"Mrs. Haywood, the final version of the contract has been confirmed. All the previous disputed clauses have been resolved."
"Okay, thank you. Let's sign, then."
April 15th, 2003.
After seventy-two exhausting hours of back-and-forth, Marmot Company finally reached a contractual consensus with Warner Bros. and Disney.
The details were, predictably, a nightmare. For example, Barry Meyer insisted that if Isabella ever decided not to run her company anymore, Warner would have the right of first refusal to purchase it. Isabella agreed.
But that created three new problems.
First: how exactly do you define "not wanting to run the company"?
Second: no one can guarantee they'll own a company forever. If, one day, the Ross family pulled out of Warner, why would Isabella still owe them anything? The only reason she was giving Warner the right of first refusal was to show the Ross family—who currently held the reins—that she was an ally, that they were on the same team.
But if the Rosses left… well, she had no emotional obligation to whoever replaced them. Strictly business.
Third: Isabella already owned two companies and might have more in the future. So when Warner said it had "first purchase rights" over her company, which one exactly were they talking about?
Because the earlier discussions were all vague, once they sat down formally, they specified that Warner's right of first refusal would apply only to Marmot Company, and only if Isabella decided to sell it to an outside buyer.
Her collaboration with Warner was, for now, strictly music-related.
So, the agreement wouldn't touch her other ventures.
And the clause would only last five years.
Meaning, if she didn't sell Marmot within the next five years, all those restrictive terms would expire. And even the "sale" was clearly defined—if she sold Marmot to an affiliated company, it didn't count. For example, if Beaver Productions bought Marmot, that wasn't considered an external sale.
Or if Isabella ever held 34% of Disney stock and Disney acquired Marmot, that wouldn't count either.
That was the shape of the contract.
If you don't eliminate risk now, you'll drown in disputes later.
Technically, this kind of clause-splitting didn't require Barry Meyer or Robert Iger to personally babysit the talks—Warner and Disney both had full legal teams. They could've just exchanged signatures through their lawyers.
But the two "old men" refused to leave the set, sticking around until everything was finalized.
Isabella could understand that.
The Voice was a major deal for them. A little paranoia was only natural.
Once the contracts were signed, they could finally go home. In high spirits, Isabella joked as she saw them off:
"Finally! Do you have any idea how miserable I've been these last few days? Having you two hanging around the set felt like working under your boss's constant gaze!"
"People aren't meant to live like that!"
Her whining made everyone laugh.
Barry Meyer grinned. "Okay, okay, we're leaving. Next time I need something, I'll call ahead, give you a heads-up, alright?"
"Hahaha~"
Maybe it was the joy of getting the deal done, but everyone was in a great mood.
Then Isabella suddenly remembered something.
"Bob—Barry—one last question."
"Go on," Robert Iger gestured.
"I want to know—who are you planning to bring in as mentors?"
Mentors were a big deal on The Voice. They were half the reason audiences tuned in.
She hadn't brought it up earlier. Honestly, she'd forgotten.
Now that she remembered—
"Oh, that? We've already decided," Barry said. "We're inviting MJ, Madonna, Elton John, and Paul McCartney."
"What?"
Isabella froze.
"Who did you say???"
She thought she'd misheard.
MJ and Madonna needed no introduction. Elton John—"Rocket Man"—was one of the most successful male artists in pop history, with over 300 million records sold. His tribute song "Candle in the Wind 1997," written for Princess Diana, was the best-selling single of all time.
Paul McCartney? Ex-Beatle, solo career still going strong.
If that lineup happened, The Voice wouldn't just be a hit—it'd nuke the entire concept of talent shows.
Because after that, nobody else could compete.
"Yeah, MJ, Madonna, Elton, and Paul," Iger repeated. "Is something wrong?"
Still stunned, Isabella held out her hand.
"Bob, just transfer thirty million to my account."
"Why?"
"Because if you're planning to hire those four, the appearance fees alone will cost, what, four hundred million? Since the mentors already cost that much, how much ad revenue would you need to make a profit? Our deal's revenue-based, sure, but if Disney loses money, how will you pay me my share? So, better send me thirty million now—just in case I have to sue you later when you can't pay me."
Her impeccable "logic" made everyone burst out laughing.
Soon after, the old men finally got in their cars. As they drove off, Iger leaned out and waved:
"Isabella, we were joking! Even if Disney and Warner joined forces, MJ, Madonna, Elton, and Paul wouldn't all show up. MJ doesn't do TV shows, Madonna's too expensive, Elton maybe—we've got an ongoing deal with him—but Paul? He's touring nonstop right now. Wants to hit 3,000 solo concerts before 2005."
"No time for TV."
Hearing that, Isabella finally relaxed.
She really had believed them for a moment.
Their goal wasn't profit—it was power. And chasing power makes people say strange things.
Still, she couldn't help feeling a pang of disappointment.
MJ, Madonna, Elton John, Paul McCartney… what a dream lineup.
If she could've worked with them, she could've crowned herself the fifth titan of pop.
As for how that made sense? Simple.
Basketball has its GOAT and "second GOAT." She couldn't beat the first four—so that made her number five.
Heh.
While Isabella's imagination was running wild, word of Disney and Warner's joint plan to develop The Voice spread quietly through North America.
Well—sort of.
The public wouldn't hear anything until an official announcement, of course. Even inside the industry, only a handful of insiders caught wind of it.
But even a few whispers among the powerful can stir the storm.
"What did you say? Robert Iger is developing The Voice?"
Inside the News Corp headquarters, Rupert Murdoch was listening to his daughter, Elisabeth Murdoch, report.
Under his watchful gaze, she nodded.
"Yes. The news is reliable—it came straight from Disney. Michael Eisner's furious with Iger over losing Millionaire, and demanded Iger immediately produce a show to replace it. Iger went to the UK with Barry Meyer—they stayed on the Prisoner of Azkaban set for several days. After coming back, Disney started talking to Coca-Cola and McDonald's for sponsorship."
"They haven't officially announced The Voice, but everything they're doing points straight to it."
Murdoch frowned deeply.
Because the most successful talent show on the market right now—American Idol—belonged to his own company, Fox, under News Corp.
Idol hadn't reached Millionaire's insanity levels, but it was a solid hit, propelling Fox to second place in national ratings, right behind CBS.
TV rankings shift fast. One blockbuster show can flip the entire industry.
Idol's success boosted Fox's revenue by 7% last year, and the second season was driving a 19% year-over-year increase.
The numbers were beautiful. Stocks up, investors thrilled.
And now—ABC wanted to make The Voice?
"What's your opinion?" Murdoch asked.
His daughter was one of the few heirs who actually had business acumen. She'd personally brought Idol to the company.
So he valued her judgment.
Elisabeth's tone was calm but firm. "Dad, The Voice could be a serious threat. The name alone carries prestige and audience recognition. The Voice movie made $373 million, and its soundtrack sold huge. If that's turned into a TV show, Idol's ratings will absolutely drop."
In entertainment, one fact is sacred: the core demographic—ages 18 to 49—accounts for 80% of the industry's spending.
People over 49 contribute less than 3%, and those under 18 about 17%.
Talent shows primarily attract the 14–34 age group.
That makes them gold mines—at least on paper. But from a network perspective, that narrow demographic caps your viewership.
That's why Idol could never surpass Millionaire—the latter appealed to everyone.
Simple math.
And when your audience cap is fixed, every new competitor just slices your pie thinner.
And that wasn't Fox's only problem. For years, that 17% under-18 demographic had been Disney's personal playground.
Until Harry Potter showed up.
The franchise, targeting ages 6–34, cracked Disney's golden shell.
So when Warner's HP could steal part of Disney's market share, and its star, Isabella Haywood, decided to team up with Disney to make… a talent show?
That's a nightmare scenario.
A show that comes preloaded with audience traffic is scary enough. One that comes with paying fans? Impossible to fight.
Yeah.
The battle hadn't even begun, and Elisabeth already felt Fox had lost.
Because when the same pool of viewers pays for one side, they stop watching the competition.
That's just how fan psychology works.
No traffic = no survival.
And then the snowball effect kills everyone else.
In her eyes, Isabella Haywood was even more dangerous than ABC realized.
ABC saw her as a ratings anchor.
Fox saw her as a black hole for everyone else's audience.
Murdoch's frown deepened.
"So you're saying… we can't let The Voice succeed."
"If possible," Elisabeth nodded.
Murdoch inhaled slowly, gears turning. Then he shook his head.
"Go home. I need to think."
"You got it, Dad."
She left him alone to brood.
Meanwhile, in California—Universal's headquarters.
Vivendi Universal vice-chairman Edgar Bronfman Jr. was listening to chairman Doug Morris.
"So you're saying the Ross family has counterattacked? Barry Meyer doesn't want to sell Warner Music anymore, and he's teaming up with Robert Iger to launch a music competition show—The American Voice?"
"Yes, sir," Morris confirmed. "Word is, they're already in talks with sponsors. The title sponsors will likely be Coca-Cola and McDonald's. Negotiations should move fast—Coke's already a partner of both Warner and Disney, and McDonald's works with Coke, Pixar, and Disney. If those two put up the cash, production could start this summer. And if that happens, even if we do manage to buy Warner Music later… the price will definitely go up."
Coca-Cola's licensing deal for Harry Potter had already been mentioned before.
As for its ties to Disney: when Warren Buffett helped push Disney's acquisition of ABC, the old man used his influence to forge a strategic alliance between Coca-Cola and Disney.
At that point, every single drink sold in Disney's parks and resorts became Coca-Cola.
McDonald's, Coca-Cola, Pixar, and Disney? Their relationships were as tangled as a soap opera but much simpler in essence:
At McDonald's, the cola was—naturally—Coca-Cola. That was Warren Buffett's doing. He made sure Coke became the default beverage for fast-food chains, conquering the market by shaping customers' taste habits.
Inside Disney parks, the food was supplied by McDonald's. McDonald's thought Coke's business logic was genius and decided to copy it.
And those Happy Meals with toys? At this point in time, all those toys were exclusive Pixar IPs—and Happy Meals with Pixar toys were McDonald's most profitable product.
And Pixar's IPs? Half of them belonged to Disney.
So…
Is finding sponsors the hardest part of launching a TV show?
That's not wrong.
But it depends on who is doing it.
When giants are all intertwined, if the project itself passes review, sponsorship becomes a one-sentence formality.
"Special case, special approval."
Given that—
"You think The Voice is guaranteed to happen?"
Little Bronfman pushed his glasses up his nose and asked gravely.
Doug Morris nodded seriously. "Boss, Isabella Haywood is terrifying."
"On the surface, it looks like she just rode the Harry Potter wave. But actually, she's the only one in the whole franchise who managed to turn a character's popularity—and the movie's popularity—into her own."
"Hermione Granger's image is flawless. So flawless it's impossible to find fault."
"People in the industry are already saying Hermione might be the most successful female character in film history—no competition. As long as Isabella keeps performing normally, she'll have first pick of every major project in the future."
"In fact, that's already happening."
"Whenever companies get a script with a character around her age, they automatically think of her first. And not just that—they evaluate the script from her perspective, asking whether it suits her. That kind of consideration didn't exist before."
"And once everyone agrees on that…"
"Then The Voice is destined for success."
"And what do you think the worst outcome of The Voice's success would be for us?" Bronfman asked.
"Uh… the worst? You probably won't get another shot at rebooting Warner Music…"
Doug Morris sounded regretful.
Bronfman's reason for buying Warner Music had been simple: he wanted to start over.
To prove to the world he wasn't a spoiled failure.
To prove his instincts were right—that the music business was still a gold mine.
But now?
"Okay. Got it."
Bronfman said quietly, then picked up his office phone.
Half a minute later, the conference room at AOL Time Warner's headquarters rang with a series of ding-ding-ding tones.
Ted Turner's phone.
He answered. "Edgar?"
"Yeah."
"What's up?"
"Warner Music."
"We were just meeting about that…"
"Alright, Uncle Turner. I'll wait for your word."
When the call ended, Ted Turner looked around the table again.
There were people from his side, from AOL, from Time Inc., and from Warner Bros.—well, supposedly.
Since he'd kicked the Ross family off the board, there hadn't really been any "Warner" people left.
"So… gentlemen… how are we looking at this?" he asked.
"Barry Meyer played this move perfectly," said Steve Case, AOL's founder and now the group's chairman. "With Warner and Disney joining hands, selling Warner Music just got a lot trickier."
"At least for now."
"Exactly. Selling it right now doesn't serve our interests," added Richard Parsons, the current CEO. He cleared his throat. "The original plan to sell Warner Music was purely to reduce corporate debt. And when that decision was made, the company's valuation was in free fall."
"But if its value goes up now?"
"Then I'd say we should pause the sale."
At those words, every eye in the room flickered, each person trying to gauge everyone else's reaction—including Ted Turner's.
Yeah…
Even the man most eager to carve up Warner wasn't angry.
Because Richard Parsons was the real power inside AOL Time Warner.
The man had Rockefeller ties.
His grandfather had been John D. Rockefeller's personal attendant.
A century ago, his whole family served the Rockefellers.
At 23, fresh out of college, Parsons became assistant to Nelson Rockefeller.
After Nelson's death, he worked for his brother Lawrence Rockefeller.
And in 1991, Lawrence personally recommended him to the Ross family patriarch, Steve Ross.
Lawrence had once believed in Ross's vision—that Time Warner could become the next Disney—but fate had other plans. Not long after investing, Steve Ross died suddenly.
Then came the endless infighting.
Lawrence lost interest. The Rockefellers wanted Disney, not this messy Warner thing.
But just because the Rockefellers pulled back didn't mean everyone else could do whatever they wanted.
Now, no major corporate decision passed without Parsons' approval.
That was respect for real capital.
Sure, the others were rich. They owned production assets.
But compared to the Rockefellers? Not even close.
And on the Warner Music sale, Parsons had originally agreed—it made sense to sell a shrinking division and reduce debt below $20 billion. But now?
If Barry Meyer succeeded with The Voice, Warner Music could turn back into the group's cash cow.
Just look at American Idol. It made Fox's partner BMG filthy rich.
Fox, like Disney, didn't have its own record label.
So they partnered with one of the Big Five—BMG—for music rights.
And BMG got all the show's song rights, plus management contracts for every contestant.
The crown jewel was Kelly Clarkson, winner of Season 1, who alone had brought BMG over $100 million in revenue.
Meanwhile, AOL Time Warner's entire sale negotiation for Warner Music was worth just $3 billion.
That kind of difference…
Any sane person would wait.
See what The Voice could bring in.
"So… we're pausing the negotiations?"
Ted Turner's eyes gleamed at Parsons.
Parsons knew exactly what he was thinking—Turner just wanted to weaken the Ross family's remnants and tighten his grip on Warner.
He hadn't cared before, because it didn't affect him.
As long as the stock price rose, Rockefeller profits rose too.
But right now…
Until the Rockefellers sold their shares, the group's interests were his interests.
"Ted, you got a problem with that?" Parsons asked with a smile.
"No."
"Then we pause."
Parsons smiled.
"Good."
Turner forced a grin, but everyone could see he was far from happy.
And at the same time, someone else was just as furious—Disney's own tyrant, Michael Eisner.
When he learned that Bob Iger had secured The Voice license, Eisner immediately realized the bastard had gotten lucky again. Everyone knew how powerful the IP was.
"So… Bob's already moving?"
"Yeah," the assistant said. "Coca-Cola and McDonald's are already processing the sponsorship paperwork. There's huge internal support. Both brands think The Voice is a guaranteed hit, so they're co-sponsoring—fifty million each—and will handle drinks and food from the auditions onward."
A $100 million sponsorship deal was no small feat back then.
Millionaire had been in that range, but even American Idol hadn't hit that level.
So if Coke and McDonald's were willing to throw that kind of money, it meant they expected The Voice to pull over 30 million viewers per episode. That was massive.
Big enough that Eisner needed to call for backup—because if he didn't take Iger down soon, Iger would take him.
But how to take him down…?
"Ugh…"
Eisner sighed heavily. No good ideas came to mind.
"So when does The Voice launch?"
"Expected around June or July—summer break."
"Guest lineup?"
"No details yet. But Isabella will appear. And apparently… she's writing a song."
"…"
That was predictable.
The Voice was Isabella's creation—if she didn't show up, it'd lose its soul.
But precisely because she was the soul, Eisner felt sick just thinking about it.
Everyone knew her popularity was ridiculous.
And she hadn't even set foot in the U.S. yet.
So once she appeared… the market would explode.
Another long sigh.
Frowning deeply, Eisner tried to fish for any sliver of good news.
"So we've got, what, two months? No—six weeks to react?"
"Yes."
"Fine… that's enough time to think up a counterattack…"
And so—while Disney's Michael Eisner, News Corp's Rupert Murdoch, Vivendi Universal's Edgar Bronfman Jr., and AOL Time Warner's Steve Case and Ted Turner all kept their eyes fixed on the looming Voice phenomenon—
May arrived.
And someone completely unrelated to The Voice (well, sort of unrelated) got the first punch from Warner.
That unlucky soul? Ted Turner's loyal subordinate, Robert Shaye.
"What did you just say?"
"Matrix Reloaded's box office forecast is between six and seven hundred million? Maybe even eight??"
"Are you kidding me???"
At New Line Cinema, Robert Shaye leapt out of his fancy new chair, feeling like his backside had just been kicked by fate itself.