Chapter 7 - MY MOTHER’S OLD BUSINESS PARTNER
He had not always been Martin Hartwell.
His legal name was Martin Hart.
No relation to my father.
That coincidence was why nobody questioned the studio name.
But my mother had known him.
Very well.
Twenty-seven years earlier, Elaine Hart and Martin Hart had worked together at a small costume house in Los Angeles.
They created Hart Creative Services jointly.
At least, that was what the original records showed.
I had grown up believing it belonged only to my mother.
Richard knew Martin’s name.
He just hadn’t connected him to Vale & Hart because Martin stopped using his original surname professionally after a lawsuit in the early 2000s.
That lawsuit involved intellectual property.
Design ownership.
And my mother.
Richard sat in the conference room staring at an old newspaper clipping on his phone.
“My God.”
“What?”
He handed it to me.
I recognized my mother’s younger face immediately.
Beside her stood Martin.
The article described a dispute over costume designs for a major studio production.
My mother claimed Martin had submitted her work under another company’s name.
The case settled privately.
She never told me.
Richard looked sick.
“She protected you from all of this.”
Apparently, she had.
After the settlement, Elaine left commercial fashion.
She moved into smaller costume work.
She raised me away from the industry’s most powerful circles.
And years later, without knowing the connection, I took an entry-level job at the company Martin eventually co-owned.
Natalie finally spoke.
“I didn’t know any of that.”
I believed her.
About that part.
She had known Brooke stole from me.
She had known my signature appeared on something I didn’t understand.
But Martin’s history with my mother seemed to shock her too.
Richard called him.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then James, the studio accountant, entered the room.
He had heard enough to start checking records.
“Martin withdrew money this morning.”
Natalie stood.
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand.”
“From where?”
“The operations reserve.”
Her face went white.
Apparently, Martin had understood the walls were closing before any of us did.
Caroline called me back.
“Emily, I need you to hear this.”
“What now?”
“Hart Creative Services wasn’t only reactivated to document the five-thousand-dollar transfer.”
My chest tightened.
“What else?”
“It has been receiving licensing payments.”
“For my work?”
“Possibly.”
“How much?”
A pause.
“Just over $180,000.”
Richard cursed under his breath.
I had never heard him do that in public.
Caroline continued.
“And Emily?”
“Yes?”
“Some of those payments began before you worked at Vale & Hart.”
I froze.
“How?”
“We’re still tracing the source.”
Then I remembered my mother’s storage boxes.
After she died, I packed dozens of her old design books into a storage unit.
Two years later, several disappeared.
At the time, I thought I had misplaced them during a move.
Now I wondered if someone had been collecting her work too.
May you like
Martin hadn’t discovered me when I joined his studio.
He may have known exactly who I was from the day I applied.
