Warner Bros. chairman Barry Meyer kept his word. Once he returned to Los Angeles, he had his team coordinate with Isabella's representatives to settle The Voice's box office profit-sharing.
By June 1st, 2003, 5% of the global gross—$18.65 million—was deposited as promised. To be precise, $9.325 million went into the Beaver Co. account, and another $9.325 million went into Vivian's bank account—the former as a 2.5% script royalty, the latter as a 2.5% producer share.
But once the money arrived, a new problem appeared: taxes.
Since neither payment technically counted as Isabella's personal income, Warner didn't have to withhold or prepay taxes under the UK's underage-actor clause. Which meant she'd have to pay it herself.
So here came the fun part—
"Um… Isabella, your total income over the years is indeed £14.5 million, but your trust account currently holds only £6.4 million."
"Of the missing amount, about £6.5 million was deducted as taxes, and the remaining £1.6 million was withdrawn by your mother for 'living expenses.' That's 20%, right? Fourteen and a half minus six and a half equals eight, and 20% of eight million is 1.6."
Now that the biggest paycheck of her life had come in, Isabella wanted to know exactly how much she'd made in her career so far. She opened her income records—the contracts she'd signed with Warner.
Soon, the number appeared before her: a combined £14.5 million in acting fees and (fake) endorsements.
She admitted the number looked really nice.
After all, she'd only done three movies.
And two of them were "auto-win" projects—blockbusters that made money whether she lifted a finger or not.
Making that much from so little work was nothing to complain about.
Except—
She'd paid £6.5 million in taxes?!
The revelation made the little beaver's eyes go wide.
With a whoosh, she darted over to Catherine's side.
While she reviewed her income sheets, Catherine was checking the trust account statements.
So when the official bank documents—legally binding and stamped—started showing line after line of tax deductions, Isabella's joy instantly collapsed. She turned toward her mother in disbelief.
Vivian pressed her lips together, saying nothing—an unspoken confession.
That silent confirmation from her own mother made the girl's face crumple like a wet puppy.
Her mom and sister both fought back laughter—she looked so pitiful it was adorable.
Sitting nearby, the family lawyer, Valentin "Big Baldy" O'Connor, spoke gently.
"Uh… Isabella, there's really nothing that could've been done. Since you're underage, the account is under direct government supervision. You can't operate it freely."
As the Haywood family's private lawyer and legal advisor to both Beaver Co. and Marmot Co., he'd rushed over the moment he heard about the big transfer—mainly to prevent a tax disaster.
He had to warn them: if they forgot to pay, it would be a nightmare to fix.
And if they paid the standard way—it'd be painful.
$18.65 million equals about £11.82 million.
In the UK, any personal annual income above £150,000 hits the top tax bracket. Companies pay a little less, but only if they can deduct expenses through real operations.
And Beaver Co.? No expenses, only income.
Their biggest "expense" so far had been $250,000 for buying Little Miss Sunshine.
So the taxes on that £11.82 million wouldn't be much lighter than the personal £6.5 million she'd already paid.
"Uh—Uncle Valentin—I'm not blaming you—"
The girl waved her hands. "I know my finances are tricky. But that doesn't mean I can't feel sad, right?"
"After all, that £14.5 million was earned through my blood, sweat, and tears."
"Actors work 365 days a year with no breaks…"
She trailed off.
Because she noticed her mom and lawyer were both giving her weird looks—
and her sister's expression screamed please stop talking.
"Fine, okay, not that much sweat."
She dropped the act.
Yes, Isabella felt a little heartbroken about the £6.5 million tax bill—
but only for one second.
That money had come ridiculously easy.
So… whatever.
Let it go.
Of course, if she could legally avoid a bit of it—well, who wouldn't?
She wasn't pretending to be noble.
As for her "hard-working" narrative—yeah, that was a joke.
"Ahem, Uncle Valentin, any suggestions about handling the profit shares?"
Since no one wanted to humor her theatrics, she shifted topics.
Valentin, glad to move on, offered his solution: buy farmland.
Specifically, agricultural land.
"Isabella, Catherine, Mrs. Haywood—Britain's always encouraged investment in the primary sector…"
Everyone who reads the news knows this: rich people in capitalist countries love farming.
Today they buy a few fields here, tomorrow a few more there—until, surprise, they're landlords.
Yes, that includes the famously bushy-browed Mr. Gates.
On the surface, it's simple logic.
Food is a necessity—strategic and always in demand.
And land is finite—investing in it means investing in everything.
But there's a third reason: tax reduction.
For example, in the UK, if you earn £10 million in a year and put it all into agriculture, your tax rate can drop from forty-something percent to as low as 7.5.
Insane, but true.
So when you've got income with no deductible costs, farming is the best legal tax dodge.
And the best part—you don't even have to farm yourself. Someone else does it for you.
"The plan is simple," said Valentin. "We buy an operational farm, then lease it back to the original owner. On paper, it looks stupid—they sell their own farm just to rent it back—but in reality, there aren't many real farmers left."
"Farming doesn't make real money anymore. Prices are controlled by grain merchants. The margins are pathetic."
"So farmers wanting profits can only make money by converting wasteland into farmland. They sell their current land to rich buyers like us, then use the cash to buy barren land and develop it. Turning wasteland into farmland multiplies its value—at least 300x, sometimes even 1000x."
"Of course, it's hard work—takes time, labor, and government certification. But compared to traditional farming, the return is massive."
As the lawyer explained, the secret world of rich people's "tax farming" unfolded before them.
Everyone agreed it was a solid plan—practical, easy, and efficient.
And both Isabella and Vivian believed the old saying: when money piles high enough, it's just numbers.
If you don't turn it into productive assets, you're just a fattened pig.
So… they refused to be pigs.
"Valentin, can you handle the process for us?"
Vivian smiled. Isabella just leaned against her sister, playing the innocent minor.
Being thirteen had its perks.
Don't want to talk? Ignore them.
No one can say a thing.
You can't exactly drag a cute little girl into a business meeting.
"Of course I can," Valentin grinned. "Our firm handles all kinds of transactions."
He was downright cheerful now—their acceptance meant a fat commission.
"Scottish farmland averages £350 per acre, English farmland £450. So £11.82 million buys roughly 30,000 acres."
"Our tax year runs April 1st to March 31st, so with the profit hitting June 1st, we've got plenty of time to plan."
"And if we ever need fast cash?" Vivian asked.
"Oh, that's easy."
"Farmland loans are common—the mortgage rate's usually 50–60%. Many people do it routinely. Borrow against it, use the cash for something else."
He spoke with the ease of a man who'd done it dozens of times.
Isabella, however, didn't really need the option.
She already had more money than she could spend.
The $18.65 million was only the first payout from The Voice.
The VHS sales, soundtrack, CD releases, and show development rights hadn't even been tallied yet—each worth millions, possibly hundreds of millions more, some recurring yearly.
Once those hit, she'd be forced to spend money fast just to avoid paying half in taxes.
The horror—having to blow through tens of millions just to save money.
Truly, what a cruel existence.
Heh.
Vivian only asked about cashing out to understand how liquid the land was.
Since it was easy to sell, buying farmland—sorry, investing in agriculture for Britain's food security—became their new patriotic goal.
And their enabler? Big Baldy.
Once the agency contract was signed, he rubbed his hands together with barely concealed glee.
He had every reason to.
Under their agreement, Isabella paid his firm £150,000 per year for full family and company legal coverage—litigation billed separately.
Anything outside standard company work, like this land deal, earned the firm a 3% transaction fee.
So if he successfully completed the £11.82 million purchase, he'd pocket £350,000. Not bad at all.
In law, even fifty grand a year counts as top-tier.
Isabella didn't mind the cost—lawyers are one thing you never cheap out on.
In the world of capital, everything ends up decided by law anyway.
"Keisha."
"Hmm?"
"You'd better study hard…"
"Why are you saying that out of nowhere?"
"Because our family needs a lawyer! You can't survive out there without knowing the law!"
After Valentin left, Isabella leaned on her sister, plotting her future career path for her.
Not that Catherine agreed.
"Ugh, Isabella—no. I'm already swamped."
"I expanded The Voice's script for you… I designed your mini-disc covers and inserts… I handle your phone and your calls…"
"And now you want me to study law too?"
"I literally don't have time."
And she wasn't exaggerating.
Even just managing Isabella's phone made her a full-time assistant.
Those "cute beaver" mini-disc illustrations? Two months of solid work.
Of course, she wasn't doing it for free—
She got 1% of total sales revenue under the Warner contract.
A small but meaningful slice.
Why only 1%? Well…
Because they hadn't sold the rights to Little Beaver's cartoon image.
The artwork copyright belonged to Marmot Co.
Heh heh~
But—
Even if Catherine made sense, Isabella didn't feel like listening.
"Sis—forget about drawing covers, doing illustrations, or writing scripts—you don't have to do those every day. But learning law? Don't you want to make sure I won't get tricked by some lawyer and end up penniless on the street?"
"Could you really stand to see your baby sister on a cold winter night, holding a box of matches and begging for food?"
Isabella's big eyes blinked dramatically, shimmering with fake tears.
Catherine's mouth twitched. Because she clearly remembered that four years ago, Isabella had pulled the exact same "adorable" act to fool her and Mom—right before hopping on that train to Leavesden.
Back then, Catherine had fallen for it because she was soft-hearted and wanted to help ease the family's burden.
But now?
Ever since she told her little sister she wanted to help out more, this brat had dumped all the work on her instead!
Isabella didn't do a single thing besides acting, and made Catherine do everything else.
At least in superhero movies, the stronger someone is, the greater their responsibility.
But Isabella's logic? If you like hard work, then you can have it all!
Thinking about that, Catherine huffed.
"Hmph."
She rolled her eyes at her sister. "Alright, enough. Stop acting like the Little Match Girl."
"I'll think about the law thing—but I'm not interested in it."
"And if I really do study law…"
"Isabella, just wait. I'll be the first one to scam you. I'll take every last penny you've got!"
"Don't think I don't know what you're plotting, you lazy freeloader!"
"…"
Isabella squinted.
Fine, she admitted it—she was a little lazy.
Some things were important, yes—but doing them herself? Ugh. Too much effort.
So she passed them to family. Problem solved.
And, well, talking was easier than doing.
Catherine used to be easy to trick. But now? She'd gotten wise.
That was a problem.
Feeling her manipulation failing, the little girl pouted and scrambled for cover.
"Mom—look at Keisha—she's bullying me!"
"…"
The shameless tattling left Catherine speechless.
A moment later, she raised her arm threateningly. "You believe I won't smack you right now?"
Vivian, who had been sitting nearby watching the whole exchange, couldn't stop laughing.
To her, the sisters' bickering was childish but kind of cute.
And she didn't feel like mediating.
So she changed the subject. "Alright, it's already four o'clock. Let's decide where to eat tonight. How about skipping the cafeteria? We're in Oxford—let's try something outside."
In the Harry Potter movies, Hogwarts' infirmary scenes were filmed in Oxford's Divinity School.
So since Prisoner of Azkaban had plenty of hospital scenes, filming here was inevitable.
Today's shoot focused on Ron's scenes—no Isabella required. Which meant she was freeeee.
So when Mom suggested dinner out, Isabella instantly agreed. She was more than happy to stop arguing with her sister.
The three of them left the hotel together.
But the moment they stepped out, someone else showed up looking for her.
It was little Robbie.
"What? Isabella's not here? Did she go film something?"
Robbie blinked in confusion at the crew member in the hotel lobby. "But I checked her schedule—she doesn't have any scenes today. Isn't this her day off?"
"Yeah, Margot, you're right. Isabella's off today."
"She went out for fun. Just left, actually. The whole family—Catherine and Vivian too."
"You looking for her about something urgent? You can call her, or I can—"
"No, no—"
Before the staff member could even grab her phone, Robbie waved her hands quickly. "It's not that urgent. I can wait for her to come back."
Since she insisted, the staff member didn't push it—but she was curious.
"Wait, Margot, haven't you been in Leavesden this whole time?"
"How'd you get here? Where's Melina?"
Even though the HP producers allowed Robbie to hang around set, she wasn't part of the crew. To avoid trouble, she usually stayed in Leavesden whenever Isabella went on location.
And she was never alone—
that'd be illegal.
Warner always had staff stationed in Leavesden, and Isabella had even hired an assistant for Robbie.
That assistant was Melina—the same Melina the staffer just mentioned.
Melina was originally a Warner employee who'd been there since Philosopher's Stone. Efficient, polite, professional.
When Marmot Co. "poached" her, it was purely because Robbie needed someone to look after her.
After all, no matter how mature Robbie seemed, she was still underage.
And soon she'd be heading to the U.S. for filming—traveling alone would be against the law.
So when the staff noticed Robbie alone and unaccompanied, they grew curious.
But Robbie just smiled. "Oh, Melina's parking the car."
"You drove here?"
"Yep."
"Just the two of you?"
"Nope, there's someone else."
"Someone else? Who?"
"Right there…"
She turned and pointed.
About ten feet away stood a tall, muscular man with a buzzcut and sunglasses.
The crew had already noticed him earlier—his build and presence screamed "bodyguard."
But apparently, they were wrong.
At Robbie's gesture, the man strode over, removed his sunglasses, flashed a wide grin, and offered a handshake.
"Hi, I'm Dwayne Johnson."