Chapter 12 - The Second Agreement
I did not call Alexander immediately.
That surprised me.
Six months earlier, the thought of waiting would have felt like distrust. Now I understood that asking questions carefully was not the same as believing the worst.
I called a lawyer who did not work for him.
Her name was Camille Ortega.
A former student’s mother had recommended her after Camille helped a group of performers untangle a dispute with a management company.
We met in an office above a pharmacy.
No private elevator.
No view of the park.
Just books, a stubborn printer, and a woman who asked to see the documents before offering reassurance.
I placed the envelope on her desk.
“I don’t know whether this is a warning or a trick.”
“It can be both,” she said.
She reviewed the original engagement contract, the studio deed, and the foundation’s scholarship commitments.
Then she asked about the second agreement.
“I haven’t seen one.”
“Has Alexander denied that it exists?”
“I haven’t asked.”
“Then let’s begin there.”
I called him from her office.
He answered on the first ring.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m with independent counsel.”
A pause.
“Okay.”
“There’s a note suggesting another agreement exists. Something connected to the studio.”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “There is a funding agreement.”
My stomach tightened.
“Between whom?”
“The Blake Foundation and the center’s operating entity. It covers the scholarship commitment and certain building expenses.”
“Why haven’t I seen it?”
“You should have.”
“That isn’t an explanation.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It isn’t.”
Camille introduced herself.
She asked for the complete agreement and all schedules relevant to my rights, the school’s operations, and the foundation’s authority.
Alexander agreed.
He did not demand to know who recommended her.
He did not offer one of his own lawyers instead.
I noticed.
I did not let noticing replace reading.
The documents arrived that afternoon.
The agreement did not give Alexander control of my life.
It did contain provisions requiring foundation approval for certain major expenditures funded by its grant.
That was not automatically unreasonable.
What disturbed me was a schedule describing the center’s public association with the Blake name.
Gala participation.
Donor recognition.
Promotional appearances by the artistic director.
Me.
I stared at the language.
“I never agreed to this.”
Camille read the clause again.
“We need to establish whether this was a proposal, a completed obligation, or language someone treated as standard without discussing it.”
“Does that distinction matter?”
“Yes.”
“Does it make me feel less purchased?”
“No.”
I appreciated her honesty.
Alexander came to the studio after classes.
Marisol remained in her office.
I chose to keep the door open.
He looked at the papers on the desk.
“Camille sent her questions.”
“Did you know about the appearances?”
“I knew the foundation expected donor events. I didn’t understand how the schedule described your participation.”
“You’re very good at understanding schedules when shipping contracts are involved.”
He lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
For a moment, anger rose so quickly I could barely keep my voice level.
“You promised me fifty years of funding. Did everyone hear that as fifty years of access?”
“No.”
“Then why is my work listed as part of what they receive?”
He read the page.
Really read it.
I watched his face change.
Not with surprise alone.
With recognition.
He had spent his life treating obligations as things that could be organized.
I was asking whether love had made him stop noticing where organization became control.
“I’ll have it removed,” he said.
“Through counsel. With the school’s interests protected.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not asking for a personal favor.”
“I understand.”
I looked toward the mirror.
Ruby’s repaired slipper sat beneath a chair.
Everything about the school felt suddenly fragile.
Then Alexander spoke.
“The first contract was a transaction. I won’t pretend it wasn’t.”
I turned back.
“But yesterday wasn’t.”
I wanted to believe him.
I did believe him.
That was why the question hurt.
“Then help me make sure the papers stop telling a different story.”
He nodded.
Before leaving, he placed his own copy of the original contract on the desk.
“I don’t want to hide it.”
Neither did I.
The next morning, we released a brief statement acknowledging how the arrangement began.
We did not call the document fake.
We did not call the people asking questions cruel.
We said the original agreement had expired.
May you like
Then I added one sentence in my own name.
A beginning made for the wrong reasons does not give strangers ownership of everything that follows.
