"Miss Isabella, congratulations on making history once again."
"Thank you, I'm glad you could come."
"..."
"Oh~ Isa~ hello! I've liked you for a long time~"
"Tom, if anyone else said that I wouldn't believe them—but coming from you, I totally do. I saw that time you praised my show, and I was so excited. I'm a fan of your Mission: Impossible series!"
"Really? Don't tell me you grew up watching my movies?"
"Oh my god—Tom, you just said what I was too scared to!"
"What? Why?"
"I wanted to say I grew up watching your movies, but then I thought—doesn't that make you sound old? But you're not old! You're super handsome!"
"Hahahaha—Isa—you're just too funny!"
"..."
"Isa, nice to meet you. I'm Brian Niccol, COO of Pringles."
"Hello, uh… the Pringles chips?"
"Yeah~ Pringles chips~"
"Oh~ that's a fantastic product~"
"Thank you. Uh, Isa, my wife and kid are huge fans of yours—they adore you as Hermione Granger and even bought your mini CD. So… if it's okay, could we take a photo together?"
"Of course! And if you don't mind, I can even sign something."
"Oh—that's amazing—thank you so much—uh, here's my card. Maybe we can work together sometime?"
"Sure, sure, we'll find time to collaborate."
"..."
Isabella wasn't sure how others saw these "celebration banquets,"
but in her eyes, they were just big networking parties.
The "celebration" was a pretext. The real point was to mingle.
Because after she smashed the ice sculpture, a crowd of people immediately surrounded her.
Would deals actually get made during all this small talk?
Probably, yeah.
But tonight, a lot of people were bound to leave unsatisfied.
Not just because most of them were here for her, Isabella Haywood—and she had no intention (or interest) in talking business—but also because she had the luxury of not needing to.
She was still a kid! What did she know about business?
You wanna talk contracts, go talk to my mom!
Heehee~
And to make things worse, there was no alcohol or smoking allowed tonight.
Without those little "debuffs," everyone was staying uncomfortably sober—and that made them all cunning old foxes.
In California, after all, you can't smoke until you're 18 or drink until you're 21.
So?
Too bad, the world revolves around me tonight~
Since Isabella had total freedom to do as she pleased,
once she got tired of socializing, she whoosh—slipped out of the main hall and headed to the restaurant to find food.
Honestly, she'd thought she'd be the first one there.
Eating at a banquet seemed kinda improper, right?
But when she arrived…
"Wow!"
"You guys are all here?"
"You didn't call me?"
The sight of her Hogwarts pals surprised—and mildly offended—her.
Her voice made the kids at the table all look up and laugh.
"Isa—"
Everyone greeted her warmly.
"Oh—we came because we were hungry—and honestly, the front hall's really boring—"
They all chimed in at once with excuses.
And to be fair, any sane person would hate pointless small talk.
Isabella could understand.
But still—
"Oh—so you didn't even see me break the ice sculpture?"
"Well then, you can pay for dinner and leave."
"When I'm showing off, you don't cheer—and now you want to eat my food?"
"In your dreams!"
The little beaver pulled out her imaginary gun—anyone who nodded would get shot.
Her puffed-up pout made everyone laugh harder as they pulled her to sit down.
After everyone solemnly promised their applause counted as payment,
she finally sat down, grinning.
"Isa, this is wild Alaskan halibut."
"I just tried it, it's really good, so I ordered you a portion."
The restaurant was à la carte tonight.
Call a waiter, flip a menu, food appears.
But before Isabella could even ring the bell,
Robbie had already jumped up—because the waiter with the food cart was approaching.
She brought the dish over herself.
Her familiar movements were accepted naturally by Isabella—
and that made Rupert groan theatrically.
"Oh—Isa—you really are a princess, huh—Margot's already a big star—and she's still serving your food?"
As soon as he said it, Robbie shot him a look.
She was going to say "I don't mind,"
but before she could open her mouth, Isabella's eye-roll landed right on him.
"Rupes, if you're jealous, go take more acting gigs."
"When you're a prince someday, you'll get the same treatment."
"By the way, remember that thing we talked about last year?"
"The USA Today review of The Amazing Spaceman?"
Isabella winked at him.
The memory made Rupert practically shriek. "Oh Isa! Stop! I beg you, don't bring that up again!"
"Hahahaha—"
His panicked reaction had everyone—especially Daniel—bursting out laughing.
Isabella shot him a look too, silently signaling, "pfft-pfft."
They locked eyes.
One second… two… three…
"I'm begging you too. Please shut up."
Daniel knew exactly how dangerous that mouth of hers could be.
The little beaver giggled, swinging her legs.
Bullying friends was fun.
One hit and they'd sulk for hours. Heh~
To be fair, Disney and Warner throwing a banquet just for her,
to celebrate The Voice's success,
made her genuinely happy.
No one dislikes being praised like a star surrounded by planets.
But honestly?
What she really wanted to do was make an appearance and vanish.
Networking was exhausting.
When people noticed the star of the night was missing from the main hall,
they came looking—
and soon, the small talk followed her right into the restaurant.
Annoying.
And her friends looked helpless too.
Since she knew she was the reason trouble had followed,
after scarfing down a few bites, she decided to free them.
She slipped away.
Where to?
"How long is this party going to last?"
She popped up beside Barry Meyer. "I can't stay anymore. I'm leaving."
Her bluntness made Meyer laugh and shake his head.
"Sweetheart, everyone's here for you. You've barely been here an hour. People will be disappointed…"
"That's why I'm asking you for a solution," Isabella shot back.
"Okay," he said, checking his watch, amused.
"How about this—sit another half hour. Come to the lounge. Bob and I actually have something to discuss with you."
She agreed.
So Meyer called over Robert Iger,
Isabella waved her mom over,
and the group headed for the hotel lounge.
Catherine didn't come—she hated these events and was nesting in her room.
Though Isabella suspected the "something to discuss" was work-related,
she still sighed internally when it really was.
"OMG—you guys seriously can't surprise me for once?"
Vivian gave her a light smack. "Mind your tone."
Meyer shrugged helplessly. "Isa, we don't want to talk business either."
"But if not today, then tomorrow," Iger said.
"So you want to talk today?" Meyer arched a brow.
"Or tomorrow?" Iger grinned.
Their little back-and-forth made Isabella laugh—and surrender.
"Okay! Okay!"
"Just spit it out, what do you want?"
Meyer's topic was simple.
With The Voice Season 1 wrapped up,
he wanted the top three contestants to release their songs ASAP—
singles at least, if not albums.
Because now was the perfect time to cash in.
"Isa, you know Kelly Clarkson, right?"
"The American Idol Season 1 winner."
"She released her debut single within a month.
It debuted at #60 on the Billboard chart,
rose to #52,
and hit #1 by week five.
So…"
Isabella got it.
As Warner's chairman, Meyer was under pressure to rake in profit.
And since the top three of The Voice were her people,
the Warner Music COO couldn't just force them into action.
"Well, Barry, you know me—and what their contracts are like. I don't push people to work.
But I understand Warner's position, so let them reach out directly.
As long as they don't use threats, I'm fine with it, okay?"
Before she'd even finished, Meyer flashed an OK sign.
If she allowed contact, Warner could easily persuade Bruno Mars and the others to release songs.
They just needed her not to block it.
"Thanks."
Meyer raised his glass—of Coca-Cola.
The princess doesn't drink.
That settled, it was Iger's turn.
He had two things.
First, he thought Season 2 prep for The Voice should begin immediately.
Second, he wanted to turn The Voice into an attraction at Disneyland.
She had no issue with the first one.
In her previous life, The Voice of America ran 28 seasons in 15 years.
If madness worked once, why stop it now?
Besides—it was her personal money printer.
So when she heard Iger was offering her 10% of total revenue again, she grinned.
"No problem, I agree. But I've got one condition—I'm not appearing anymore."
"I don't want to be the face of it again.
The brand's built. It doesn't need me glued to it.
And… reality shows are exhausting."
The lazy honesty made them both chuckle and nod.
"No objection. We can use the winners for promos," Iger said.
"From a brand perspective, that's ideal—let winners attract winners. You good with that?"
"I'm fine," said Meyer. "But the promo song—theme song?"
"If I get inspiration, I'll write one," Isabella said. "If not—you can handle it yourselves."
"Okay."
First issue: done.
Now the second.
Both Isabella and Vivian frowned.
"Uh, Bob, how exactly does The Voice fit into Disneyland?"
Vivian said, "When we went before, we saw the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire game—it made sense, trivia works well in parks. But The Voice? A singing competition?"
"You're not seriously moving a studio into the park, right?"
Even Meyer nodded. "Yeah, Bob, how do you gamify The Voice? You can't host auditions there."
"Why not?" Iger grinned. "Why can't Disneyland host a singing competition?"
According to Disney's plan:
They'd carve out a big section of the park to build a full-scale Voice stage—rotating chairs and all—with a thousand-seat theater attached.
Visitors could pick a song from a park playlist and perform on stage before a thousand-person audience.
If a judge (played by Disney staff) turned their chair,
the player advanced to the next round—team battles, eliminations, the works.
If multiple judges turned, the player could choose their coach, just like on TV.
If no one turned, the audience could vote—
and if more than half thought they were good, the player got a revival chance to sing again.
During the day, each coach picked four contestants.
At night, the sixteen would battle for the championship.
The winner earned a "Dream Ticket"
that let them skip any future season's open auditions and jump straight to the city rounds—with special Disney publicity.
"..."
Isabella was stunned.
She never imagined a talent show IP could be developed like this.
This was…
"Bob, what do you think the chances of success are?"
"100%."
"Why?"
"Because I believe in The Voice brand."
"But… people would have to stay in the park all day to play it!"
"I know, but that's fine. I believe in The Voice brand."
"Uh… that's not really about belief—it's about logistics. You also need a thousand-person audience—"
"Yeah, Isa, I get it. The audience will be visitors too.
It sounds hard, but again—I believe in The Voice brand."
"..."
Great. The man had turned into a motivational tape.
With Iger radiating delusional confidence,
Isabella exchanged a look with her mom—both deciding not to argue with a madman.
Ahem.
"So, Bob," Vivian smiled, "how much are you offering for the theme park rights? Ten percent of park ticket revenue, like before?"
"Uh… Mrs. Haywood… that's a big joke." Iger chuckled.
"You know Jurassic Park at Universal? Spielberg only gets 0.5% of park ticket sales."
"Then we'll take 0.5%," Isabella shot back instantly.
"..." Iger froze.
"Pfft—hahahahahahaha—" Meyer burst out laughing.
"Oh Bob—you walked right into that one!"
Like Meyer often said,
in Hollywood, power isn't about awards or box office.
It's about whether your IP can take a bite from a giant's plate.
Only then are you a true player, not a pawn.
So far, only two people could do that.
In Isabella's past life, J.K. Rowling became the third—
but not yet, since Warner didn't have its own theme park.
If they had? She'd already be on the list.
A tragic fact, really.
And The Voice…
"To be honest," Iger said, "the brand does qualify for park royalties.
But as Barry said, I can't decide that yet—I don't fully control Disney right now."
"So how about this—one-year contracts, one year at a time. Ten million per year.
When I do take full control, we'll revise it—0.5% revenue share, twenty-year deal. Sound fair?"
His eyes locked on Isabella.
Not ignoring Vivian—he just knew Isabella called the shots.
She smiled.
It was a sincere offer.
Ten million a year in licensing fees wasn't small change.
Especially for a limited-capacity attraction like that.
So, when The Voice didn't actually add much value to Disney's theme parks, a licensing fee of ten million per park was already quite a lot. But…
There was a trap hidden in Iger's offer.
He said that if he could take control of Disney, he'd immediately revise the contract with them.
But if he didn't gain control of Disney—what then?
Wouldn't that mean the contract just stayed the same?
Sure, in Isabella's previous life, Iger really did end up running Disney.
But life's unpredictable, right?
And to take control of Disney, Iger needed the backing of many parties—far more than the five involved now.
For example, Disney's theme parks were a separate entity within the Disney ecosystem.
Iger could influence the parks, yes, but influence and control aren't the same thing.
He'd have to replace the park director with one of his own people first.
If he couldn't even do that, what "control" was there to speak of?
Then there was Disney Animation Studios, the very heart of Disney.
That division was the Disney family's private domain.
Why did Roy E. Disney still hold sway even after his family's shares were diluted again and again?
Because with just one word, he could make the animation studio's entire staff go on strike—
and not just them. The theme park workers and other departments would walk out for him, too.
Over 70% of Disney's headquarters staff were personally promoted by his father,
and all of them had grown up watching his uncle's animations.
Put simply, the Disney headquarters was to the Disney Group what Warner Bros. was to AOL Time Warner back in the day: a core with deep roots full of vested interests. These people wouldn't turn on their original shareholders.
So, if Iger wanted real control, he didn't have to completely purge the Disney loyalists,
but at the very least, he'd need them to sincerely recognize his leadership—
something Michael Eisner never managed.
But once, someone did.
That was Jeffrey Katzenberg, one of DreamWorks' founders.
Why did he get kicked out?
Because both Eisner and Roy Disney thought he'd become too powerful.
Sometimes, talent really is a crime.
Katzenberg led Disney Animation through its renaissance, and his prestige at HQ soared.
And since power grows from the bottom up—
once the people below listen to you, the ones above become powerless.
"Ah, this guy's got his eye on my little beaver again…" Isabella mused silently, smiling as she said aloud, "Bob, why are you looking at me like that? I don't understand any of what you just said."
"So I'll need to consult a professional before I know if it's reasonable."
Her answer made Iger's smile widen.
"Chris Columbus, right?"
"Yup."
"Fine—go ask him, then."
He was sure she'd caught his meaning.
She hadn't agreed yet, but that was fine.
He could wait.
Still…
"Oh, Isabella, Mrs. Haywood—aside from those two things, there's something else I want to remind you about."
"What is it?"
"Taxes."
Iger said, "You need to handle your taxes carefully, or things could get very messy."
"Your income right now is way too high."
"You're about to receive… what, three hundred million in cash?"
He glanced at Meyer.
Meyer nodded. "Yeah, about three hundred million, not counting the copyright deals."
"So deal with it properly. I don't want you two getting into trouble," Iger said seriously. "If it does get complicated, come to us—we have a professional team that can handle it."
"Mm." Meyer nodded gravely. "Our team charges, sure—but honestly, it's worth it."
"Thank you," Vivian said with a polite smile. "If we need help, we'll reach out."
Both mother and daughter understood perfectly well what that meant.
When you can bring massive profit to others, your business stops being just your business.
You can't just walk away.
In other words—once you're in the game, you don't get to retire.
That's the cost of power.
And as for taxes… Isabella had already sought help—from J.K. Rowling.
"Oh—Aunt Annie! Why are you hiding here?"
After wandering around a bit, Isabella spotted Rowling chatting with the Hogwarts kids at the party.
She joined them, exchanged a few words, and when she said she was about to leave, everyone decided to head out too.
On the way back to the hotel, Isabella rode with Rowling.
Since it was Rowling's own car with her own security, they chatted freely.
When Rowling learned that Iger and Meyer had pulled them aside to talk business, she sighed.
"Those two… honestly… hard to describe."
And when Vivian mentioned they'd also been warned about taxes, Rowling smiled knowingly.
"The thing you asked me to arrange is done," she said. "You'll be able to sign in January. The foundation's headquartered in London, with an office in New York. It's named after you, Isabella—'Haywood.'"
Anyone who knows what a "charitable foundation" really is doesn't need more explanation.
Back in 2003—right after Chamber of Secrets came out—Rowling's personal wealth had already topped a billion dollars, making her the first writer in history to hit ten digits just by writing books.
If she'd handled that money "normally," more than half would've vanished to taxes.
So, she'd founded her own charitable foundation back in 2000,
keeping her personal cash holdings in the tens of millions,
and running everything else through a network owned by her best friend—
a real-life princess, no less.
"3.4%?"
Rowling's car was an MPV, so Isabella poked her head forward from the back seat.
Both women frowned.
Vivian: "Why aren't you wearing your seatbelt?"
Rowling: "Can't you just sit still for once?"
"..."
The little beaver pouted and obediently leaned back.
Rowling held up a hand. "There's also this—so the effective rate is actually 8.4%."
"Ohh~" Isabella understood.
Professional teams were expensive.
Even if Rowling's friends didn't take a cut, the team's fees would still be on them—
about 5% per transaction.
So, if they could push the tax rate down to 3.4%, Isabella would keep 91.6 million out of every hundred earned.
Honestly, not bad at all.
And more importantly—safe.
"Thank you so much, Aunt Annie!"
She was thrilled.
Originally, they'd wanted to let the bald guy handle the taxes,
but he'd said there was too much money and not enough time.
Even a family office couldn't process it all in time.
So he'd told them to hire real professionals.
For most people, that would've been a dead end.
But for Isabella? Sorry, the world's most powerful and connected "team" was literally a phone call away.
Her genuine gratitude made Rowling chuckle.
"If you really want to thank me, then do your job well. Mattel, EA, and Johnson & Johnson have all complained to me—since Chamber of Secrets underperformed, HP merchandise sales have dropped."
Mattel handled the toys—each film earned them about $150 million. Rowling got a cut.
EA handled the games—over $700 million in revenue. Rowling got a cut.
Johnson & Johnson? The perfumes—"earwax," "booger," "mud," and "dirt" scents. Weirdly, those were the best-selling HP products.
Rowling got a cut there too.
Naturally.
When the quality of the movies affected her income—
"Aunt Annie, don't worry! I'd never slack off with you!" Isabella declared proudly. "I've already turned down season two of The Voice! I want to focus on Goblet of Fire!"
Rowling's mouth twitched.
She wanted to believe her, but the kid's energy said otherwise.
"Really?" Rowling asked skeptically.
"Of course!" Isabella nodded hard.
"Alright. Are you done with work in North America?"
"Yup."
"Good. Then tomorrow, you'll sit with me and go over the Goblet of Fire script."
"...Huh?"
"It's being written right now. Once it's done, we'll shoot.
Since you're so eager to work, you can join the process—
the sooner we discuss it, the sooner we start filming."
"..." Isabella deflated instantly.
She'd wanted a vacation!
But seeing the smile on Rowling's face, she obediently walked right into the trap.
"Sure," she muttered pitifully. "I love working. Work makes me happy."
Rowling and Vivian burst out laughing.
Later, back at the hotel, Isabella got another piece of bad news.
"What did you say? Paramount contacted you?"
"Yeah," said Robbie. "After you left, they came to talk. It's about Queen Bee. They said filming can start around February or March, finish in two months, and release in summer."
"Paramount said they'll send you the final script before production—they won't skip the process. But before that, I'd like to go home for a bit."
Since The Voice movie premiered, Robbie hadn't been home once.
It was fun being out, sure, but everyone needs a place that feels like home.
"Okay. Safe travels." Isabella smiled, then looked at her mom. "Withdraw two hundred thousand?"
"Alright." Vivian nodded and made the call to Robbie's assistant.
"Hey—I don't need that!" Robbie protested, realizing what they meant.
Isabella raised a hand to stop her.
"You've only done one film so far, and your pay was just a hundred grand. After tax and expenses, that's nothing. You can't go home empty-handed after a year of work."
"So if you're touched, just make sure to work hard and earn more for me later. When your contract ends, you'll renew it—ninety percent for me, ten for you—for, say, thirty or fifty years."
"..."
Robbie's mouth twitched. "You're insane."
Maybe it was homesickness, maybe resignation,
but Robbie left on the 30th—after spending Isabella's money shopping in California on the 29th.
Once she was gone, Isabella felt oddly lonely.
Her smart, obedient little sidekick was gone.
"Keisha, I'm thirsty…"
"Then drink water. Why are you calling me?"
"..."
"Keisha, I'm hungry…"
"Then eat. I can't conjure food out of thin air."
"..."
"Keisha, Daniel and the others are going home today. Come to the airport with me?"
"No. Go by yourself. I don't want to move."
"..."
The little beaver looked miserable.
But someone else was even more miserable—
Bernard Eichinger, the boss of Constantin Films.