

I felt something inside me go cold.

"People like me."

Celia nodded.

"Yes."

"You could have told me."

"I was afraid."

"Of losing money?"

"Of losing the entire agency."

I stared at her.

There had been a time when I trusted this woman with every fear, every ambition, and every embarrassing audition tape.

Now she couldn't meet my eyes.

"Did you know the video was misleading?" I asked.

She hesitated.

"Claire—"

"Answer me."

"I suspected."

"Suspected what?"

"That the studio wasn't telling the whole story."

I leaned forward.

"And you abandoned me anyway."

A tear slid down Celia's cheek.

"I told myself you'd recover eventually."

I laughed.

It was an ugly sound.

"Recover? Celia, I sold my apartment to repay contracts I lost because of that video. I gave birth without health insurance from any production. I spent nights editing scripts for sixty dollars while my baby slept beside my desk."

Celia covered her mouth.

"I didn't know."

"You never asked."

The silence was unbearable.

Then Mara asked whether Celia had been promised specific benefits for ending our relationship.

Celia looked at the documents again.

Finally, she said:

"Victor offered our agency priority access to three productions."

"In writing?" Mara asked.

Celia nodded slowly.

"Through a side agreement."

My pulse quickened.

"Do you still have it?"

"I kept everything."

"Why?"

Her expression crumpled.

"Because some part of me knew I might need to explain what I'd done."

Mara asked her to preserve the records and arrange for counsel before providing a formal statement.

Celia agreed.

As we stood to leave, she touched my arm.

"Claire, I know you probably hate me."

I looked at her hand until she removed it.

"I don't hate you."

Hope flickered across her face.

Then I continued.

"I just don't trust you. There's a difference."

Outside, rain was falling.

I stood beneath the awning and tried to steady myself.

For years, I'd wondered whether my career had really been worth anything.

Whether perhaps I'd simply lost everyone's confidence because I wasn't talented enough.

Now I was discovering that some of the people who abandoned me had been protecting their own contracts.

The revelation didn't restore the years I'd lost.

But it began to restore something else.

My understanding of myself.

That afternoon, Mara introduced me to Naomi Ellis, an attorney specializing in media litigation.

Naomi had reviewed the evidence and believed there were grounds to investigate several potential claims, including business interference, defamation, and misuse of contractual confidentiality provisions.

She warned that proving each claim would require different evidence.

"Winning public sympathy is not the same as winning a legal case," she said.

"I don't need sympathy."

"What do you need?"

I looked at the old production records.

"My son needs to know his mother told the truth."

Naomi nodded.

"Then we build the strongest record possible."

Before leaving, she shared something disturbing.

Her office had received notice that Blackwood Entertainment's production division intended to migrate several archives to a new data system.

The announcement claimed it was a routine technical upgrade.

But some older files were scheduled for deletion after migration.