"Wowwwwww—"
"Isabella's opening performance is All I Want for Christmas Is You?"
"Hoooo—this setup—fits the season perfectly—"
New York.
10 p.m. on the East Coast.
Madonna was in her mansion, watching The Voice finale live.
She couldn't help it—she's the kind of person who can't resist a good spectacle. Wherever there's fun, she'll show up to stir the pot.
So when The Voice's ratings exploded, she naturally started following the show.
Well… alright… the ratings weren't the only reason she tuned in—that was just the surface.
The real reason was that Isabella, in Madonna's eyes, was too damn good.
She's always had a soft spot for talented people.
And once she officially started watching The Voice, it only took one episode before she was hooked.
Because the show was that good—
Competitive and entertaining.
Heartwarming and ruthless.
If one had to describe it, that all-encompassing sense of balance—like a cat hiding under the covers, sticking out one soft pink paw as if to tease, "Come on, play with me~."
That mischievous charm made Madonna pounce.
She couldn't stop watching.
Now she even had a favorite contestant—Bruno Mars.
She thought he might be the next pop king.
Because both his singing and stage presence were flawless.
The only reason he hadn't blown up before, she figured, was because he lacked the right stage.
But now?
Joining The Voice was the smartest thing he'd ever done.
Because at this point, there were very few people on Earth who could claim to be more famous than Isabella.
Watching the roaring crowd on TV, Madonna smiled faintly, a trace of envy at her lips.
"I've done plenty of concerts, but…"
"My first show wasn't in front of ninety thousand people."
"No singer before her has debuted on a stage that size."
Her eyes softened as she watched the endless glow sticks in the dark.
"Tsk, this girl… she kinda looks like MJ."
"MJ in 1993."
Anyone who's been to a live concert knows—no matter how famous the star, there are always lulls; no matter how small the venue, there are dead moments.
Sometimes it's the energy, sometimes the audience gets tired, sometimes they just want to listen.
But really, it all comes down to one thing: not enough believers.
Because once belief is strong enough—even the most obscure performer can light up the world.
After all, idol worship and religion aren't that different.
One seeks joy in this life.
The other seeks transcendence in the next.
So—
At this very moment—
As Isabella performed—
Tens of thousands of souls in the L.A. Stadium were cheering without rest.
"Impressive—" Madonna whispered, smiling.
Then the The Voice finale stage suddenly changed—
Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas Is You was a cheerful song.
Its calm verses soothed hearts, its bright chorus created joy.
But just as the verse ended—
The lights above Isabella flickered like a dying gas lamp.
She froze mid-performance, glancing upward in confusion.
Then, with a "BOOM—" the lights went out completely.
Darkness swallowed the stage, and the entire arena fell silent.
From the dark came a soft sigh.
"Dock the lighting crew's pay."
That deadpan line made the whole audience burst out laughing.
"OHHHH—she's so cute—"
Everyone knew it was part of the show!
"Where's the backup power?" Isabella called out—
The lights snapped back on.
Golden beams fanned down from above, converging on the center of the stage like a spotlight experiment.
Isabella reappeared—no longer at her piano—bathed in radiant gold—like a tiny sun blessing the world.
"Okay! Since that's fixed, shall we continue?"
She winked playfully at the audience, took off her Santa hat, and threw it away.
That move was the starting gun.
"Dun dun dun—" lights flared on both sides of the stage, revealing two rows of dancers dressed in Christmas outfits, each holding a jingle bell.
The crisp ringing filled the air—as Isabella lifted her hands and swayed her body—like seaweed drifting with the tide, like willow branches in the breeze, like… someone scrubbing their back in the bath.
The moment that ridiculous move appeared, the massive arena went silent.
For two whole seconds.
Then ninety thousand people exploded into laughter.
"Hahahahaha—Isabella's dance is hilarious—"
"She's mimicking humans bathing—this is priceless!"
"She's totally channeling Hermione Granger here—awkward and adorable—ten points deducted from Gryffindor!"
"Oh my god—how can a girl be this cute—"
"ISABELLA!!! I LOVE YOU!!!"
The finale turned into a sea of joy.
That silly little dance? Weeks of rehearsal.
There were actually three reasons behind it:
Like Chris Columbus said—Hermione Granger can't be sexy.
So Isabella couldn't do most modern dances.
Let's just say… many dance styles exist because of loneliness and lust. Enough said. All I Want for Christmas Is You is a holiday song.
You can't perform it with sultry moves—it has to be wholesome and fun. Miss Isabella Haywood cannot dance—and doesn't want to.
So she copied the "shower scrub" dance made popular by North American memes.
Head tilted, lips curled, arms swinging—huff, huff—
Since she was wearing an in-ear monitor, she couldn't hear the crowd's reaction anyway.
So she just kept going, moving through the interlude into the chorus:
"I don't want a lot for Christmas~
There is just one thing I need~"
The rhythm hit, and instantly—
the whole stadium lifted glow sticks, perfectly in sync.
In that moment, Isabella understood—cuteness beats sex appeal every time.
As she grabbed a bell from one of the dancers and shook it to the beat—she noticed the glow sticks dipping slightly.
People were lowering them to mimic her motion—swaying together with her.
She looked around, pointed toward the crowd—and thousands of lights followed her hand down, proving one simple truth:
If cuteness doesn't beat sexy, you're just not cute enough.
Heehee~
Damn, I'm adorable.
"Oh—so Isabella really is that popular—"
Daniel Radcliffe, who hadn't gone home but had brought his family to L.A. for Christmas on Isabella's suggestion, sat in the front row, watching her dance with the audience.
He looked around the stadium, thoughtful.
He'd never really loved acting. His first role in David Copperfield was just because his mom worked at the BBC, and Harry Potter happened because he liked the books.
But once acting became his life—and he realized there was no going back—he decided to do it well.
To be liked.
To be accepted.
That was his biggest dream.
And even if he wasn't the jealous type, when faced with such a visible gap between himself and someone who started at the same point…
well, saying he wasn't jealous would be a lie.
He sat down, staring at the stage, while Rupert beside him nodded in agreement.
"My dad's taken me to concerts before," Rupert said. "But I've never seen a performer change the audience's entire cheering pattern in the middle of a show."
Daniel winced.
Then Rupert leaned closer, whispering, "Hey, Daniel… do you think we're kind of useless?"
"If we're not useless, why is Isabella the only one everyone loves?"
"You're the useless one!" Daniel snapped, scowling.
Rupert really didn't know when to shut up.
The arena was so loud no one heard their bickering.
And even if they had—no one cared.
Because everyone was too busy being happy.
Even Chris Columbus—who had brought his whole family—was waving a glow stick and dancing like a fool.
Sure, Isabella's moves were stupid.
But that didn't matter.
Because when you dance and laugh with your kids and strangers around you—that kind of pure joy is the rarest thing in the world.
There are many kinds of happiness.
Some people feel it when they make a fortune.
Some when they finish a great film.
Some when they rise to power.
But this—this simple, shared joy—was the best of them all.
The kind of happiness that comes from gain is the easiest to lose.
What people actually remember for a lifetime are those carefree, brainless moments—when something silly just happens and suddenly, boom, you're happy.
Sure, those bursts of happiness can be pretty dumb, but without those simple joys to balance out life's chaos, honestly, living would be exhausting.
As Isabella stepped off the stage, Chris Columbus, slightly out of breath from cheering, sat down with his family.
He looked around to see who else had been as giddy as he was—and suddenly locked eyes with J.K. Rowling, sitting not far away.
Yes, Rowling and her family were also at the venue. Isabella had invited them herself, covering the costs too.
Why? Don't ask.
If you must ask, it's because Isabella has more money than she knows what to do with.
Ask again? Fine—because this was Isabella's first live stage performance, and everything she had today, Rowling had given her.
So, when you're facing a major moment in your life, wouldn't you invite your mentor to see it? Wouldn't that be the right thing to do?
Since Rowling and Columbus weren't exactly on friendly terms, Disney seated them apart.
They'd still greeted each other politely earlier, of course.
And now…
Columbus raised his right hand and gave Rowling a big thumbs-up.
Rowling laughed heartily and returned one.
Her husband, Neil Murray, noticed and asked, "What's that secret code about?"
"We're saying Isabella was amazing," Rowling replied with a smile.
"Oh~" Murray nodded knowingly and said with a grin, "She really was. Honestly, I think acting's holding back her singing career."
"That's where you're wrong." Rowling shook her head. "What she wants most is to be an actress."
"How do you know?" Murray asked curiously.
"She told me," Rowling shrugged. "We walked the red carpet together at The Sorcerer's Stone premiere, and she said she wanted to be like Kate Winslet—the greatest actress in film history."
"Whoa—she's that ambitious?" Murray was surprised.
Then he blinked and added, "Wait—she told you that kind of thing?"
"Of course!" Rowling laughed. "We're close! That's what I love about her—she really knows what gratitude means."
At that moment, The Voice of America grand finale was underway.
So Isabella couldn't exactly hog the spotlight.
After finishing her opening show and delivering a belated Christmas greeting to everyone in the venue and watching at home, Isabella cleanly handed the stage back to the host.
As Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson appeared, the Voice finale officially began.
First up—the group show.
Each of the four mentors and their students took the stage, performing famous songs from other mentors to welcome the audience.
Though called a "show," this part was still competitive. The contestant with the fewest votes would perform first in the solo rounds, and so on.
Then came the solo battles—three elimination rounds until the champion emerged.
In the first round, all four contestants performed, and the one with the fewest votes was out.
Between rounds, mentors would perform, determined by which of their students had just been eliminated.
For example, if Bruno Mars was eliminated in round one, his mentor, Mariah Carey, would perform before round two began—since her part in the season would be officially over.
Only the champion's mentor would perform in the final victory performance.
Yes, you heard right—when a contestant's out, the mentor's out too.
What's that? How do the later votes work if mentors are eliminated?
Simple. Once mentors step onto the stage, they lose the right to judge anyone else—because now they're contestants too.
The only judges in the finale are the audience.
People at the venue vote with clickers under their seats.
TV viewers can call in—19 cents per minute, up to 30 seconds per vote.
To keep things fair, voting for each contestant opens immediately after they perform, and lasts for five minutes—so nobody forgets earlier performances during a long show.
While people vote, Isabella performs again, keeping the show seamless.
To stop viewers from hoarding their votes, The Voice allowed repeat voting—meaning you could vote for Bruno Mars, Katy Perry, Lana Del Rey, and even that mysterious fourth contestant.
Yep—Robert Iger was at it again.
How do you make audiences feel invested in the show?
How do you make them feel like they made the stars themselves?
Easy. You ditch professional judges and hand all the power to the audience.
And once that sank in—
Whoosh!
Viewers went feral.
Every time someone finished singing, their fans snatched up their phones and hammered the vote line, terrified they'd miss the five-minute window.
But nobody was more fired up than CBS and NBC.
Sure, nationwide voting wasn't new—American Idol had done it—but that wasn't the point.
The real bombshell came when NBC president Kevin Reilly found out AT&T was handling The Voice's hotline. He immediately called their CEO, Edward Whitacre Jr., demanding the real call numbers.
Because, well, faking results is a proud tradition in talent shows.
This kind of inquiry was neither legal nor proper—but who cared? The people asking were above both law and protocol.
So when Whitacre, working late, checked his screen, he reported calmly, "Round one received 15.61 million valid calls."
Boom.
Reilly almost short-circuited.
That number was insane.
It mattered more than ratings—because ratings only show how many watched, while valid calls show how many paid.
And The Voice had over fifteen million people paying to vote?
That meant next year's sponsorship fee alone would start at $400 million.
And if that's true, the total ad revenue wouldn't be less than $1.5 billion.
Add merchandise on top?
Easily $2.5 billion in profit.
But for Disney?
If they didn't hit $3 billion, they might as well shut down.
At that projection, Reilly's legs practically gave out.
That income equaled seven blockbuster TV shows—like his own Law & Order.
And over at CBS, chairman Les Moonves was just as stunned.
After hearing AT&T's data, he glanced down at the Nielsen report: when Isabella appeared, The Voice's live audience hit 55 million.
Even if it later averaged 60 million, it didn't matter.
Because 15 million paying out of 60 million watching meant a 25% conversion rate—while American Idol's was 8%.
Three times higher.
Which basically meant—
"Below the gods, I am unmatched."
"Above the gods, I take on seven at once."