Onerous Contract Terms
The smugness in Ethan Rhodes's voice was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Leo Foster let out a soft *tsk* and looked away, his gaze drifting toward the hotel entrance.
Even though he hadn't officially broken into the entertainment industry, being connected to Dexter Reed meant he'd seen his fair share of its players.
But from the moment he'd watched Avery Hayes on set, reciting passages from a criminal law textbook, he'd had a gut feeling about her.
She was different. Even if she decided to jump into this business, she wasn't going to play by its rules.
He had a feeling that, sooner rather than later, she was going to be the kind of force that could completely upend the whole industry.
Leo was still caught up in imagining the waves Avery might make down the line, not realizing her first big power play was already happening.
Avery hauled her suitcase up to her room, dropped it by the door, and grabbed a change of clothes before disappearing into the bathroom. Ten minutes later, the shower cut off, and she emerged wrapped in a bathrobe, water dripping from the ends of her hair onto her shoulders.
Her phone was blowing up on the bed, the constant *ping* of notifications shattering the quiet.
She scrubbed a towel over her hair, tossed it aside, and picked up the phone. The screen was flooded with messages, all from Owen Bowen.
"Dr. Hayes, I sent the contract over. Take a look when you have a minute."
"If it all looks good, we can sign as soon as you get to Hollywood."
"We officially start filming in six days. Think you can get here a day early?"
Avery read through them but didn't bother replying just yet. She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the contract addendum Owen had sent. The terms were exhaustive, the language ironclad. It was written to lock down every conceivable right for Party A.
Frankly, it was even more predatory than the contract from Dexter's production.
That one had its share of traps, but at least they hadn't completely lowballed her.
They'd offered a package price of fifteen hundred dollars for the second female lead, which was pretty decent for a newcomer in a supporting role.
But the contract Owen sent had all the same traps and an insultingly low salary. A package price of twenty-five hundred dollars for twelve days of filming. That was the absolute rock-bottom rate for a complete nobody.
She remembered asking Maya Laurent about salaries on the last set.
A lead actress in a short-form series could expect a day rate of two to four hundred dollars.
If you had a previous lead role or a hit show under your belt, the fee would be higher, either a flat rate or a base salary plus performance bonuses tied to viewership.
Avery's eyes landed on the salary figure again, and her mouth curved into a smile that was all ice.
It was amazing how a little power changed a person's perspective.
On the last set, Owen had been whining about how low the investor's pay was, claiming he'd only taken the job because the script was so good.
Now that he was the one holding the purse strings, he was squeezing every penny out of his actors.
Her expression hardened as she stared at the contract. After a moment, she stood, pulled her laptop from her suitcase, and imported the file. It was time for some revisions.
The most exploitative part wasn't the salary or the standard legal traps; it was the section on liquidated damages.
The contract stipulated that if she breached it during filming, she'd owe a penalty of ten times her salary.
But if Party A, the production company, breached it?
The contract conveniently failed to list a specific amount.
*Oh, no.* If she was on the hook for ten times her salary, then they would be, too. That was only fair.
Next up: the payment schedule. It just said "after the shoot wraps." Every producer loved that vague little word. Who knew how long "after" was? If they decided to hold the final payment for six months, she'd have basically worked for free.
A sharp glint appeared in Avery's amber eyes. Her fingers started moving across the keyboard, the crisp clicks filling the silent room. If Owen wanted to send her a predatory contract, he couldn't complain when she fought back.
She tweaked the clauses covering payment, likeness rights, and Party A's breach of contract.
Then she paused, thinking, and added another clause: If she was required to tone down her makeup or costume for a scene, the production would have to pay a penalty, calculated per scene.
If two actors were on screen, the fee would be one hundred dollars.
She'd gotten the idea from Leo. Back on the last set, he'd forced Owen to tone down his own makeup, and neither Owen nor Maya had batted an eye.
It was clearly a common trick in the short-drama world to make the lead look better by making everyone else look worse.
To stop them from pulling it on her, she was adding this clause right now.
After finishing the revisions, Avery leaned back and read through the entire contract one last time.
When she got to the clause about "special filming," she remembered Owen mentioning this drama was a period piece.
For a period piece, "special filming" was a much broader category.
Wire work, for example, fell under that umbrella.
She thought about it for a second, then went back and explicitly added "wire work" to the clause, detailing the conditions.
Avery modified a dozen different clauses, but she didn't touch the salary.
Twenty-five hundred was the minimum for a new actor, which was technically within the market rate.
As much as it grated, she knew she was still a newcomer.
She could negotiate for more after she had some real credits to her name.
Right now, she didn't have the leverage.
Besides, this series was just a stepping stone. She had no intention of staying in the short-form drama world for long. Her goal was the mainstream entertainment industry. This was just training.
Half an hour later, Avery had finished. She did one last careful check and sent the revised file straight to Owen, adding a message.
"Owen, here's the modified contract. Have your legal team take a look. If you agree to the terms, we can sign when I get to Hollywood." She added one more line for good measure. "If you think my terms are unreasonable, you'd better start looking for another actress."
Owen's reply came back almost instantly. "Unreasonable terms? What do you mean?"
He and his cousin had just left a meeting with the marketing department. Their drama was supposed to start filming in a few days, and they were coordinating the prep work. Avery's message caught him completely off guard.
Avery typed back, using her professional username.
Legal Person Does Not Sleep: "You should read the contract first. We can talk after."
"Alright, I'll look at it now," he replied.
Owen tapped open the file she'd sent. He wasn't a lawyer, but after years in the business and signing countless contracts, he knew how to read one, even if he couldn't spot all the traps like Avery could.
At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
But then he got to the payment clause and saw that the final payment was now explicitly required to be "paid in full on the final day of shooting."
That's when he realized this contract was a completely different beast.
"What are you looking at?"
The drama's director, Walter Bowen, noticed his cousin had stopped walking and turned back.
Owen didn't even look up. His stomach twisted as he scrolled through the contract on his phone, a contract that had been torn to shreds and rewritten from the ground up.
He let out a tight breath, shoved the phone under Walter's nose, and said, "Cuz, take a look at this. Is this even our contract anymore?"
He winced. Dr. Hayes really knew her stuff. What she'd sent back wasn't a contract. It was a legal straitjacket designed to bind both of them.
Walter took the phone. As he scanned it, his expression grew grim. "Who modified this?"
In this new version, every clause was redefined, the rights and responsibilities were crystal clear, and every one of the production company's little tricks had been exposed and neutralized. Whoever did this was a pro, methodically closing every single loophole.