Robert Iger and Barry Meyer weren't wrong.
Even though Isabella was doing amazingly well in the music world, she wasn't really a proper singer. Most of her explosive success came from fan support, and from a career standpoint, that wasn't exactly a good thing for her.
Because that's the idol model.
Sure, idols make a ton of money—think *NSYNC, the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears—those types. Their yearly earnings could eclipse what many established artists would never reach in a lifetime.
But idols have a shelf life.
Once the era moves on, so does their fame.
Of course, Isabella was still far from being "washed up."
She had the biggest cheat code in the entertainment industry: Harry Potter. With at least seven films lined up, she could ride that wave for a decade.
But looked at another way, that cushion was also her best chance to plan ahead.
She was in an incredibly favorable position.
After binding herself closely to Barry Meyer and Robert Iger, those two power-hungry executives would effectively become her external brains—a luxury no one else could dream of. Both were seasoned warriors forged in corporate bloodbaths, sharper than any PR firm and backed by actual resources.
There wasn't a single PR company on Earth that could claim control over global media empires.
But these two? They practically were the global media empires.
So, with resources secured, opportunities clear, and no risk of betrayal, Isabella agreed to their plan—even if it sounded a bit abstract to her. What she wanted to know next was how much time she had to figure things out.
And that's when Barry said it:
"Two days at most."
"Isabella, you only have 48 hours to come up with a song. If you can't deliver something suitable by then, we'll have to use a backup plan. The public backlash about 'money-grabbing' can't drag on for long."
"This attack is vicious," he continued. "It won't just affect you—it'll hit The Voice and even Harry Potter."
From a creative point of view, 48 hours wasn't necessarily impossible.
Geniuses have been known to write full songs in ten minutes.
(Lyrics and melody, not full arrangements.)
But Isabella wasn't a songwriter. She was a literary recycler.
So, writing something new and fitting in 48 hours? That was… optimistic.
Still, she was willing to try.
Glancing at the bottom-right corner of her screen—London time, July 6, 2003, 12:11 a.m.—she bit her lip.
"So, I need a song by early morning July 8?"
"Yes," said Iger, curt as ever.
"Okay, then see you then."
"I'd rather not see you then," said Meyer bluntly. "I'd rather hear from you sooner."
"Oh—you're putting pressure on me now?" Isabella laughed.
She hadn't expected Barry Meyer to be a pressure freak.
"I'm not. I just believe in your ability," he said, trying to lighten the mood.
Seeing that she wasn't discouraged, Meyer relaxed. "We came up with this plan because we believe you can write the right song. Your songwriting in The Voice surprised us. So… good luck."
With that, Meyer and Iger left. They were both running massive corporations; they didn't have time to babysit.
Staring at the empty chat window, Isabella went blank.
Because she had no idea what to do.
She leaned against her sister. Maybe she could get some inspiration.
"Keisha, got any ideas?"
"I wish I could help, but I can't write songs."
"That's fine, just give me some inspiration. Art is connected, right?"
"I know it's connected," Catherine sighed, "but that doesn't mean I can draw a colorful black."
"'Ignoring' and 'dissing' are contradictory ideas. So…"
"Combine them?" Isabella asked.
"I don't know if anyone could. I sure can't."
"Ha." Isabella grinned and rubbed her head against her sister like a puppy.
She'd asked because, even though she remembered tons of songs from her past life, she couldn't recall any that were both dismissive and insulting.
So, writing a song to clap back at Eminem? That sounded like a guaranteed disaster.
But just as she sighed, feeling the weight of it all—
Buzz.
Her phone lit up on the desk.
Glancing at the screen—Robbie.
She answered.
"Hello? Keisha? Is that you?" came a cautious voice.
Isabella smiled at her sister and lifted the phone meaningfully.
Catherine caught on immediately, smirking.
"No," she said into the receiver.
"Huh?" Robbie froze.
She knew that voice. So… Catherine said she wasn't Catherine? What kind of mind game was this?
Isabella's grin widened. "Margot? You called to check on me, right? Okay, you can start now."
"…?"
On the other end, in California, Robbie just blinked.
The sudden tone shift, the teasing—it was all so surreal.
They were supposed to be under attack, not joking around!
What kind of fever dream was this?
Her silence only made the sisters laugh harder.
Seeing the confusion drag on, Catherine finally said, "Okay, Margot, we were teasing you. We just got off a call with Warner and Disney. They've got a plan—and a good one."
"So…"
"We're celebrating getting through another crisis."
"And right when we start celebrating—you call! Surprise!"
"Oh—thank God," Robbie exhaled. "You two scared me half to death! I thought I'd called the wrong number! You were acting so weird!"
"Ha ha ha ha—"
The sisters burst out laughing.
Their laughter calmed Robbie. "So it's really over?"
"Mm… we've got the plan. Just need to execute it," said Isabella.
"When?"
"24 hours?" Isabella glanced at her sister.
"Yes," Catherine confirmed. "Robert Iger said the same. He told us not to worry. Just like the script incident, they'll handle everything."
The threat was still out there, but neither Isabella nor Catherine wanted Robbie to know that.
Partly because they were the type to only share good news—
they didn't talk about their pain unless it overflowed.
But also because… what was the point of worrying her?
Even if Robbie knew how tough things were, what could she do?
Exactly.
So, a comforting lie was kinder.
There was another reason, too: Barry and Robert had warned them they might be bugged. Which meant the sisters definitely were.
So, this conversation had to sound cheerful.
Robbie knew about the earlier script scandal—she'd panicked back then, too—but Disney and Warner fixed it fast. She'd seen firsthand how powerful those corporations were.
So when Isabella and Catherine said everything was under control, Robbie believed them.
They chatted a bit more before Robbie said she should go. She knew about the time difference—London was well past midnight. But Isabella? Sleep wasn't an option.
When your "task" was vague and you had no clue where to start, the only thing to do was talk it out.
"Margot."
"Yeah?"
"I don't have shooting tomorrow, so since you called, tell me how things are on your side. Filming going well? No one bullying you? Did Dwayne talk to Disney? Didn't he want to host The Voice? With all this chaos, does he still want to?"
Maybe it was Isabella's relaxed tone. Maybe Robbie just missed talking.
Either way, she began to chat happily.
"Oh, things are fine here. Filming's going well, no one's picking on me. Robert Iger actually came on the first day, so everyone knows who I am now.
"As for Dwayne and Disney, I'm not sure. But he and Bob talked for ages that day, looked pretty happy too.
"As for hosting The Voice, he never mentioned it, but honestly? I think he'd be perfect.
"He's so funny—everything he says or does is entertaining. Like today—we filmed a scene of a post–football game party. The director told him to be charming but funny, and I thought he'd mess up, but he nailed it.
"If he joined The Voice, it would turn into a massive party show."
Isabella nodded while listening. She'd seen The Rock's comedy side before—his goofy charm was legendary.
Call it slapstick, sure, but in popcorn movies, slapstick is comfort. People go to the cinema for joy, and he delivers it.
The conversation soothed her. Robbie's world was simple—work, rest, repeat. No scheming, no battles. It was a kind of peace Isabella couldn't have anymore.
But just as she felt calm enough to hang up and start brainstorming, something Robbie said made her eyebrows shoot up.
"Wait—Margot, what did you just say you filmed?"
"Uh… a party? The football celebration scene?"
"Right. And what about Dwayne?"
"He was funny?"
"Keep going."
"Keep… going?"
"Yeah. You said if he joined The Voice, he'd make it into what?"
"A… P… Party?"
Across the ocean in California, Robbie frowned.
Why was Isabella suddenly so fixated on that word?
Before she could ask, an explosion of joy shot across the Atlantic, all the way to London.
"Ohhhh—thank you, Margot!"
Isabella bolted upright, startling Catherine.
"You're amazing, Margot! You just gave me the best idea! I owe you dinner! Gotta go—bye!"
Before Robbie could reply, Isabella tossed the phone aside, flicked on the lights, grabbed paper and pen, and started humming.
She'd been struck by inspiration.
And right on cue, Shirley Lansing's warning proved true.
As the clock hit July 6, 2003, Michael Eisner's "Anti-Voice Alliance" launched its offensive.
Their first strike came via the Times of London—the very paper J.K. Rowling had mentioned.
The article used the Order of the Phoenix book signing as its lead-in. The first half praised Harry Potter, the middle quoted Eminem's jab at Isabella, and the ending took a "thoughtful" dive into record pricing and production costs.
On the surface, it was responsible journalism.
Between the lines, it screamed greed.
Anyone with basic literacy could see it.
And that marked the official start of the war between AOL Time Warner and Disney. Vivendi Universal and News Corp had now stepped openly into the fray.
Only now did the fire truly catch.
Why? Simple.
Because from this point forward, there would be no mercy.
That night, rain fell on London.
By morning, sunlight shimmered across the damp streets.
A man in his thirties stepped out of his house, grabbed his newspaper, and sat down to breakfast.
After reading the front page of The Times, he muttered, "Eminem says Isabella's ripping people off? I don't like the guy, but… maybe her CD is a bit pricey."
His wife looked up. "Who are you talking about? Isabella? Hermione?"
"Yeah."
"What about her?"
"Oh, someone says she's money-hungry." He slid her the paper.
She skimmed it quickly, then nodded. "Her mini-album was expensive. The deluxe edition was, what, thirty-five pounds? I remember thinking that was wild."
"Really?"
"Of course. She's Hermione Granger! Harry Potter books cost more too—just yesterday Goblet of Fire was £29.90 for the regular edition."
She pushed the paper back. "But your daughter likes her."
"Alright then," he sighed, relaxing. "As long as she's happy."
He went back to reading.
At the same time, in Oxford—
A forty-something man on his way to weekend overtime grabbed a copy of The Times at a kiosk. He munched on his McDonald's breakfast while flipping through it.
Then he saw the headline.
"Isabella's scamming people? Wow… she's that kind of person? Didn't expect that…"
"She's not!"
In Birmingham, a teenage girl slammed the paper down.
"That's slander! Her mini-album isn't overpriced at all! It's way higher quality than anyone else's! She and her sister designed everything themselves!"
The uproar was spreading.
Eminem's attack had aired the day before on CBS, but since most media hadn't followed up right away, the controversy had stayed mostly online.
Now, The Times had lit the match.
It didn't spread to the UK offline.
That's easy enough to understand, right? The internet in 2003 wasn't exactly the convenience store of information it is in 2025.
People still relied on traditional media.
So, when the British public generally didn't watch American CBS programs, no matter how loud the noise online got, its impact on real-life Britain was limited. But once Britain's second-largest paper, The Times, "reported the facts"…
On the morning of July 6, 2003, nearly six hundred thousand Britons squinted at the same time.
After finishing The Times' report and commentary, rumors of Isabella's "money-grabbing scandal" spread like wildfire across the country. Discussions erupted everywhere—some believed it, some didn't.
But what they discussed didn't matter. What mattered was that people "redefined" Isabella.
That's right.
The moment the British public "redefined" Isabella was the sign the real war had begun—because Britain was the birthplace of Harry Potter, Isabella's home turf.
When Michael Eisner and the others struck here, their goal was to destroy her very foundation.
If you're trying to kill me at the root, then there's nothing left to talk about.
Though honestly, there was never anything to talk about in the first place.
Choosing sides is for life. Once you've picked a camp, you don't switch.
And when the Anti-Voice Alliance's attacks in Britain went straight for the jugular, in America their methods were even nastier—
FOX, along with the CBS and NBC networks that had taken money, officially reported the story in their morning news shows.
Since The Times was "one of them," they used its real information to strengthen credibility, then added a little spin, a little distortion, and voilà—instant weaponized narrative.
So this was what Americans saw:
"According to The Times… when asked how she viewed Eminem's accusations of profiteering, Isabella appeared confused and flustered on the spot."
"Although Isabella didn't directly answer the question, the signing event's atmosphere reflected something else… for instance, when The Times reporter tried to follow up, the event organizers forcibly stopped him, saying the question was irrelevant."
"And when the reporter noted that Eminem's reputation in the U.S. wasn't great—implying his comments were malicious—Isabella could have simply responded… but instead, the reporter was removed from the event."
"The reporter didn't understand what Isabella was afraid of, but if she feared the profiteering accusations… The Times will keep following up."
The moment the broadcast ended, North American viewers froze.
Two seconds later—
Those who got the hint exploded:
"Oh—so Isabella is profiteering?"
"That's impossible, she's only thirteen!"
"She was probably just startled by the question!"
"No way! If she wasn't guilty, she could've just said so—like with the script issue!"
"Exactly! She was open about the script thing, so why not this? She's guilty!"
Public opinion is a beast. Three people repeating a lie can create a tiger.
No matter how spotless your reputation is, you can't beat endless slander.
And worse than endless slander is when your slanderers have money, media, and brains.
Money means they can unify the press:
We can make everyone attack you!
Media means they can fabricate news without consequences:
Other outlets can just cite our report—no one's liable!
Brains mean they can choke you with one hand while handing you a microphone with the other, then ask why you're not speaking.
When Barry Meyer and Robert Iger once advised Isabella to "tell the truth" about the script issue—
Okay then.
Now the Anti-Voice crowd demanded: keep that same energy.
When profiteering scandals in the record industry are common knowledge, do you dare to say you're clean?
Do you dare?
Do you dare???
I'm asking—
Do you dare!!!
"Oh! Oh! Oh! Isabella Haywood finally shows her fake face! She couldn't even say 'no' to The Times! Hahaha—this is priceless!"
"I don't know what's wrong with you Isabella stans—she's milking you, and you're defending her? You brainless idiots!"
"Kids! Isn't your idol supposed to be unstoppable? Where is she now? Tell me—Isabella Haywood, Miss Beaver, Hermione Granger—where is she? Why isn't she answering?"
With the traditional media joining in, Eminem's fans went absolutely wild.
This was real euphoria.
They'd never fought a battle like this before.
Usually, when they rallied behind Eminem, the world's media trashed them.
But now?
The whole world's media was questioning Isabella Haywood—
and helping their idol tear her down.
Holy hell—
That was like the sun rising in the west!
"Oh, Michael Eisner really is something…"
Atlanta.
At Turner Broadcasting headquarters, Ted Turner burst out laughing after hearing his subordinates report that the media response was phenomenal.
Honestly, when he first learned Eisner's plan had crashed before phase one, he'd been livid—fine, he'd been screaming.
He'd thought Eisner was useless—couldn't even handle Michael Arndt—but once Eisner managed to turn things around, Turner laughed again.
Men are fickle. Success changes everything.
But even with the triumph, after laughing, Turner issued his orders:
"Keep monitoring everything. Any shift in public opinion—report immediately.
I want first-hand updates at all times."
"Got it, boss."
The subordinate left. Turner leaned back, closed his eyes.
It wasn't time to celebrate yet.
Meanwhile in New York, at News Corp HQ, Rupert Murdoch was hearing his own report.
When he learned that, thanks to the traditional media's pile-on, Eminem's fans had gained the upper hand and Isabella's supporters were in full retreat, his wrinkled face bloomed like a chrysanthemum.
That was the outcome he wanted.
Ruining Isabella was just a means—the real goal was to make her fans abandon her.
Only then would The Voice collapse.
And only if The Voice collapsed could American Idol keep making money.
So—
"Keep tracking the narrative. Keep attacking. As long as Isabella's breathing, the attacks don't stop."
"Yes, boss."
"Oh, Michael, your plan truly amazes me…"
While Murdoch rejoiced, Edgar Bronfman Jr. was on the phone with Eisner.
"My god, I never realized destroying someone could be this easy!"
"No, Michael—it's because you're that good!"
Eisner roared with laughter.
Bronfman's flattery was clumsy, sure—he was a rich kid, unused to groveling—but Eisner didn't care.
He was elated.
Ecstatic.
Absolutely glowing.
After chatting a while, he hung up and summoned his aide to ask about Robert Iger's situation.
When he heard that Iger was "like an ant on a hot pan," that Coca-Cola and McDonald's had called with concerns, and that Iger had been in nonstop talks with Barry Meyer since the previous day—
Eisner's smile twisted into something feral.
"Pathetic."
"And that trash thinks he can compete with me?"
"Hmph."
As the attacks poured in and public opinion exploded, everyone in the Anti-Voice Alliance felt victory tipping their way.
And someone else felt the same—Eminem.
For the first time, with media support, he tasted the sweet rush of dominance.
The one-sided tide made him feel invincible.
"Oh, Paul, this feels incredible—it's beautiful!"
July 7, 2003.
The great Marshall Mathers returned to his kingdom.
Back at Shady Records, he immediately summoned his manager and partner, Paul Rosenberg.
He ranted with excitement, his joy manic, his grin unnerving enough to make Rosenberg uneasy.
Sure, it looked like they'd won, but Rosenberg tried to remind him,
"Em, it's not over yet. Warner and Disney haven't responded."
"So what?" Eminem waved him off.
"Profiteering's been part of the record industry for decades. It's something no label has ever solved. So does it matter if they respond?"
"It doesn't!"
"Because they can't respond!"
"They can't fix this!"
Rosenberg admitted, he wasn't wrong.
But…
Something about this all felt off.
Just days ago—July 4—Eminem had been public enemy number one.
Two days later, he was a media darling?
That made no damn sense.
Even an idiot could tell something was fishy.
But what, exactly—he couldn't say.
Just as he was mulling over whether to press the point, the sound of hurried footsteps—
Eminem's assistant burst in, cap askew.
"Em! Paul! Disney and Warner just responded!"
"What'd they say?"
Eminem straightened up, wide-eyed.
Even with the tide in his favor, the thought of the big studios making a move made him tense.
"They're holding a press conference at 4 p.m.!"
Eminem's eyes narrowed.
And at four, he was in front of the TV.
Same network—ABC.
Same host—Nathan Bailey.
Same greetings and small talk.
But when Bailey announced that the first topic would be revealing the official theme song for The Voice, written by Isabella—Eminem's brow furrowed hard.
He couldn't understand it.
With the media storm raging, how could Disney and Warner still care about promoting The Voice?
Isabella's public image was collapsing!
Why weren't they trying to salvage her reputation, but instead pushing forward with the project?
Weren't they afraid the whole thing would crash?
And just as he puzzled over it, the screen flashed—
Los Angeles International Airport appeared.
Then came a rhythmic, reggae-tinged beat.
As the intro ended, the camera showed Isabella stepping off a plane, singing—
"I hopped off the plane at L.A.X.~"
"With a dream and my cardigan~"
"Welcome to the land of fame excess whoa~"
"Am I gonna fit in~"
"Jumped in the cab~"
"Here I am for the first time~"
"Look to my right and I see the Hollywood sign~"
"This is all so crazy~"
"Everybody seems so famous~"
"My tummy's turnin' and I'm feelin' kinda home sick~"
"Too much pressure and I'm nervous~"
"That's when the taxi man turned on the radio~"
"And the Jay-Z song was on~"
"And the Jay-Z song was on~"
"And the Jay-Z song was on~"
"..."
Yeah~
The name of the song Isabella thought of is "Party in the U.S.A."~