Century City sits on the south side of Santa Monica Boulevard, west of downtown Los Angeles—one of the bright, buzzing centers of the City of Angels.
Here stand some famous landmarks: Century Plaza Towers, Fox Plaza, and the headquarters of 20th Century Fox.
Yes, the reason it's even called Century City is because the entire area originally belonged to Fox.
The only reason developers got their hands on it was Cleopatra.
That film's disastrous failure bled Fox so dry they had to sell off land to survive. Developers bought it, built Century City, and—by sheer dumb luck—Fox ended up making a fortune off it later.
Because Fox had only sold 81% of the land, the 19% they still owned turned into a gold mine. The rent alone brings in more money every year than most of their film investments.
This, by the way, is why everyone in the industry loves to call Sony, Panasonic, and Edgar Bronfman Jr. idiots.
Those geniuses spent tens of billions buying Columbia and Universal.
Rupert Murdoch, meanwhile, got Fox for just $575 million.
No comparison, no comedy.
At the Fox Group's executive dining room, Bernard Eichinger and Gail Berman sat by the window.
After reminiscing a bit about their respective bosses' glorious pasts, Berman smiled and said, "Mr. Eichinger, if I were you, I'd embrace Fox without hesitation—because right now, we're your best option."
"The reason's simple: we're the only ones still interested in Resident Evil."
"And when I say 'only,' I don't just mean ABC, CBS, and NBC have already rejected you. I mean they won't change their minds anytime soon—because their eyes are glued to The Voice."
"The Voice has reshaped the entire industry. Everyone's throwing their resources into talent shows. But Fox won't—because we already have our own brand: American Idol."
Berman paused, lifted his coffee cup toward Eichinger, and took a sip with a calm, victorious smile that made Eichinger narrow his eyes.
He knew exactly what Berman was implying.
Everyone knew The Voice had cornered the talent show market, but every network would still rush to make their own version—not because they were stupid enough to challenge it, but because, in corporate media, people don't get to choose their battles.
Take this example: if you're the president of CBS and the entire world knows talent shows are the new ratings goldmine, are you going to not make one? No chance.
If you don't follow the trend, you'll have to explain to the board why you didn't.
And if you tell them "The Voice already owns the market," they'll fire you—because clearly, you lack both confidence and initiative.
What's the board paying you millions for, then—moral support?
So, anyone competent enough to hold an executive title is now jumping into the talent show craze.
That means none of them have the time—or nerve—to focus on anything else.
Everyone knows competing with The Voice means losing. The real trick now is how to lose gracefully: how to minimize losses, how to shift blame, how to make sure the board understands how "difficult" it all was (with lots of reports to show for it).
When a company's leadership is focused on self-preservation, how much energy do they really have for creativity?
Exactly.
But even if Eichinger knew Berman was right, he didn't want to admit it.
Admitting it meant conceding that he had no choice—and if he showed weakness now, he'd lose all leverage in this talk.
So—
"Mr. Berman, I can't fully agree," Eichinger said with a polite smile. "Media conglomerates are huge, professional systems. Sure, The Voice will push them toward talent shows, but they won't abandon scripted series either. Variety shows drive traffic to dramas, after all—The Voice brought ABC plenty of new viewers for their series lineup."
"It's a symbiotic relationship."
"Oh—you're right," Berman said, smiling again. The grin looked like an admission but felt more like a man who'd already seen through his opponent.
Then—
"Mr. Eichinger—may I call you Bernard?"
"Of course, as long as I can call you Gail."
"Okay, Bernard. Since you understand television so well, that means Constantin truly wants to invest in the medium, doesn't it?"
Eichinger's face twitched. He realized he'd fallen right into Berman's rhythm.
Before he could recover, Berman coughed lightly and went on, "Okay, Bernard. I came here in good faith, so let's skip the fluff. How about a bet?"
Eichinger didn't want to bet. He wanted to get up and leave.
But it was too late—he was boxed in.
"Fine. What are we betting on, and how?" he asked through tight lips.
Berman leaned back, all smiles. "It's simple. If, by January 1st next year, NBC or CBS haven't announced plans for new talent shows—or even hinted at developing one—I lose. Otherwise, I win. And the wager…"
"…will be Resident Evil."
"If I win, Fox will give you $2 million upfront to produce a pilot. If the pilot hits a 2.0 rating or higher, we'll order a full season—12 episodes."
"Payment will scale with ratings. A 2.0 gets $2 million per episode, 3.0 gets $3 million, 4.0 gets $4 million."
"If you win, Fox will skip the pilot and directly order the first season—same pay scale—but even if ratings fall below 2.0, we'll still give you $2 million per episode."
"No pilot required."
"How about that?"
Eichinger's whole body trembled.
Because that offer—was generous.
Almost no one in TV gets a guaranteed floor payment like that.
Only the people behind #1 hits do.
Two million an episode wasn't small change. With typical production costs, the studio would still net half a million profit per episode—around five million for a season.
Sure, something like Band of Brothers cost $125 million for ten episodes, but unless your name's Steven Spielberg, no one's funding a show like that.
Fox's offer was almost absurdly good.
For a moment, Eichinger felt like Michael Arndt—a man who suddenly realized the "secret alliance" wasn't so secret after all. Because if you knew the details, you knew what game was being played.
And Eichinger knew the details.
He took a deep breath. "Then, Gail… what's the catch?"
Honestly, the offer had already tempted him. If he joined this "bet," he'd have something to bring back to his boss—a win.
But still—Fox never makes a move without a reason.
They weren't just after Resident Evil. They wanted to use him—to move against Warner, Disney, Barry Meyer, Bob Iger… and most importantly, Isabella Heywood.
So what was it they really wanted? Fantastic Four, perhaps?
His thoughts spun fast.
"Oh, Bernard," Berman said, laughing as he shrugged. "You're overthinking it. Fox just likes your Resident Evil idea. There's no 'catch.'"
"Anyway, that's enough for today. We'll talk again when the bet's settled. In the meantime—do whatever you like."
Since Berman had ended the meeting, Eichinger didn't linger.
After he left, Berman pulled out his phone and sent a single text to Rupert Murdoch.
Just a comma.
That was enough to make Murdoch smile. He set the phone down, satisfied.
Billions gone overnight? Then it's time for someone else to rise.
Maybe that text marked the death of the "Anti-Voice Alliance." Whatever came next—perhaps called Umbrella—would soon step into the light.
While Fox and Constantin were striking deals in secret, The Voice kept blazing like a little sun of its own.
On October 11, 2003, episode four of The Voice's first season aired.
Thanks to the buildup from the first three episodes—and the theme of "growth"—the premiere drew 37 million viewers.
Though ratings dipped slightly later, once Bruno Mars made his debut performance—
Whoosh—
That dazzling, sultry show pushed ratings past a 4.0 share—
41.9 million viewers!
Yes, American audiences already knew who the contestants were each week. Walls don't hold gossip, especially around The Voice.
The 4.0 rating was thrilling enough. But the behind-the-scenes "growth" clip featuring Bruno alone hit a 3.0 share—making him the season's biggest breakout star.
Warner couldn't help regretting things.
"Isabella, let's make a deal—how about selling Bruno Mars's contract to us?"
During the filming of episode five, Barry Meyer himself showed up on set.
He treated the crew to dinner, then pulled Isabella aside, smiling like a kindly Buddha.
"Sure," she said, grinning.
"Really?" Barry's eyes lit up. They'd already calculated Bruno's potential—he could be a future superstar.
"Of course," Isabella said again, but this time with a mischievous glint. "Ten billion."
"Give me ten billion, and he's yours."
Barry stopped smiling.
Don't ask why—he just didn't feel like it anymore.
"Fine, no deal!" he huffed, waving a hand. "Not worth the headache!"
As he stomped off, the crew burst out laughing.
Meanwhile, Nathan Bailey, Barry's assistant, stayed behind. Isabella tilted her head. "Your boss left—why are you still here?"
"Oh, Isabella, I'm here to finish saying what he didn't," Bailey said.
"Which is?"
"AOL Time Warner will officially change its name by the end of this month. AOL will become history."
The room went quiet.
Well… that explained why Barry had wanted a private word with the Heywoods.
Vivian asked, "So your chairman is still Steve Case?"
"No," Bailey said. "It's Richard Parsons."
"The Rockefeller man?" Catherine cut in.
"Right. Steve Case will stay on as a board member, but the new controlling executive will be Jeffrey Bewkes—Barry Meyer's former deputy and a close friend of Parsons. With him in charge, Mr. Meyer won't need to join the board."
"Got it," Isabella said, flashing an okay sign.
Once AOL was gone, the Warner division would have the strongest voice within the company.
They might still not control Turner Broadcasting or AOL directly—but those divisions could no longer undermine them.
And since the new CEO had been Barry Meyer's right hand, Warner's next move was clear: as long as Steve Case and Ted Turner stayed, they'd be next on the chopping block.
Weeds don't get to grow roots.
On the surface, none of this seemed to involve Isabella. She didn't hold Warner stock.
But in reality… well, that was another story.
"Nathan."
"Hm?"
"Call me Princess."
"Princess… Your Highness?"
"Mhm. You may rise."
Isabella waved her hand dismissively, and Nathan Bailey's face turned dark.
After two seconds of silence, he could only nod helplessly, then stood and excused himself.
That pitiful look of his made Isabella burst out laughing, and on the way back, Vivian poked her forehead in exasperation.
"Isa— you— you— sigh—"
Time rolled on.
October 18, 2003. The Voice Season 1, Episode 5 aired right on schedule.
Maybe it was because Bruno Mars had lived up to public expectations—
the average viewership for this episode stabilized directly at a 4 rating.
To the outside world, that was an explosive number— a reason for celebration.
But to Isabella...
"Stanley Gold will officially resign next month."
"Once he submits his resignation, Disney must hold a shareholders' meeting within six months."
"At that point, every shareholder with voting rights will gather in Philadelphia."
"I can't guarantee I can kick Eisner out completely, but he definitely won't be able to hold onto the chairman's seat this time."
"I swear."
The very next day after Episode 5 aired, Robert Iger met with Isabella.
His blunt tone made the girl feign innocence.
"Oh— Bob— I don't understand what you mean—"
"I'm just a girl who's almost fourteen."
Iger's lips twitched. He nearly choked on his own irritation.
Rolling his eyes so hard it hurt, he stared at the nearly 5'4" "little girl" in front of him for a long moment before saying, "Thank you."
"Oh~ you're welcome~"
This time Isabella dropped the act, casually accepting his gratitude.
She understood perfectly what Robert Iger meant. Michael Eisner couldn't be kicked out overnight— he knew too many of Disney's secrets, and no one wanted to risk mutual destruction.
But as long as he lost the chairman's title, Disney would effectively be under Iger's control.
Simple enough to grasp, right?
Disney's media division was already Iger's turf.
Pixar, Disney's own Jerusalem, was in his hands too.
Once shareholders publicly expressed no confidence in Eisner, the rest of Disney's core would follow Iger's lead completely.
And once that happened— aside from his boss Warren Buffett, his ally Roy Disney Jr., his strategic partner Steve Jobs, and Isabella Haywood— no one else could talk down to him.
Don't think that's a long list.
If ruling Disney only required winning over five people, that's practically a casual game.
"Oh, right. There's one more thing I wanted to ask."
"What is it?"
"Does your little beaver have a name?"
"What little beaver?"
"Isa, there's no one else around right now."
"Okay, okay, I haven't named her yet. Why?"
"Do you have any plans to develop it?"
"Why are you suddenly asking?"
"Because…"
Iger paused, locking eyes with Isabella. When he saw the teasing glint in her gaze, he just laughed, shook his head, and dropped the topic.
Then time slipped forward again—
October 25, 2003. The Voice Season 1, Episode 6 premiered.
As the final elimination round, it opened with a bang— viewership shot up to 43.96 million.
And when fan-favorite "Thunder Sister," one of the season's Big Three, took the stage for her farewell performance, the number soared again— 45 million viewers.
The wild figure left everyone speechless.
And meanwhile, Isabella was stepping off a car at Los Angeles International Airport.
"Hey— Isabella— long time no see— missed you so much—!"
Before Isabella could even wave, Tom came sprinting down the stairs, shouting before his feet hit the tarmac.
His yelling made everyone nearby look up, like a flock of startled hamsters.
Then came the chorus:
"Oh— Isabella— thanks for inviting me—!"
"Isabella! I love you so much— you literally saved my life! You know Goblet of Fire isn't shooting until next year, right? My mom was forcing me to go back to school and now I don't have to—!"
"Oh no, Ron! Your mom's right behind you! You trying to get killed?"
"Hahaha— Isabella— I missed you so much~~~"
"Isabella, I read The New York Times! They said you made history again? You're seriously the coolest!"
"Isabella—"
"Isabella—"
"Isabella—"
Even though The Voice was just an American talent show, this was the early 2000s— when America still fancied itself the center of the world, beacon of democracy and freedom and all that.
So once The Voice exploded in the U.S., every related topic went global overnight.
The public frenzy was insane— and Isabella got absolutely bombarded by her friends.
One night, she'd just logged into MSN, wanting to see if anyone in the group chat was talking about her.
Then— a tidal wave of messages hit her.
Tom: 99+ messages, begging to know how to watch The Voice in the UK.
Neville: 99+ messages, just screaming about how awesome she was.
Ron, of course, was the most ridiculous— also 99+, with about 80% of them being cries for help.
One day: "You invited me to America, right? I really don't want to study anymore."
The next: "You have to let me come to the U.S. or I'll get yelled at again!"
The day after: "If you don't let me come to America, you'll never see me again— I'll die of shame from all these D-'s…"
When everyone in the group was losing their minds, Isabella figured she'd better save them from themselves.
So she sent out invitations.
Now that Azkaban had wrapped filming, the gang came as a group.
She'd invited them ages ago— they just waited for Daniel to be free.
Smiling as she welcomed everyone, Isabella felt like a hero returning from war.
Ah yes— look at me, savior of fools and master of broomsticks.
While greeting everyone and helping them into the car, she hugged Ginny and laughed—
"Isabella, did you really not turn your little beaver into a toy?"
"All my friends want one!"
That caught everyone's attention.
Ron nodded furiously. "Yeah, yeah, Isabella! Do you know why I wanted to come to America? Because your little beaver is everywhere online! Like, super famous! I swear I see you a thousand times an hour now!"
"It made me so desperate to come here and see what The Voice is really like!"