The air inside the plush, leather-bound office of Mr. Henderson smelled of expensive scotch and lethal litigation. He sat across the heavy desk from me, his hands steepled, reviewing the thick stack of documents I had just pulled from my briefcase.
“Mark thinks he’s the king of the studio because I let him sit on the throne,” I said, my voice completely devoid of the tremor it held just a few hours ago. I stared at the Los Angeles skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “He doesn’t realize the throne is leased, the crown is a cheap prop, and I own the building they’re sitting in.”
Mr. Henderson, a man who charged a thousand dollars an hour to dismantle lives, offered a rare, grim smile. “We have the eviction notice for the downtown penthouse ready, Sarah. And the divorce papers are fully drafted, citing the morality and fidelity clauses in the prenup you insisted on all those years ago. He walks away with nothing.”
“Not just nothing,” I corrected, sliding a secondary folder across the desk. “I initiated a quiet audit of his studio management accounts. He’s been embezzling production funds for eight months. Buying Tiffany diamond tennis bracelets, flying her to Cabo on private charters. It triggers the moral turpitude clause. It’s felony fraud.”
Mr. Henderson opened the folder, his eyebrows rising as he scanned the irrefutable bank transfers. “This is… incredibly thorough, Sarah. How do you want these legal documents delivered? Courier? Process server at his current residence?”
I turned my attention to a flat-screen monitor mounted on the wall. I had tapped into the studio’s closed-circuit feed. The screen showed Tiffany on the soundstage, rehearsing her physical blocking for the final scene, pretending to weep beautifully.
“In front of ten million people,” I said quietly. “I want the world to see her ‘performance’ when she realizes her life just got cancelled.”
I left the law office and opened a secure proxy server on my phone. I composed an email, bypassing the writers’ room entirely, sending it straight to the live broadcast director and the head prop master.
From: S.L. Knight. Subject: Final Scene Revision. Message: New script pages and a locked prop box are being couriered directly to the set for the climax. Do not open the box until the red light goes live. It’s an artistic breakthrough. A surprise genuine reaction is required from the actress. Trust the process.
When I arrived back at the studio later that evening, the energy was electric. A live television broadcast is a high-wire act without a net, and the entire crew was buzzing with adrenaline. I slipped into the shadows of the darkened control room, pulling a stool into the back corner.
A few minutes before airtime, Mark walked into the control room. He was wearing a headset, puffing his chest out as the network executives patted him on the back. He caught sight of me in the dim light. He strutted over, a smug, victorious smirk playing on his lips.
“I thought I told you to go home, Sarah,” he whispered harshly, leaning in so the executives wouldn’t hear. “But since you’re here, watch this. This is how a real star is made. Tiffany is going to make television history tonight. It’s a shame you won’t be a part of this world tomorrow.”
I didn’t blink. I reached out, picked up a styrofoam cup of peppermint tea from the console, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Mark,” I whispered back, my eyes locking onto the bank of glowing monitors showing the live camera feeds. “I think I’ll be exactly where I need to be.”
