"Boss, judging by the current box office trend, The Return of the King has no hope of reaching a billion…"
"Or to be more precise, it might not even make nine hundred million."
December 22, 2003.
Robert Shaye's secretary entered the office with the weekly box office report in hand.
Yesterday, December 21, a Sunday, saw a massive box office drop across North America. Since the official Christmas holiday only began on the 25th, and Christmas Eve on the 24th depended entirely on whether your boss was feeling generous—forget the 22nd and 23rd, the world would have to explode before anyone got a day off—people were busy.
Because of that, The Return of the King's Sunday gross dropped by 15.2%, taking in $20.13 million.
That number pushed its North American total just past the $100 million mark—$107 million after five days.
But honestly… at that rate, there was no chance it would cross $200 million within two weeks.
And if a film couldn't hit that mark in its first two weeks? Then unless someone was faking numbers, global gross topping $800 million was about the best it could hope for. Long-tail earnings wouldn't save it now.
And beyond that? Even the big six studios wouldn't throw money away like that—it just wasn't worth the cost.
So, with The Return of the King's future all but written, the fate of New Line—and of Robert Shaye—was sealed as well.
"Alright, I understand."
Robert Shaye nodded slightly, forcing a calm smile at the secretary who had worked beside him for years.
He waved him off gently.
That calm composure stabbed at the secretary's heart. Lips pressed tight, he hesitated before speaking again.
"Boss, maybe we could hold out a little longer? Just one more year?"
"In our schedule for next year, we've got a few strong titles—Blade: Trinity, After the Sunset, and that romance The Notebook we picked up. They could all turn a good profit."
Leaning back in his chair, Shaye's gaze flickered.
He knew what the man meant.
He could humble himself and beg Ted Turner to keep him on for one more year—enough time to prove himself again with solid numbers and stay in charge of New Line.
But…
"Thank you for the suggestion."
Shaye sighed softly and stood, walking to the window to look out at wintertime New York.
Snow drifted down, and the scent of Christmas nostalgia hung in the air.
It reminded him of childhood—sitting by the fireplace with his grandmother.
His face relaxed a little. Hands resting on the windowsill, he spoke quietly.
"You're right—those films all have potential. Blade: Trinity, Brosnan's After the Sunset, that small love story we bet on—they might all make good money. But the problem is…"
"Even if they succeed, all they'd buy me is another year or two."
"And then Warner would still push me out."
"Because those are the kind of films any studio can make."
"So why should New Line be treated as special?"
When a company gets acquired by a giant, the only way to stay independent is to prove it brings something unique to the table.
Take the music industry—when major labels buy up smaller ones owned by star artists, the artist's uniqueness is what keeps the label alive. Once that star fades, the label gets folded into the parent company, reduced to just another office in the building.
It's simple economics: nobody likes sharing power, and running multiple sub-labels just wastes resources and raises costs. Why maintain separate distribution channels when the parent company already has them?
So once New Line lost its defining IP—its soul—it was destined to be absorbed by Warner.
That's the real reason Warner was confident they could swallow it whole.
That's just how the industry worked.
If you wanted freedom again, you had to reinvent your soul—but that was nearly impossible.
Even if New Line could somehow create a new franchise from scratch, it wouldn't matter; the standards had changed.
Disney once had no live-action franchise—then Pirates of the Caribbean became the new soul that defined them. Warner already had Harry Potter. To be free, you'd have to beat Harry Potter.
Otherwise, any IP you built could just as easily be made elsewhere.
And for New Line to produce something that could surpass Harry Potter?
Please. They couldn't even outdo it with The Lord of the Rings, their magnum opus.
Meanwhile, with Isabella's current popularity, Prisoner of Azkaban was practically guaranteed to cross a billion.
If Azkaban became only the second film in history to do that, and the later Goblet of Fire and Order of the Phoenix kept breaking records, Warner's standard for "independence" would be unreachable.
Honestly, making another Titanic would be easier than topping Harry Potter.
So really…
What was the point of him clinging to New Line?
Just to humiliate himself?
He watched the endless river of people below and smiled faintly.
"Everyone steps off the stage eventually. The world always makes room for the new."
"So…"
"When it's time to bow out, bow out."
"And I'll say this—Robert Shaye never lost to Barry Meyer. Warner never beat me head-on. Not even when Steve Ross was alive did they ever truly win."
"The one who really dismissed me…"
"Was Isabella Haywood."
At that, Shaye pressed his lips together hard.
After a pause, he turned and left the office.
As he passed his secretary, he stopped just long enough to pat him on the shoulder.
That simple gesture said everything.
By the time the man turned around, Shaye was gone.
The open door blurred through teary eyes.
That night, the Warner Bros. board—now stripped of its AOL branding—received a fax.
Just three lines long.
In essence, it said only one thing:
"Born in 1939, I am retiring."
That's right—Robert Shaye was sixty-four.
He'd only stayed this long because power was addictive.
But after The Return of the King's collapse, the founder of New Line Cinema finally embraced his fate.
Not that anyone cared.
Ted Turner had written him off months ago, and victors rarely have time to pity the fallen. Success leaves no room for sentiment.
It's not cruelty—it's just that victory…
Is too intoxicating.
"Mom! I can't believe you called right now—this is amazing! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! My movie's a hit! It's a hit! Hahaha! What? ABC and SBS both reported on me? They're saying I'm Australia's most successful young actress? Oh my god—that's unbelievable—"
"Yes, I'm fine! Grandpa and Grandma miss me? Please tell them I miss them too, and I love them, and I'll visit when I wrap up my work—and you too, Mom…"
"No, I'm not tired! Isabella's family treats me so well… of course I'm grateful! I'll tell them you said thank you! I'm not brushing you off! They all know you love me! You're just busy with my little brother!"
"Okay, Mom, gotta go—an interview's coming up. Talk soon! Bye!"
The moment she hung up, Margot Robbie spun across the bed like a pinwheel.
No matter how she tossed and turned, she couldn't burn off the joy inside her.
Because The Game Plan had exploded—no surprise, really.
With a $50.58 million opening weekend, Margot had suddenly become the center of the world, the darling of the media.
Countless outlets called her "the warmest sunshine of this Christmas season."
Sure, Isabella and Dwayne Johnson got more headlines—but whatever.
This time, she wasn't the invisible supporting act.
This time, she had her own feature articles.
And really, how many films ever gain box office on a Sunday?
Some critics even dubbed her the "Wonder Girl" who worked miracles.
Of course, everyone knew The Game Plan's Sunday bump was linked to The Voice. With the show airing Saturday night—prime movie hours—fans postponed their movie plans to Sunday, inflating the numbers.
But still—The Voice was just the external factor.
The real reason was that the movie itself was good.
If The Game Plan had been terrible, no amount of hype would have saved it.
Especially in an age where the internet spread opinions at lightning speed, only if audiences—especially Isabella's online fans—truly liked Margot Robbie, her acting, her chemistry with The Rock, and the movie's warmth, would the numbers defy gravity like that.
So yes—
She was the Wonder Girl.
"Hahahahahaha!"
Margot laughed out loud, hugging her pillow and kicking her legs in pure joy.
Each kick felt like smashing through the past and leaping into something new.
Just then—
Click.
The hotel room door opened.
Her assistant, Melina, slipped in.
One look at the messy room, and she just shook her head with a grin.
"Margot, it's been days. Still not calm yet?"
"Oh, Melina—I can't calm down!"
Margot spun around on the bed, practically shouting, "I'm just too happy—too happy! This is all I ever dreamed of! I've wanted fame for so long! And now—oh my god, you know what? My mom just called!"
"She said the Australian media's talking about me! My friends back home called too! The ones who auditioned for The Voice with me—they said I'm a miracle!"
"This feels incredible!"
Melina's smile softened.
She tapped the folder in her hand.
"Then you're in the mood to look at what I brought?"
"Hm?"
Margot's eyes lit up.
"Is that… offers?" she asked carefully.
"Yeah."
Melina handed it over.
Margot opened it eagerly—and pages of contracts, endorsements, invitations, and event schedules poured out like a blizzard.
An avalanche of work—the best proof she was now hot property.
Endless offers, a happy kind of chaos.
That's how Isabella's "hands-off" management style worked.
As long as a job was legitimate, the company passed it on to the artist. Whether to accept it? That was up to them.
The company didn't give much advice.
But flipping through the folder, Margot's eyes suddenly gleamed.
"Where's Isabella?" she asked.
"At the studio—The Voice set," said Melina.
"She's rehearsing for the finale?"
"Yeah."
Since the Voice finale was a nationwide live broadcast, of course Isabella herself had to perform—half the audience bought tickets just for her.
After The Game Plan's premiere, Isabella had been juggling regular Voice tapings while preparing her big finale performance.
Busy, exhausted, but radiant.
So when Margot found her, Isabella was sprawled on the floor of the rehearsal room, completely wiped out—like a beaver pancake—while Catherine knelt beside her, wiping away her sweat.
When she saw Margot Robbie, Isabella couldn't help but grin.
"Had your fun?"
At that, Robbie's face immediately lit up with an embarrassed smile. "Uh-huh."
"That was fast."
Catherine picked up the line, teasing, "I thought it'd take you at least a month to come down from the high, but apparently... nope."
Getting over the excitement of sudden fame was, of course, normal.
So when The Game Plan pulled in strong numbers and Robbie had been giddy for days, the sisters found that perfectly reasonable.
Or rather—
even now, Isabella sometimes still made Catherine read her fan mail out loud for the fun of it.
Since fame came with busyness, Robbie had spent the past weeks running from one press event to another. And given how infectious her enthusiasm was, she'd stayed away from Isabella lately so as not to distract her.
But now—
she suddenly showed up.
"You came to see me for something?"
Isabella asked lazily.
"Mm-hmm."
Robbie didn't beat around the bush and explained her dilemma straight away.
Isabella wasn't the mentoring type. She didn't meddle in other people's lives.
So when Robbie found herself staring at a pile of job offers with no idea what to do, Isabella's instinct was to keep her nose out of it.
"Margot, your life should be in your own hands."
To be fair, Isabella's tone could sound a bit cold, but Robbie didn't mind.
Spotting a full glass of water on the side table, she picked it up, pressed the straw to Isabella's lips, and cooed,
"Isa~, have some water."
Isabella took a sip.
Just two gulps in, Robbie murmured, "Isa, just give me one piece of advice, please? I really don't understand the business side of this stuff."
That syrupy little plea made Isabella's cheek twitch as she spat the straw out.
Catherine, sitting beside her, bit her lip to stop from laughing.
Realizing her tactic was working, Robbie started massaging Isabella's shoulders while piling on the logic.
"Isa, I work for you, remember? If I don't grow, you make less money."
That shut Isabella up.
Rolling her eyes upward toward her sister, she grumbled, "Keisha, I swear I'm the most decent boss alive. But the way Margot said that makes me sound like a heartless capitalist."
Catherine broke into helpless laughter.
Isabella sighed and turned back to Robbie.
Those big sparkling eyes staring up at her made resistance useless.
"Fine. If I were you, I wouldn't even look at those offers."
"Two reasons."
"First, you already have a project lined up — Paramount's Queen Bee. After your breakout, that's the one they'll want to push hard. If it explodes, your value skyrockets, and then you can pick whatever job you want for way more money."
"Second, the projects that come through normal channels? They're rarely good. Everyone in the business knows you're signed under my company. If a top project wants you, people like Robert Iger will call me directly."
"I'm not being cynical. But if even the CEOs of the big six don't know about a project, chances are it's not great."
"That's it. I'm done talking."
"Then I won't look at them."
Her decisive tone made Isabella raise an eyebrow.
"You make decisions that easily?"
"Yup," Robbie nodded. "Because I trust you."
The cheesiness of that line made Isabella roll her eyes again.
Robbie chuckled. "Okay, fine — it's also because you make sense. Back when I was in the circus, we had this saying: When the old master says something can't be done, it means somebody died trying."
That explanation actually landed.
Basically: ignore your elders and you'll regret it fast.
And with Isabella's experience and influence, she was practically everyone's elder already.
So anyone dumb enough not to listen deserved what they got.
But then—
"So you're calling me old?"
Isabella straightened up, tail flicking against the floor with rapid thwacks, Labrador-style.
"I didn't say that!"
Robbie froze, then burst out laughing. "Oh Isa, how could I call you old? You're only a few months older than me!"
"Hmph." Isabella snorted, ignoring her.
Robbie quickly changed the topic.
"Alright, alright, enough of that. I've been gone a few days — how's the finale show prep going? Oh! What are you performing, by the way?"
"I'm not telling you." Isabella stretched the words in a playful whine.
No apology, no reveal — she was staying mad.
Classic move.
Her pouty little defiance made Robbie laugh helplessly.
She looked at Catherine, who shrugged as if to say, you're on your own.
Seeing Isabella in full stubborn mode, Robbie grabbed her arm and turned up the charm.
"Isa~, please tell me~~ pretty please~~"
"…"
Time slipped by like a blink. Soon, it was December 27th.
For Isabella, this Christmas had been hectic — endless work.
But for her fans, for everyone who adored Isabella and The Voice…
"Wowww— this view is amazing!"
5 p.m., California time.
Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.
The setting sun scattered like sparks over the crowd of 90,000, who buzzed with anticipation.
Maureen, a student from UC Berkeley lucky enough to snag an inner-circle ticket, shook her friend's arm.
"We're just ten rows from the stage! Ten rows!"
"Yeah, yeah, I know! This angle's perfect — even the close-ups are crystal clear!"
"This is so freaking cool!"
Della nodded wildly, holding up her Sony F828, her lens trembling with excitement.
Yes — for everyone who loved Isabella, this Christmas felt like a festival.
Not only because December 25th fell on a Thursday this year,
but because The Voice of America Grand Finale would go live at 7 p.m. on the 27th.
Perfect timing.
No Voice episode or special on Christmas night, meaning people could actually enjoy the holiday —
sleep off their hangovers on the 26th —
and be ready to tune in on the 27th.
And then—
As the clock struck seven, the arena lights dimmed on cue.
A deep drumbeat thundered through the space, dragging everyone's attention toward the main stage.
The beat looped three times, heavy and tense—
then the drummer stopped dead.
Silence.
The crowd held its breath.
Everyone knew… something big was coming.
Then—
BANG!
A giant white spotlight slammed down from the sky, crashing onto center stage like a comet.
There stood a piano.
And at it, a lone figure.
The big screen hadn't turned on yet, so most couldn't see who it was—
but the front rows could, and within seconds the cheers began to surge.
The figure's fingers touched the keys, playing a tune everyone knew by heart — the melody of Christmas.
The screen flickered to life, like an old film reel, slowly revealing the performer—
a girl in a red dress, wearing a Santa hat.
Isabella.
"WOOOOOOOO—!"
The stadium erupted.
"ISABELLA! ISABELLA!"
"ISABELLA! I LOVE YOU!"
The roars rolled through the night like waves.
In the middle of it all, Isabella smiled — a knowing, radiant smile,
half listening, half basking in the joy.
And then she began to sing—
"I don't want a lot for Christmas~"
"There is just one thing I need~"
"I don't care about the presents~"
"Underneath the Christmas tree~"
"I just want you for my own~"
"More than you could ever know~"
"Make my wish come true~~~"
"All I want for Christmas is you~~~~~"
Yeah~
Isabella's performance for The Voice finale was Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas Is You".