From a showbiz hierarchy perspective, a small $20 million movie like The Game Plan really didn't deserve the Hogwarts kids' help with promotion. Warner Bros. wouldn't normally allow it.
But when The Game Plan's producer happens to be Isabella—Queen of America, the youngest two-billion-dollar box office holder in history, the youngest EGOT, the producer of the most successful debut TV show ever—then sure, the Hogwarts brats can mention it.
That's how the world works: you treat people according to their rank.
Naturally, Dwayne Johnson and Disney were thrilled—they were the beneficiaries.
And Warner… well, truth be told, they were actually pleased too.
Not only because Barry Meyer and Bob Iger were "firm allies" at the moment, but because The Game Plan was set to premiere on December 12.
That's a very delicate release window, since New Line had scheduled The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King for December 17.
Yeah—one year later, the "vampire plan" was live again!
Sure, The Game Plan couldn't compete with The Voice in cast or content. But who cares?
For Warner, The Game Plan was a happy accident—it wasn't even meant to sabotage The Lord of the Rings. So if it could drain a little of Return of the King's blood, great! And if not? Just making some noise to annoy Ted Turner would do.
They were mortal enemies already; if there's a chance to stab the other guy, why not take it?
After internal evaluation, Warner concluded the odds of The Game Plan successfully "sucking blood" were quite high. December mid-month was a solid slot.
Six films would release that day: The Game Plan, The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille, Love Is Priceless, Stuck on You, Girl with a Pearl Earring, and Something's Gotta Give.
None posed a threat—including Something's Gotta Give, even with Jack Nicholson. The man couldn't draw crowds anymore.
But Isabella could—even without appearing on screen.
Her name alone guaranteed an A+ box office result.
Two weeks earlier, the only so-called "major release" was The Last Samurai. And that one—never mind its nonsense historical revisionism and "white savior" complex—it targeted a totally different audience. People who loved Dances with Wolves wouldn't watch Cheaper by the Dozen.
So?
Seeing that open field, Warner's executives grinned wickedly.
If The Game Plan opened well in that gap, with Return of the King's pattern of slow start, long tail, and fatigue mid-run, it'd inevitably lose a chunk of audience. Even a modest 80 million gross would be a success.
If that happened, New Line would be history, absorbed by Warner soon after.
Because once The Lord of the Rings was over, New Line had no IPs left.
No IPs, no performance.
No performance, no independence.
What, someone says they still had The Hobbit?
Please.
New Line only got The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit through a kickback deal with the Weinstein brothers.
If Disney sued, The Hobbit couldn't even start production—no studio would invest in a project mired in copyright litigation. Not even Ted Turner could force it.
And for Disney to sue New Line? That's just a phone call from Barry Meyer to Bob Iger.
By the time Warner ran the numbers, they were practically wagging their tails outside their enemies' door.
As for Robert Shaye—he said nothing. Maybe he knew his position was weak. Ted Turner stayed silent too.
Isabella, of course, knew all of this. But as Warner's "Princess Hermione," she wasn't interested in power struggles. Too tiring. She just wanted to live easy.
"..."
"Wow, Isa—you look stunning!"
Los Angeles, December 5, 2003.
In two hours, The Game Plan's premiere would be held at Disney's El Capitan Theatre.
Since Isabella would appear on the red carpet, she was now in makeup and wardrobe.
In showbiz, the gowns and jewelry stars wear on the red carpet are almost always borrowed—no one spends real money on that overpriced nonsense.
And if a team slips up, fails to check what others are wearing, or everyone just happens to pick similar designs, well… outfit clashes happen.
Then it's simple: whoever looks worse, loses.
But that kind of tragedy didn't exist in Isabella's world.
First, she was confident in her looks—her face was her biggest cheat code. She landed Hermione Granger because of it, didn't she?
Second, to be blunt—the fashion world no longer qualified to serve her.
Fashion is all about hierarchy. Low-tier celebs beg designers for loans, but for top stars, brands beg them. In 1990, Madonna made $4.5 million just for attending the Oscars with Michael Jackson.
Now? Stylists get $50,000 bribes just to suggest a top star wear a certain label.
Since Isabella's self-produced The Voice averaged 45 million viewers per episode, brands like Chanel or Tiffany would have to pay her $500,000 per minute for their product to appear on her body.
They couldn't afford her anymore.
So she wouldn't be caught dead wearing brand pieces.
What then? Custom, obviously.
For the red carpet, Disney had ordered her two bespoke gowns from London.
One was a white satin evening dress embroidered with golden English roses—symbolizing passion. The strapless cut highlighted her delicate collarbones, and the elbow-length gloves made her look properly regal.
With her hair draped back, diamond tiara, and gemstone earrings, the girl in the mirror looked like a princess made flesh.
"This dress is gorgeous, but it's just… heavy."
Maybe it was because the girl in the mirror looked too beautiful, but Isabella raised a hand daintily to tap her head. The gesture made everyone laugh—both because royal ladies supposedly never point, and because she looked adorably fake trying to act proper.
"Oh, Isa, even if it's heavy, you're keeping it on," said Catherine. "Both gowns share the same jewelry."
She pulled the second dress forward—black satin, identical cut, but threaded with silver constellations that shimmered with every movement.
Honestly, Isabella liked both, but…
"Fine. I'll stick with this one. I'm not changing again."
She pouted and accepted her fate. Then her eyes drifted to her sister.
"Catherine, note this: from now on, if anyone's making me a gown, they have to check with me first. I want final approval. I'm not straining my neck again over bad design."
At first, Catherine listened seriously—thought her sister disliked the designer.
Then Isabella dramatically rubbed her neck, and Catherine rolled her eyes. "If you're that tired, take off the tiara. You'd still look great without it."
As she reached out to remove it, Isabella squealed, "Hey—what are you doing—!"
Her shriek froze Catherine's hand mid-air. In the mirror, the older sister's smug look was perfectly captured.
"Oh, Isa, I thought you said it was heavy. I'm helping you lighten the load."
Isa's face went dark.
"Catherine, would it kill you to let me act like a princess for five minutes?"
"Yes." Catherine nodded solemnly. "Pretending I can tolerate, but pretending in front of me? Come on. We've lived together for over ten years—I know your brain. Watching you fake it feels like a mean cat suddenly trying to act shy. You get me?"
"Oh, my dear sister, I get it so well," Isabella snarked. "You mean I'm like the Downing Street cat—named Ruffian—but insists on going 'meow meow meow.'"
Vivian, lounging on the sofa, burst out laughing.
"Alright, alright, enough bickering," she said, clapping. "Isa, time's short—you're the producer, so you've got to be there early. Catherine, stop teasing your sister or she'll make you do her chores next time."
Catherine laughed loud and gave a thumbs-up. Isabella's face went stone-cold in mock fury.
Everyone in this family bullied her.
Unbelievable.
Though she'd walked three red carpets before, those times her dresses were relatively tame—nothing like tonight's full-blown royal ensemble.
Two reasons:
Her previous events were in rainy, freezing UK winters. Wearing full formal gowns outside would've been masochism. Back then, she was shorter, younger. Kids don't really pull off couture.
Now, Warner's costume designers came every two weeks to take her new measurements.
Because Goblet of Fire would start filming next spring.
And what's in that story?
The Yule Ball, of course!
Time really does fly—growing up happens in a blink. And since Southern California is always warm—Los Angeles in December still hits 60 to 70°F (15-21 °C)—dressing to the nines? Naturally.
Honestly, Isabella rather liked that logic, because…
An hour later, she stepped into the car heading for the premiere.
No one came with her.
Catherine, as usual, refused to make a public appearance, so Isabella had her mom and sister sneak in through the backstage entrance.
It was her first time walking the red carpet alone—but that didn't matter.
As the theater marquee drew closer, the roar of the crowd seeped through the car windows. The sound—cheering, thrilled—made her lips curve upward. When the car stopped, the door opened, and she took the staffer's hand, stepping out with flawless poise—
"Wowww—Isa—Isa—!"
"Oh! My!! God!!! She is gorgeous!!!!"
"Damn—She's like an angel—!"
The tidal wave of screams made Isabella flash all eight teeth in her grin.
Even as the crackling bursts of camera shutters drowned her in a sea of flashing lights, not even that blinding glare could stop her from walking the path toward her adoring "followers."
She lifted her right hand and waved—
Her slender arm was like a conductor's baton.
The moment it rose, the crowd surged like water at a boil, erupting into an even louder frenzy—
"Ahhhhh!!! Isa!!! Isa!!!"
"Isa waved at me!!! Isa waved at me!!!"
"Oh my god!!! Isa's talking to me!!!"
"Isa!!! I love you!!! I love you!!!"
That's right.
The reason Isabella wanted to dress so extravagantly tonight was simple: this was her first public event in North America.
When the fans waiting outside had adored her for years, to show up half-heartedly would've been disrespectful.
Uh… well…
Alright, fine.
She'd drop the act—
Being adored felt incredible.
Isabella loved the shower of cheers like bouquets of flowers.
She loved the screams that made her feel like the center of the universe.
She loved the wild, desperate shouting.
She loved that people never stopped loving her.
So, if she had to work hard to keep that love alive—well, that was just her job, wasn't it?
She paused for a couple of seconds at the arrival spot, letting the media take their shots.
Then she walked down the red carpet, interacting with the fans.
She brushed her palm lightly against the hands reaching out to her;
she signed the posters they pushed forward;
She beckoned the official photographers and organized a massive group photo with the fans;
And when she spread her arms wide, the screams hit a pitch so high it felt like joy itself had found its measure—
Even the main cast and crew waiting by the theater entrance to greet her couldn't help murmuring—"So this is A+?"
Dwayne Johnson muttered.
The reason he switched careers, the reason he tried acting at all, was for fame.
But standing there, realizing how hard he'd worked, how far he'd come—
Compared to Isabella, he was just… background noise.
"She's not just A+ anymore."
"This is beyond what A+ even means."
Gary Marshall shook his head, half in awe.
He was one of Hollywood's veteran directors.
Pretty Woman, Runaway Bride, The Princess Diaries—all his work.
He was good, and when The Princess Diaries 2 got scrapped, Disney brought him on to make The Game Plan.
But even after decades of working with stars—even after directing Julia Roberts twice—he could say with full confidence that he'd never seen popularity like Isabella's.
Because—
"In entertainment, crossing over is brutal. A-list film stars become nobodies in music. Music A-listers might dominate TV, but they rarely make history. And TV? Until now, there wasn't even such a thing as an A+ in that space. But after The Voice…"
"Saying TV should have an A+ tier now actually insults her."
"In any other field, A-list fame has a ceiling—but her…"
"Every breath she takes rewrites the record books."
Gary Marshall wasn't exaggerating.
Everyone nearby knew he was right.
Still, as they watched her, a pang of jealousy crept into their hearts.
That ache for the summit.
Dwayne Johnson sighed quietly. He realized he might never even touch half of Isabella's level.
Just as he steadied himself to greet the princess with a polite smile, a blur shot past him—
"Whoosh—"
Someone darted out from his side—
It was Margot Robbie.
When she saw Isabella finish chatting with the red-carpet host and start up the steps, the young girl—who'd been waiting eagerly—couldn't hold back anymore. "Oh—Isa—!" she cried, waving wildly.
The familiar voice made Isabella glance up.
The West Coast sun bathed everything in gold.
The warm light fell like a sheer veil across the earth, setting the figures on the red-carpet stairs aglow.
When Isabella saw little Robbie, her smile bloomed again. "Hi~ Margot~"
Her sweet face was like a rose unfolding, dazzling and alive—
But more than that, she was like a black hole, pulling in everything around her.
In that instant, Margot felt the world blur a little.
"So beautiful…"
The girl whispered under her breath.