Of course Isabella believed Barry Meyer and Robert Iger would handle the current situation properly.
After all, her reputation could make or break their careers.
Still, the sudden appearance of these "industry secrets" left her a little… speechless.
Having lived two lives, she knew that physical albums in North America were ridiculously expensive. And she also knew why Apple managed to pull off iTunes—Jobs revolutionized the way people listened to music by slashing the price.
When the iTunes Store launched, a song was only 99 cents.
If the price hadn't been so cheap—if Jobs had sold digital songs at physical CD prices—then even if he sold them till the end of time, iTunes would never have taken off.
The iPod wouldn't have gone mainstream, and the iPhone might never have been funded into existence.
But even knowing all this, Isabella had never lived through it.
When you only study history as a spectator, remembering the result is already the best you can do; the details belong only to those who were there.
So when she became one of those people and finally understood the details, her mind immediately produced one universal complaint:
"You mean… you raised the price like this?"
"You—what, you raised album prices by 10% just for an extra eight cents in patent fees?"
Isabella sighed, rubbing her temples.
Though this bit of history wasn't the real reason she was being attacked—after all, the record industry had always been fond of easy money—she still thought this period was the root of public resentment.
If the industry hadn't pulled so many shady moves over the years, today's backlash probably wouldn't be such a nightmare.
On the other end of the line, Nathan Bailey went quiet. After a pause, he finally said,
"Isabella, the executives of a listed company are responsible for performance. The extra eight million in expenses may look small, but…"
"It hits the company's net profit."
He wasn't wrong.
When Sony raised the patent royalties, those eight cents per disc cut more than 5% off corporate net profits.
Because songwriters, singers, and producers all take their share from retail price.
Simple math: a $10 album. Content creators take 40%, leaving $6 for the label.
Deduct 15% for retail distribution (Walmart's cut), and another 30% for manufacturing and marketing, and the label is left with $1.50.
So, if manufacturing costs rise by 8 cents and the label doesn't raise retail prices, profit drops to $1.42—a 5.33% decline.
That's terrifying in a mature industry.
Only Meituan's infamous 89% drop could look worse.
So, yeah. If you said Sony's greed had sparked public outrage, you wouldn't be wrong.
And maybe that's exactly why the big five labels hiked prices but escaped punishment.
"So by your logic," Isabella said dryly, "this whole mess is Sony's fault?"
She smiled bitterly, choosing not to dwell on it. The record industry's scams didn't interest her.
What mattered now was knowing the enemy's move—sharp and deliberate.
"Okay, enough about that. I just want to know one thing: how are my mini-discs selling?"
"Eminem says I'm cash-grabbing, so if I'm not making good money…"
"I'll be unhappy."
"You want the numbers? Hang on, let me pull the reports…"
Nathan shuffled papers for a while, then forwarded her the data.
As of July 1, 2003, Isabella Haywood had launched in all major markets.
Its first-week sales didn't hit five million, but total global sales had now reached 8.1 million.
If nothing unexpected happened, it'd surpass ten million by year's end.
But of course, something had happened.
In those 8.1 million:
3.17 million were cassettes, 2.04 million were standard CDs, 1.55 million were deluxe editions, 1.34 million were collector's editions.
At global prices of $9.99 (cassette) and $19.99/$29.99/$49.99 (CDs), total revenue hit $185.92 million.
Of the tracks:
Be What You Wanna Be, The Climb, and Love Story were her originals (50% royalties). Tears in Heaven and Sometimes Love Just Ain't Enough were covers, with only 5% royalties because Warner secured the rights.
Her total earnings: $59.49 million.
Catherine's share, from merch and creative tie-ins, was $1.86 million.
Meanwhile, the The Voice movie soundtrack—released the same day—had sold over 3 million copies for $75.85 million in revenue.
Since it had 25 tracks and Isabella only contributed four, her direct take was under $5 million.
But she also got a 5% profit share from the entire soundtrack, adding $3.8 million.
Total: over $60 million, nearly $70 million in just three months.
That improved her mood a little.
Money has that effect.
And truthfully?
Seventy million meant the "cash-grab" insult was… not entirely wrong.
She was, after all, one of the beneficiaries now.
If she'd been roasted and hadn't made money, then she'd feel like a real fool.
After confirming Barry and Iger were still in talks, she hung up—no time to wait.
The media storm was annoying, but she had a film shoot tomorrow and needed to get back to set tonight.
London evening time.
Time zones—what a wonderful curse.
She handed the phone back to her mom, who'd been listening the whole time.
Just as she stood up, Catherine added that little Robbie had called, worried about her.
"She did?"
"Alright, give me the phone."
Isabella called back while walking, but Robbie was already back on set after lunch. Her assistant, Melina, answered instead.
Melina said Robbie had been furious after hearing Isabella was being flamed online—she even ran back to the hotel to fight trolls—but cooled off after venting.
Hearing that, Isabella relaxed and smiled.
"Melina, when Marg finishes shooting, just tell her I called back. Don't interrupt her work."
"Got it."
"And if she asks how I'm doing, tell her I'm fine."
"Okay."
"If she's still worried, let her call me."
"Uh… we're in Burbank. That's an eight-hour time difference from London."
Melina hesitated.
Isabella chuckled. "Just this once. Exception granted. I doubt I'll fall asleep before ten anyway… or sleep well at all."
Until she had a way to counter this media storm, there'd be no rest.
So, when Robbie finished her shoot, it would already be midnight in London—fine by Isabella.
If her protégé needed to call, she'd take it.
Downstairs, she ran into J.K. Rowling in the hotel lobby.
The woman should've gone home to Scotland after her signing, but here she was.
"Joanne, don't tell me you're waiting for me?"
"Who else would I be waiting for?" Rowling shot back, nodding to Vivian and Catherine.
"Any progress?"
"Not yet."
"Barry Meyer's still thinking?"
"Yeah."
"That idiot… fine, let him think. If I can help, call me."
"Come on, Joanne, it's still under control." Isabella laughed, trying to reassure her.
Rowling frowned, clearly unconvinced. After checking that the hotel was clear of outsiders, she poked Isabella's forehead.
"Listen to me, Isabella. Don't joke about this. It's serious.
Right now it's just fans arguing. The media haven't joined in yet. Once they do—and they will—you'll be in real trouble if Meyer hasn't solved this by then."
"And I'm telling you, the media will go after you for the money issue."
"This morning's Times came with orders."
Rowling had always treated Isabella like a daughter—ever since their first meeting, when the girl reminded her what motherhood meant. So when she heard Isabella was under attack, she was furious.
And after seeing the pattern, she understood: Isabella's enemies were powerful—and intentional.
How did she know? Simple.
The Times was owned by Rupert Murdoch.
If they'd published a detailed hit piece across time zones while other outlets were still clueless about Eminem's outburst, it meant one thing—
Someone wanted Isabella destroyed.
And they weren't playing fair.
"Thank you, Joanne."
Isabella's smile softened. She hugged her. "Don't worry. I'll never let myself be the one who gets trampled."
And just as Rowling feared, Isabella's enemies were indeed giving her no room to breathe.
That night, 9 p.m. London time, when she returned to the Harry Potter set, producer Michael Barnathan told her that Columbus wanted to see her.
When she entered his office, he turned his monitor toward her—hatred from across the Atlantic filling the screen.
Forums were filled with accusations of her "laziness," blogs from known journalists were echoing the "cash-grab" story.
The flood of smear pieces made Isabella grin faintly.
Columbus sighed. "You can still smile? Do you know how much your enemies spent on this hit job?"
"CBS alone—two hundred thousand dollars."
Smear campaigns cost money. The media didn't work for free.
Isabella wasn't surprised, but she did arch a brow.
"Oh? And how do you know that, Chris? Don't tell me you got paid too?"
Columbus nearly choked. "Do I look like the kind of man who sells out friends for cash?"
He rolled his eyes. "Sherry Lansing told me. She said she can't control CBS, but she wanted you to know. She would've called you herself, but figured you were too busy."
Lansing was Paramount's CEO; both Paramount and CBS were Viacom subsidiaries.
In that tangled web, information flowed like water.
And since Isabella was tied to Warner and Disney—two giants—Lansing likely figured she wouldn't fall easily.
So even if she couldn't stop the attack, she could at least leak some intel—a free investment in goodwill.
Because, let's be real: Fortune 500 execs aren't idiots.
If you think you're smarter than them, you should first figure out who they're fighting and who's gunning for their seat.
"Okay. Other than the two hundred grand, what else did she say?"
"Your enemies scheduled the main strike for tomorrow. Today's chaos is just the appetizer."
Timing is everything in a PR war.
That's why Eminem dropped his diss at 9 p.m.—and the global media hadn't all joined in yet.
It takes time to write, edit, and publish stories—especially before the mobile internet era.
If every outlet published a coordinated attack within an hour, that wasn't efficiency. That was malice.
To illustrate, Columbus said dryly:
"Remember 9/11? The first attack hit at 8:46 a.m. on the 11th, but the U.S. cabinet's first war meeting wasn't until 10:53 a.m. on the 12th.
Even the world's biggest power machine took a full day to react.
No propaganda moves faster than that."
So if her enemies' "main event" had a countdown…
"Chris."
"Yeah?"
"Don't you want to do something about it?"
She smiled at him, tired but defiant.
He could see the exhaustion in her eyes.
He shook his head and tossed her a file.
"Tomorrow we're shooting Harry's scenes first. If you're not in shape… we'll cancel the rest."
"Hahaha, thanks, Chris."
"Go," he waved her off. "Go wash up and lie down. The bed's the best place to take calls anyway."
In the entertainment industry, letting public opinion disrupt your work is "unprofessional."
But Hollywood isn't just an industry—it's a battlefield where people fight to change their fate.
Columbus understood that.
And besides, his own company was under DreamWorks' umbrella.
Watching Isabella defend her future—and her intellectual property—felt like witnessing another miracle.
She nodded in gratitude, said goodnight, and went back to her room to wash up.
After a quick bath, the warm water washed away her exhaustion and brought back a hint of energy.
Then she flopped onto the bed—
"Keisha?"
"What?"
"Stay up with me. Let's wait for news."
Isabella patted the empty spot beside her, speaking lazily.
At the doorway, Catherine, who was about to turn off the light, squinted a little.
"Why don't you ask Mom to stay with you?"
"Because you're the one who won't be able to sleep tonight."
"Mom won't sleep either. She'll have her ear glued to the phone for sure."
"But before we get any clear news, I don't want her to worry."
Isabella pressed her lips together, looking at her sister with a serious expression.
That look made Catherine raise her brows, step into the room, and climb onto the bed.
Her sister's silent approval made Isabella roll over happily and hug her, clinging to her like a sloth.
The scent of shampoo lingered—warm, soothing. Maybe the situation really was stressful, because even with company, Isabella didn't feel like talking.
The quiet of the room blurred time. No one knew how long they'd been lying there before Isabella, starting to feel even tired of resting, saw her phone light up on the nightstand.
"Bzz—"
She grabbed it. The caller ID read: Robert Iger.
No hesitation—she picked up right away. Things were urgent. The moment the line connected, Iger said, "Check your email."
"...?"
Isabella blinked, then realized he meant the email address they'd used when discussing the script earlier.
She sat up, opened her laptop, and followed the link inside—it dropped her into an MSN chatroom.
Just three people. Isabella couldn't help but chuckle.
"What, you think the phone lines are bugged?"
As she turned on her mic, she asked the question.
"We might be," came Barry Meyer's voice through her headphones. "But you definitely are. Murdoch's investments in British politics outweigh his U.S. ones. He's got people in both the Conservatives and Labour. Over there, he does whatever he wants."
"Okay."
Isabella didn't want to dwell on something everyone already knew. "So, what's the plan? You've found a solution?"
"More or less," Iger said.
"'More or less'?" Isabella frowned. Catherine beside her raised an eyebrow too.
Iger didn't stall. "Yeah, because it's complicated—and we'll need your cooperation."
Since Nathan Bailey had already warned them that "money-grabbing" was a landmine topic in the music world, they couldn't handle this scandal the way they'd handled the Michael Arndt situation—with a straightforward public response.
If they couldn't go head-on, they'd have to go sideways.
After some discussion, Barry Meyer and Robert Iger agreed: Isabella's next move should be to make Eminem look like an idiot.
If the public came to believe that Eminem's attack on Isabella was just his usual attention-seeking stunt, Meyer and Iger could muddy the waters and flip the narrative.
In short: keep the conversation confined to "personal feud" territory.
As long as no one dragged it back to "money-grabbing," the storm could be managed.
And both men were confident they could control that scope—because, let's be real, in the record industry, not a single major label had clean hands.
Michael Eisner could only pin the "greedy" label on Isabella once. If he kept going, the other giants—Sony, EMI, and Bodman—would have to step in. If that topic blew up, they wouldn't escape the blast either.
Right now, they could sit back and watch because the fire wasn't at their doorstep.
But if it spread—
The ones who'd been gouging consumers hardest would personally curse Eisner's mother.
They'd be even more desperate to contain the fire than Isabella's camp was.
"Okay… that line of reasoning actually makes sense," Isabella admitted after exchanging a glance with her sister.
She wasn't exactly a pro at this corporate-warfare stuff, so if the experts had a plan, she'd follow it.
"So what exactly do you need me to do?" she asked. "Bob, you said you'd need my cooperation?"
"Yeah," Iger replied from California, half-nodding as he spoke into his mic. "We want you to ignore Eminem—or, more precisely, to piss him off by ignoring him."
"..."
The vague wording left Isabella blinking in confusion.
Meyer jumped in to clarify. "Here's the thing, Isa—we think your reaction earlier today was perfect."
They'd already seen how lost she looked at the signing event. To them, that was smart.
She'd never even set foot in the U.S., hadn't met Eminem once—and yet he dissed her? That made him look like the desperate one.
All they needed to do now was spread that framing: Eminem attacking someone he'd never met. Once people saw that, his behavior would read as malicious—and if the public saw him as malicious, the whole "greedy" accusation would fade naturally.
But even though both Meyer and Iger thought her response was great, they also felt it wasn't strong enough. Simply saying "I don't know him" wouldn't keep the spotlight long enough to shape public opinion.
She needed to make people talk.
Which led to the next part.
If possible, they wanted Isabella to write a song.
A diss track.
A subtle diss track. One that mocked Eminem while pretending to ignore him.
Here was their logic:
She'd already told the press she didn't know him.
Now, since the media had already mentioned Eminem's attack to her face, a normal person would naturally look him up, right?
And when a musician learns they've been dissed for no reason, unless they're a total loser, they write back. Just like when Mariah Carey fired back at Eminem.
So, Meyer and Iger thought—perfect opportunity. Respond through music.
A direct confrontation always grabs attention. The public eats that up.
Then, as coverage spread, they could easily steer the story where they wanted it.
But—
She couldn't just drop an F-bomb like Mariah Carey.
Two reasons:
If she cursed him out, he wouldn't lose his cool. He'd love it. That's his fuel. Vulgarity didn't fit her image. Isabella could get angry, sure—but not crude.
Think of it like when Chris Columbus told her the same thing during filming: Beaver Girl could be fierce, but never flirtatious.
Image. Image. Image.
It mattered.
So—a sneaky, indirect diss track. Sarcastic, ironic, laced with dismissive energy.
Basically, a song that said: I don't even care enough to care.
And that, in turn, would almost certainly make Eminem snap.
Because as Mariah Carey had already proved, the man had an ego the size of Detroit.
If he got mad, he'd respond. Once he did, Meyer and Iger could showcase his meltdown—and who takes a raging lunatic seriously?
Simple psychology: when someone looks unhinged, people stop listening to their words, even if they make sense.
To be honest, as the plan unfolded, Isabella felt… stunned. Not confused, just amazed at how brazenly insane this plan was.
They wanted her to handle the crisis by writing a song?
A song that ignored Eminem while mocking him?
She couldn't help laughing.
"Don't you think this is a bit ridiculous?" she said, leaning against her sister. "You're telling me you spent all day and this is what you came up with? A diss-by-ignoring strategy? That's so—abstract."
"Yeah, we know it sounds a little crazy," Iger admitted. "But it's the best option we've got. Because, truthfully, Barry did set your mini-album's price with a profit-first mindset. And most people who bought it did so because they liked you, not your music."
"So if you fight back through music, it'll make his criticism sound like a joke."
"Plus, it helps you embrace music more seriously moving forward."
"If we just wanted to end the problem, we could've called you hours ago," Iger continued. "We had five decent PR strategies ready by noon. But we've been thinking about something bigger.
We believe this could mark a turning point for you.
Right now, no matter how well you perform, you're still 'an actress.' But if you respond through music—and succeed—you'll earn recognition as a musician.
From then on, no one will dare say you're a fraud."
"You'll have proven your talent right in front of the public."
"That's why we chose this path. Because we see long-term collaboration with you."
"My dear, I believe you understand what I mean—don't you?"
Iger's gentle challenge silenced Isabella.
She lifted her head and looked at her sister.
Catherine, who'd listened to the whole thing, nodded firmly.