"Katy, on The Voice you mentioned that before joining the show, you'd already released an album — a gospel one, right? But now you're into rock? I love music too, and I know that's a huge leap — from gospel to rock. Can you share that story with us? I bet it's interesting!"
"Hiss—yeah, that's a rebel girl story. I think I said on The Voice that my mom's a pastor. So, our family rules were basically church rules. I went to a church school, and during my childhood, my mom wouldn't even let me eat Lucky Charms because she thought 'Lucky' sounded too much like 'Lucifer.' She also made us call deviled eggs 'angel eggs.' She was super strict, so… you know… when you grow up, you want to try something new. And then I discovered Alanis Morissette."
"Oh—like how Isa secretly went to audition for Harry Potter?"
"Yeah—that's exactly it! I joined a record label behind my mom's back too. I dropped out of school at fifteen."
"Oh my god! That's so cool! So besides music, what else can you do?"
"Uh—I can rollerblade, skateboard, surf, and I've learned swing dance, Lindy hop, jitterbug — I can do them all."
"Katy, could you show us a little bit? Please~"
"Sure thing!"
Katy Perry waved grandly and handed over the mic.
She signaled to the band for some music, and soon she was dancing energetically to the rhythm.
Her light and lively moves drove the crowd wild, shrieks filling the air.
When she finished, the sharp pause at the end drew a round of loud applause.
At that very moment, Katy Perry was doing a promotional event at a McDonald's in San Francisco.
This was a standard requirement for contestants on talent shows.
Once they gained fame, they had to do offline events whenever they weren't recording.
It wasn't just because sponsors needed visibility — it was because a talent show could only succeed if it could create stars.
And a "star" couldn't exist only online. A real star had to cause a stir in real life. If people didn't experience that star in their daily lives, then even if they were blowing up online, it meant nothing.
So, after Growth began airing, Katy Perry officially started her offline circuit. Over the past two days, she'd visited two schools and three McDonald's locations, plus done a pile of interviews. Compared to real superstars, her schedule was mild — but for someone newly famous, it was already exhausting.
Still, she didn't care.
Because fan cheers made her happy.
Even when her cheeks ached from smiling, she didn't want to stop.
Because those screams made her taste success.
After staying at McDonald's for an hour and a half — singing five songs, dancing several times, and signing a mountain of autographs — Katy left the scene under the escort of the staff. When fans saw her off, their reluctance filled her with joy. In that instant, she felt like even if she dropped dead right now, her life had been worth it.
After the car had been moving for a while, the assistant assigned by the production team reported her schedule.
"Katy, that's it for today's promotional work. But when we get back, you'll have two interviews — one with the San Jose Mercury News and another with the Sacramento Bee. Both are well-known California papers, great for deepening your image here."
"Okay, got it."
"And there's one more thing — a business proposal. One of The Voice's sponsors, Head & Shoulders, wants you for an ad. They're offering you a deal. If you agree, they can shoot it in the next couple of days."
"What's your advice?"
"Uh… well, from the production team's perspective, we'd recommend taking it. But your contract's different from the others', so it's entirely up to you. If you want to do it, do it. If not, don't."
Before The Voice national competition filming even began, Katy Perry had signed a six-year contract with Marmots — the same company representing Little Robbie.
Marmots took a 10% commission on her business deals, film offers, and endorsements.
But unlike Robbie, she was a singer — her main job was releasing records.
So her recording contract was with Capybara, Isabella's music company.
Capybara had been created after Warner agreed to release part of The Voice contestants' signing rights. It specialized in collecting the recording rights of signed singers.
According to the contract, if Katy Perry composed, wrote, arranged, and produced a song all by herself, she'd get 16% of its sale revenue — 6% for vocals, 3+3 for lyrics and composition, and 2+2 for arrangement and production.
If she needed outside help, Capybara would cover part of the collaboration costs, but the excess would come out of her share.
As for radio royalties, film usage fees, and digital income — those were handled separately.
At first glance, the deal seemed harsh. Future platforms would have 55% splits, even 46% at worst. But to be fair, Isabella herself only got 5% for vocals under her Warner contract. Plus, all recording costs — studio time, band hire, materials — were covered by Capybara.
Compared to real capitalists, Isabella was practically an angel for offering a 16% clean share.
And she never forced artists to work.
That was part of the deal — Marmots and Capybara wouldn't push their artists to take gigs or endorsements.
If an artist wanted to hustle, they'd help find jobs.
If the artist wanted to relax, fine — they'd just get notified when something came up. Work or rest, entirely up to them.
Isabella's reasoning was simple: ambitious people don't need pushing; lazy people will dodge work no matter how hard you whip them.
And most importantly, Isabella could afford to be that generous.
First, because she already made a ton — faster than she could spend.
Second, because she was basically playing life on cheat mode. When every artist you sign turns into a star, even if seven out of ten slack off, the remaining three are still cash machines. So why not be the nice boss?
Because of that freedom, Katy Perry was over the moon.
She'd signed with record labels before — she knew how cruel the industry could be. Isabella's terms were practically charity.
Even if she hadn't known firsthand, everyone in North America had seen what happened to Kelly Clarkson.
As a contestant on American Idol, Kelly had to give Fox 95% of her income and was still forced to make movies. Even after earning the network a fortune, she was still exploited.
The public saw her as someone who won — and still lost.
So when Katy saw her own contract, the thing that made her happiest was that her idol believed in her.
Biting her lip, feeling vividly alive, Katy smiled with her eyes half-closed.
She asked, "How much did Head & Shoulders offer?"
"Five hundred thousand."
"Five hundred?"
"Yeah. They want you for a print ad, to run across North America for three months."
"Is that a fair price — for me?"
"Given your current status, yes. But if you make it to the finals, that offer will quadruple and turn into a full endorsement deal."
"Okay, got it. Then I'll pass."
Katy decided lazily but confidently.
She believed in herself.
After a short nap in the car, she returned to the contestants' residence and went straight into interviews. The first was with the San Jose Mercury News.
The reporter greeted her with boundless enthusiasm, shook her hand, praised her performance, and even pulled out a poster for her to sign — saying his daughter was a fan.
Katy acted humble, but inside, she was beaming.
The world isn't fair. When someone's happy, someone else is even happier.
While Katy was doing her interview, Isabella had just finished filming the second round of The Voice.
On the way back to the hotel, she couldn't stop grinning — wide and wild.
"What's got you so happy?"
Catherine, walking beside her, was curious. She'd been on set too, but hadn't noticed anything special.
"Oh, Nathan Bailey just told me Growth got more than twenty ads — over twenty million dollars per episode."
Wearing sunglasses, Isabella looked around to make sure no one was listening, then whispered the news like a thief.
Catherine's eyes lit up. "You get a cut from that too?"
"Yeah~" Isabella nodded hard, her voice rising with excitement. "Ten percent!"
That's right — Isabella just triggered another lucky windfall!
Because Growth hadn't even been part of the original plan.
In The Voice's initial production schedule, only the national rounds were meant to air across America. No spin-offs.
So when the show blew up, the appearance of Growth was pure joy — and the ad revenue was a sweet surprise.
Or rather… an unexpected one.
"Oh, well then that is something to celebrate," Catherine said with a grin. "We thought Growth was just a lead-in for ABC's drama block."
In television, a "lead-in" means using a hit show to boost the ratings of the next program — like airing a drama right after the evening news.
If the drama isn't terrible, it'll start with strong numbers. If it's good, it becomes a hit. That's why the 7:30 p.m. slot on national TV is called the "golden hour."
Before the rise of online streaming, every single second of airtime was worth money.
And the Americans were the masters of this.
For example, during the 1994 Winter Olympics, the women's figure skating finals had a mind-blowing 78.8 million viewers in the U.S. CBS, which held the rights, made a fortune — and right after the event, they aired a drama that instantly drew an average of 40 million viewers.
Easy money.
So when ABC scheduled Growth at 7 p.m. — right before its evening dramas — Disney's intention was clear: use The Voice spin-off to boost its drama lineup.
In today's internet age, using a traffic source costs money. But in traditional TV, those rights were bought outright.
Even though everyone knew variety shows could boost drama ratings, the producers of the variety shows never got a share of that money.
So when Growth first aired, Isabella hadn't expected it to earn much.
But now…
Spin-offs could sell ad space too?
Hiss—
The land of capitalism never disappoints. Profit above all!
As the sisters laughed together, their mother Vivian, walking beside them, pursed her lips and joined in.
"Isa, Keisha, I have good news too. Want to hear it?"
"What news?"
Both sisters turned at once.
Isabella even tugged down her sunglasses a bit, peering over the top like a mischievous cartoon character.
"It's news that'll have you counting money till your hands cramp."
Vivian, amused by her younger daughter, hugged her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
Then she said, "Disney told me that people from all over the world are reaching out to buy the rights to The Voice."
"Calls from everywhere — France, Germany, Canada, Australia, Japan, Korea…"
"If all goes well, starting next year, you'll be making nine figures just from selling the rights."
"Ohhh~~" Isabella squealed in delight.
Nine figures? That's over a hundred million!
Starting next year, she'd be earning over a hundred million annually?
That's financial freedom!
After five years in this world — she'd finally made it.
She pressed her lips tight, trying not to laugh like a squeaking marmot, while Catherine, just as thrilled, noticed something.
"Mom, no calls from our own country?"
"Uh… I don't know…"
Vivian blinked, caught off guard. "I didn't ask Disney for details. Besides, we're not negotiating right now, are we? Even if we wanted to sell the rights, it'd have to wait until season one's done."
Vivian might not know business, but she wasn't stupid.
Anyone with sense could see this wasn't the right time to sell.
The Voice's viewership was still climbing.
Selling the rights now would be like stopping halfway through mining a gold vein just because you already struck one chunk.
Since her mom's reasoning made sense, Catherine didn't push the matter any further.
But outside their little bubble, the world was losing its mind.
Every journalist on Earth could see the potential—no, the value—of The Voice.
So naturally, everyone wanted a piece of it.
Too bad Vivian had her phone switched off and was ghosting everyone, driving people's blood pressure through the roof—and probably popping a few hemorrhoids in the process.
Yep. Ever since arriving in America, Vivian hadn't turned her phone back on.
The family just wanted some peace and quiet.
As for concerns that "cutting all communication might cause problems if someone needs to reach them urgently"? Please. They had Warner Bros. and Disney watching over them.
If something important came up, Barry Meyer or Robert Iger would definitely let them know. Given the current golden situation, those two cared more about this family's well-being than the family themselves did.
And if someone wanted to complain, "But what if I can't reach Meyer or Iger either?"
Well… here's a cold, hard truth:
If you can't even get in touch with them, you're just not important enough.
Since everyone understood that reality perfectly, the media people who wanted to buy the rights to The Voice began showing their true creativity when they realized contacting Isabella through normal channels was impossible.
Some pretended to be on "business trips" to North America, hoping to bump into her by chance;
some tapped every Hollywood connection they had, begging someone to hand Isabella a polite letter;
and some… went straight to her mother.
Yes. That "some" was the BBC.
The BBC hoped Isabella's mom could help them reach her—they wanted to make The Voice UK.
"So did they make an offer?"
Daniel heard about it during a break in The Prisoner of Azkaban shoot.
He immediately perked up his ears.
Even though The Voice of America hadn't been introduced to British television yet—so British viewers hadn't gotten the chance to see Isabella's brilliance—the news about it was everywhere. When he learned its premiere had broken TV history records, he was shocked but genuinely happy for her. Still, he felt a little frustrated, because…
Catherine had turned her phone off too!
He couldn't even send his congratulations!
This family was way too willful!
"They did make an offer," his mother, Marcia Radcliffe, nodded.
"How much?" Daniel asked eagerly.
"Uh… twenty-five million pounds," Marcia hesitated for a moment before revealing the BBC's bid.
The number hit Daniel like a brick. He froze, then squealed,
"How much???"
"My dear, you heard right," Marcia sighed with a faint smile. "The BBC offered Miss Granger twenty-five million pounds for The Voice."
After confirming it, Daniel's jaw just dropped. Pure shock.
That was exactly why Marcia had hesitated to say it—because when an IP in Isabella's hands could casually fetch tens of millions, she and the rest of the cast were suddenly breathing a completely different kind of air.
"Mom… why is Isabella so amazing?"
Once he recovered, Daniel couldn't hide his dazed admiration.
Marcia just shook her head. "Don't ask me that. I honestly have no idea."
Truth be told, Marcia herself was baffled—how could such a perfect kid even exist? But no matter how much she thought about it, she couldn't find an answer.
And while she was still pondering that mystery, time quietly rolled to September 27, 2003.
The second episode of The Voice aired right on schedule.
Maybe it was because the buzz was building, or maybe because all blockbuster shows tend to climb like that, but the average viewership for episode two rose to 34.31 million—higher than the first.
That number set off another explosion in the global TV industry. The hunger for the show's licensing rights grew even fiercer.
Then, on October 4, when episode three aired and hit 36 million viewers, everyone watching The Voice completely lost their composure, practically howling their way to North America.
Everyone knew Isabella was staying out of sight to sell The Voice at its peak value—but no one cared. If they had a show averaging over 30 million viewers per episode, they'd hold out for the best deal too.
Right now, the main concern was stopping their rivals from getting The Voice.
If a competitor secured it, their entire lineup next year would be wrecked.
They'd be crushed so hard it'd squeeze the life out of them.
Human energy is finite, after all.
When the whole world is chasing The Voice, something else inevitably gets forgotten.
It could be a movie, a song, or… American Idol.
When Rupert Murdoch noticed that Idol's popularity was tanking, he summoned Gail Berman, president of Fox Broadcasting.
Berman was an industry veteran—started in the '70s, produced Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at age 23 (a Broadway smash that won seven Tony Awards), then went on to produce Noise, Blood Knot, and The Nerd, all Tony winners too.
In the early '90s, he moved into television and created hits like Malcolm in the Middle and The Bernie Mac Show. His track record earned him Murdoch's trust and the presidency of Fox Broadcasting.
Still, despite his experience, Berman felt confused being called in now.
It wasn't awards season.
Fox had no major hit at the moment.
Next year's programming slate was already finalized months ago.
So… what was this about?
He couldn't figure it out.
Why didn't he suspect it had to do with American Idol?
Come on. That was the Murdoch daughter's pet project.
He was just an employee. He had no right to meddle in the princess's business.
Even if Idol tanked, it wasn't his problem.
But when Murdoch finally spoke, Berman's pupils shrank behind his glasses.
"Boss, sorry, I think I zoned out for a second—could you repeat that?"
"Sure," Murdoch smiled. "I just asked if you've talked with Bernd Eichinger yet. I heard they're trying to sell the TV adaptation rights to Resident Evil."
"What do you think? Should Fox take it on?"
"Or better yet—do you think Resident Evil has potential?"