"I think Disney and Warner's proposal is pretty good."
In the living room, as they all sat down, her mom added, "We've talked about this before. From a practical standpoint, we don't have the capacity to independently develop The Voice, so if Disney and Warner are willing to take over, that's good news for us."
"Right."
Catherine nodded. "And once Disney and Warner handle all production, The Voice should go smoothly. As long as The Voice of America becomes a hit, we can sell the franchise rights worldwide. That kind of revenue… one year could easily reach—"
"Two or three hundred million, maybe?"
"Sounds about right," their mother agreed lightly.
As she spoke, she glanced at her younger daughter, who was resting her chin on her hand. "Of course, I'm not suggesting you sign with them right away. Personally, I think thirty million isn't their ceiling. For Disney or Warner, thirty million is small potatoes. Since both Barry Meyer and Robert Iger want to win, there's room to negotiate."
Since Isabella had predicted Iger's intentions and figured he'd want to develop The Voice, it was natural for her to discuss it first with her mom and sister. Now that her guess had come true, they could talk calmly about the partnership.
Their thoughts were rational enough.
"So, should we call Valentine O'Connor to handle the negotiations?"
Isabella pressed her lips together.
"Uh… I think that's fine," Vivian said after a pause, reaching for her phone.
The bald lawyer might not know the entertainment business, but he knew the law, and that was enough.
Besides, since Isabella was going to get a share of the project's full revenue stream, there wouldn't be much need for him to haggle over every clause.
But Catherine raised a hand. "Wait, Mom."
"Hm?"
"I have a question."
"What question?" Isabella looked over.
Catherine frowned. "Isn't Disney's project plan a bit exaggerated? If I remember right, their proposal says they want to hold auditions in all fifty U.S. states?"
"That's kind of insane, right?"
"I've never been to the U.S., but I know its states aren't equal in economy or population. Holding auditions in the big cities makes sense—but everywhere?"
"Even American Idol only had a few regions."
Isabella hadn't really watched American Idol.
First, she'd outgrown talent shows.
Second, she didn't have the time.
Ever since Harry Potter, she'd barely taken a proper break—just six months after filming Sorcerer's Stone. Once the movie came out, the workload only kept increasing. She barely had time to breathe, let alone chase reality TV.
But she did know American Idol's setup from online articles. The first season had maybe seven or eight cities—New York, LA, Miami—basically big urban centers.
And back then, the total number of applicants hadn't even cracked ten thousand.
Yet Disney wanted to do nationwide auditions?
That… was a bit much.
Robert Iger sure didn't think small.
And big scale meant big cost, long production time.
Plus, Disney wasn't exactly overflowing with time right now.
"Keisha, you're right. Disney's idea does sound strange."
Vivian nodded slowly, then looked back at her younger daughter.
"So… maybe let's hold off on that call."
Isabella smiled. "Let's stop here for tonight. We have filming tomorrow morning. Once we've gone through Disney's plan carefully and confirmed everything makes sense, we can call Valentine. No rush."
She stood up as she spoke, clearly ready to shower and rest.
Vivian and Catherine exchanged baffled looks.
"What's up with your sister?"
"No idea."
"She's not planning to study Disney's contract herself, is she?"
"No idea!"
They both thought Isabella was being weird.
Neither of them had ever worked in reality TV—so what was this, locking herself in to reinvent the wheel?
Exactly that.
In their view, if you don't know something, you bring in an expert. Call J.K. Rowling, ask if she knows anyone in television. Let professionals handle professional stuff.
And yet—
"Oh, Isa, that face changed fast."
"Yesterday you were teasing me, and now you're all polite?"
The next morning, in the hotel restaurant booked for the crew, Isabella spotted Columbus by the window, calmly drinking coffee in the sunlight.
Tray in hand, she grabbed some food and trotted over.
Before she could say anything, Columbus spoke first, his tone dry as dust.
His sarcasm didn't faze her at all.
She grinned. "Director, you guessed right—I am here to apologize."
"Hmph."
Propping his cheek on one hand, Columbus blew on his coffee, took a slow sip, and sighed dramatically. "Barry Meyer and Robert Iger show up, and now you decide to apologize?"
"Your timing's impressive."
"…."
Isabella puffed her cheeks. "Are you going to help me or not?"
He almost laughed. "Is that how you ask for a favor?"
"Of course!"
Her expression turned smug. Chin slightly raised, she declared, "A princess saying sorry to you is already pretty generous. What more do you want?"
That got a real chuckle out of him. He cleared his throat and shook his head. "Alright, what do you want to know?"
"Oh—I want to understand how strong Disney really is."
Once she saw he wasn't joking anymore, she dropped her own act.
Yes—when Isabella didn't understand something, she knew she needed an insider. And who better than the director sitting right in front of her?
When she finished explaining her doubts, Columbus's smile faded.
He looked around. "Not the best place for this talk. Let's walk."
"Alright."
Isabella handed her breakfast plate to her mom, asked her to bring a sandwich to set later, grabbed an iced Americano, and followed him out.
The hotel was near town, and today's shoot—Hagrid's hut—wasn't far.
They walked quietly at first. Columbus sipped his coffee, lost in thought—or maybe avoiding eavesdroppers.
After five minutes or so, when they were clear of people, he finally spoke.
"Isa, personally, I think Bob's idea makes sense."
"Why?"
Her sleepy morning face looked adorable in the sunlight.
"Because Disney's ground network is the strongest in America. No contest."
Columbus continued, "Back in the 1950s, Disney had already built a national membership organization—the Disney Club. Even in an era without modern communication, they managed to keep fans connected across all fifty states. By 1960, the Disney Club had over eight million members."
"So when Bob talks about nationwide auditions, I don't think it's crazy. Disney's probably the only company that could actually pull that off."
"They've got a presence in every state. And when you think about it, Bob's ambition is obvious—he's probably planning for live broadcasts."
"For example, city rounds could air on local TV stations, state rounds on state-level networks. By the time it hits nationals, The Voice would already have massive attention. Each local broadcast doubles as free publicity."
"When a show is promoted in all fifty states at once, with every state having contestants representing them—people feel invested, proud. They'll root for their own. And that's how The Voice becomes a phenomenon."
"To put it simply—Bob just wants to win."
Isabella's eyes sparkled.
She did know about the old Disney Club, so she quickly understood—Disney really could pull off nationwide auditions.
But another question formed.
"Chris, can Bob really marshal that kind of power now? He's not Disney's chairman yet."
"Oh?" Columbus gave her a sidelong look and smirked. "Isa, what do you think of Millionaire?"
"Huh? What do you mean?"
He crushed his empty paper cup, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and said lazily, "No matter how good Who Wants to Be a Millionaire is, it shouldn't be that good—three episodes a week and thirty million viewers? That's not the show's power. That's Bob's marketing."
"It wasn't Millionaire that made Bob famous. It was Bob who made Millionaire legendary."
Every massive hit in entertainment is marketed into existence.
Harry Potter was, Millionaire was too.
When promoting Millionaire, Iger used Disney's ground network—turning what should've been one national hotline into fifty state ones.
Here's the logic:
No matter how many operators you hire, one central hotline can't serve an entire country at once. People call, lines jam, nobody gets through. Frustration sets in. They lose interest.
But if every state has its own number, people can actually get through. They feel involved. They feel the game is real. That they might really become millionaires.
That illusion—of accessibility—is what powered the show's success.
Iger even wrote scripts for operators, politely rejecting callers with heavy accents under the pretext of "Disney's educational mission." They'd say things like:
"Disney's goal is to help every American child grow up healthy and educated. Strong accents might confuse young viewers learning from the show, especially with knowledge-based content. Please practice pronunciation; we'll call you back in a few months."
In other words: eliminated, but gently—and your record stays on file.
For 1990s America, that kind of wholesome "for the kids" excuse worked perfectly.
And that's how Millionaire pulled thirty million viewers a week.
Robert Iger wasn't a fluke or some "lucky executive." You don't go from radio host to Disney's future CEO by luck—and you definitely don't get Warren Buffett's endorsement that way.
Hearing this, Isabella finally relaxed.
If Iger was playing a long game, that meant she had leverage—plenty of room to negotiate.
"Thanks, Chris."
She smiled sincerely.
He shrugged. "Anytime."
By the time they finished talking, they'd reached the set.
Vivian and Catherine were already there. Isabella wolfed down the sandwich they'd brought, and when the clock hit nine, shooting began.
Since Hagrid's hut wasn't on public grounds, filming hours were normal—nine to two.
When work wrapped, Isabella returned to the hotel with her mom and sister.
Door closed, quick discussion—consensus reached.
They called Disney and Warner back.
And Isabella said it straight:
"We can cooperate."
She smiled at the four executives.
"Oh—that's wonderful!"
Barry Meyer and Robert Iger were delighted.
But before they could even stand up to shake Isabella's hand, the girl said, "Before we start formal negotiations, there are two things we need to settle first."
"What things? Just say it, Isa."
Neither Meyer nor Iger thought they owed her anything, so they responded immediately.
"Okay." Isabella nodded. "First thing, can we settle our accounts?"
She looked straight at Meyer.
"The Voice?" Meyer raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah~" Isabella smiled.
"Of course." For Meyer, that was easy. Without hesitation, he said, "I'll have my people pull the report when I get back, then we'll come to the UK and close the revenue books with you."
Under Isabella's contract with Warner, profits from The Voice movie were to be settled every six months.
Meaning, since The Voice premiered on December 25, 2002, the earliest payout wouldn't be before June 25, 2003—basically July 1st.
But, well, there are exceptions to everything.
Warner had already collected plenty from The Voice's box office. Hollywood's payment cycle with theaters follows a 1-3-6 model:
After one month, studios receive the first payment; after three months, the second; and if a movie runs longer than three months, the third payment comes six months after release.
That's true for North America, Europe, and Australia. Elsewhere, it takes even longer—but that's not important.
With The Voice grossing $200 million in North America alone, Warner's share from that territory already covered Isabella's global box office royalties.
If the studio didn't pay early, it wasn't because they couldn't—it was because they preferred keeping liquidity.
But if you asked for the money? They could absolutely pay.
And since money in hand is money safe—5% of $373 million meant about $18.65 million for Isabella.
No way was she sleeping soundly until that was in her account.
As for the soundtrack, VHS, and mini-disc sales? That would take time. Warner hadn't even received full payment for the CDs yet, and the VHS release wasn't until the end of the month.
"Thanks, Barry."
She nodded at Meyer, then turned to Iger.
"Bob, the second thing's about you."
"This partnership of ours… does it count as a partnership?"
"Huh?" Iger blinked.
Meyer burst into laughter. "Oh Bob, she's asking whether this deal fulfills the previous agreement you two had. You said you'd work together, but didn't specify what on, right?"
Iger finally got it, shaking his head with a helpless grin. "Isa, that's hard to answer. I believe we'll be working together for a long time, don't you? This is just the beginning."
Right. Isabella was basically asking if she was now contractually free—but she knew Iger was right.
As long as The Voice worked, their partnership would continue.
"So… Isa, are you just trying to lighten the mood?" Meyer teased.
"You guessed right," she said easily. "Because what comes next is going to be a bit more serious."
With those preliminaries done, the real negotiation began.
First, Isabella laid out her creative ideas for the show.
"Bob, I've got two rough concepts for The Voice's format…"
Blind auditions and rotating chairs weren't new ideas—but The Voice was the first to combine them.
As soon as Iger heard it, he thought her proposal was brilliant—and was a little surprised too.
"Isa, you didn't already have plans to do a variety show, did you?"
"There were already variety elements in World Voice," she said vaguely. "To make the competition scenes in the film look real, we studied a lot of formats. You can ask my sister."
Catherine nodded vigorously—she'd rewritten half that script and practically lost a wrist doing it.
"Alright," Iger said, smiling as his secretary took notes. "Once we finalize the deal, I'll assemble a production team. They'll evaluate your ideas, and as long as they're doable, I'm on board."
He hadn't promised directly, but Isabella knew he'd use her idea. Because blind auditions were fun.
Then came her next goal: more profit.
"Barry, you know I started a management company. So… can I sign a few contestants?"
Originally, she hadn't planned to sign singers—but the opportunity was too good to ignore.
Music made way more money than film or TV.
"Isa, that's… tricky," Meyer said carefully. "Our revenue from The Voice comes from those contracts. Disney isn't paying for music rights, so if you take part of that pie—"
"Oh Barry, relax," she interrupted, smiling. "I'm not asking for much. And Bob's offer still needs to be renegotiated anyway. Plus, you know my company can't handle distribution. I just want the artists' management rights. Their albums and singles would still be released through Warner."
In pop music, there are two main contracts: management and recording.
The former covers appearances, endorsements, and tours; the latter handles publishing and distribution.
Usually, they don't overlap.
So, when Isabella said she only wanted management, her intent was clear—she just wanted a small slice of the business side.
"Isa, would you own any of their song copyrights?" Meyer asked, getting serious.
"Depends," she replied honestly.
"Okay, okay." He thought for a while, then smiled, holding up three fingers. "Before the national rounds start—when the top 150 are chosen—you can pick three contestants. The rest belong to Warner. You can't wait until the results are out, because that'd mean you just snatched the top three."
"If your contestants reach the finals through audience votes, fine, I'll accept it. But if the show's production team props them up deliberately, I'm out."
"And one more clause—we'll add it to the contract: any artist you sign must release all their singles and albums through Warner as long as they're under your company."
"If someday you decide to shut your company down, Warner gets first right to acquire it. Deal?"
His aging eyes gleamed with sharpness.
"Of course~~~" Isabella agreed readily. It was a fair deal.
After all, helping Meyer hold onto his position was in her own interest too. The more stable he was, the more secure she'd be.
Finally, she proposed a floating contract.
"Bob, I talked to Chris. He said you're brilliant and that you'll definitely make The Voice a success. So how about a floating clause?"
"For example, if my base pay is $20 million plus a $10 million bonus, I'll accept that—but I also want 10% of the show's total profits. At the end of each season, I get whichever is higher."
"My appearance fee is separate, of course."
Iger ran his tongue over his lips, exhaling. "Isa, that's… a steep ask."
"But The Voice is a small business for the entire Disney group, isn't it?"
It was simple logic. Protecting her interests wasn't greed—it was business.
And in capitalism, nobody gives up profit voluntarily. If you keep making people money, they'll happily let you take a bigger slice.
"Bob, your goal is to become Disney's king, right?"
She winked.
The room erupted in laughter. Iger, however, was done.
"Call the lawyers," he sighed. "Let's draft the contract. But on one condition—you'll write a theme song for The Voice."
"No problem." Isabella clapped her hands.
Deal.