Chapter 48: Talking about Pop Music
Tom was referring to Nicole Kidman.
William's expression didn't change. He replied calmly, "Taste evolves, Tom. Diversity is the soul of cinematic art."
"Diversity? Ha!"
Tom exaggerated a laugh, though a sly glint flickered in his eyes. "Getting bored easily isn't a great habit, William. I imagine Nicole would be… disappointed if she saw you here tonight with such a stunning companion."
William wasn't the least bit bothered.
He and Nicole had always been mutually beneficial—nothing more. There was no romance to betray, no promises to break. Tom's attempt at stirring jealousy landed on empty ground.
Besides, Tom himself was hardly a saint. He was still in the middle of divorce proceedings and yet clearly enjoying the social buffet.
William gave him a faint smile.
"I'll take that bet. She won't be disappointed."
And with that, he steered Galina away, ending the exchange.
Behind them, Tom Cruise's smile faded.
If the young director was gaining too much momentum in the industry, perhaps a little "personal drama" would slow him down. A whisper here, a rumor there. Hollywood had its own methods of correction.
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Beverly Hilton Hotel – Grand Ballroom
Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead, casting warm light across polished marble floors. The air carried a blend of expensive perfume and aged cigars.
William, dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, looked every inch the rising Hollywood director. Beside him, Galina—now "Abigail" for the evening—wore a deep violet backless gown that accentuated her tall, athletic frame. The dangerous edge in her aura had been tucked beneath polished manners, transforming into something icy and aristocratic.
"Relax," William murmured. "No one here can outfight you."
Galina gave the faintest nod, eyes scanning the room with quiet vigilance.
Once satisfied she was steady, William began surveying the ballroom himself. This wasn't just a party—it was an ecosystem. Producers, financiers, politicians, studio heads. Every handshake tonight could alter the next decade of his career.
That was when he spotted her.
Off to one side stood a young woman with voluminous curls and warm caramel-toned skin, holding a glass of champagne. She seemed slightly detached from the glittering clusters around her—present, but not yet fully absorbed into the machine.
Mariah Carey.
At this moment in time, she wasn't yet the global powerhouse she would become—just a rising star with extraordinary vocal control and a debut album beginning to make waves.
William leaned slightly toward Galina. "Stay with me."
Then he approached.
"Miss Carey?" he began politely. "William Blake. I don't believe we've met."
Mariah turned, offering a warm but measured smile. "I don't think we have. Congratulations on your recent success—I've heard your name mentioned tonight."
"I hope in flattering contexts," William replied lightly.
She laughed softly. "In this room? That's never guaranteed."
They shared a knowing look.
"I've been meaning to ask," William continued, "where do you see pop music heading in the next few years? It feels like something's shifting. The 80s sound is evolving."
Mariah tilted her head thoughtfully.
"It is. Synth-heavy production is still dominant, but audiences are craving something more emotional. More personal. Power ballads work because they feel intimate. But I think the future blends technical vocal performance with storytelling."
"Less spectacle. More sincerity?"
"Not less spectacle," she corrected gently. "Just spectacle with authenticity."
William nodded. That aligned with his own instincts about cinema.
"Film and music aren't that different," he said. "Audiences want to feel something real—even if it's packaged beautifully."
Mariah studied him more carefully now.
"You don't talk like most directors at these events."
"And you don't sound like most pop stars."
That earned him a genuine smile.
Behind him, Galina remained poised, silent, observing the environment with professional detachment. But she couldn't help noticing something subtle:
William wasn't flirting.
He was networking.
Precision. Intention. Calm control.
Mariah lifted her glass slightly. "Well, Mr. Blake, if you ever need a soundtrack that actually sells records, you know who to call."
"I'll remember that," William replied.
And as they clinked glasses, he couldn't help thinking—
Hollywood wasn't just about films.
It was about positioning.
"Mr. Blake. I assumed all the directors tonight would be orbiting around the Oscar-winning actresses."
"I never limit my appreciation of beauty to one field," William replied lightly, lifting his champagne flute.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the glittering dance floor before returning to her.
"I've listened to Vision of Love. That five-octave whistle register is breathtaking. But what impressed me more wasn't the range—it was your instinct for blending R&B phrasing with mainstream pop structure."
Mariah blinked, clearly surprised.
She gave a self-aware laugh, gently swirling her glass.
"Thank you. Though the executives at the label would probably disagree. They think I should stay safely in the ballad lane. 'Play it safe,' they say. They see experimenting with stronger soul and urban rhythms as… risky."
"They're wrong," William said evenly. "Safe is the biggest risk of all."
He turned slightly toward her, meeting her eyes with steady conviction.
"Trust me, the musical landscape of the 1990s is going to shift dramatically. Street culture is gaining influence. Hip-hop won't stay on the margins for long."
Mariah's fingers stilled around the stem of her glass.
"If you combine hard-edged hip-hop percussion with your precision high register—sweetness layered over grit—that collision could define the next decade's sound."
She stared at him, incredulous.
"Hip-hop with pop vocals? Radio would reject that outright right now. No one's doing that in a major way."
"That's exactly why you should."
William lowered his voice slightly, leaning into the idea.
"The future audience won't just listen to music—they'll want to feel rhythm. Sampling will evolve. Remix culture will explode. Bring rappers onto your singles—not as background texture, but as integral collaborators."
He lifted a finger thoughtfully.
"I'd call it a 'feat.' model. Featured artists sharing the spotlight. It'll break genre barriers completely."
Mariah's eyes lit up.
It was as if he had articulated a creative instinct she'd been circling in private but hadn't yet dared to voice publicly.
"Mr. Blake," she said softly, studying him, "are you sure you're only a director?"
There was genuine admiration in her expression.
"You're talking about the future of music like you've already seen it unfold."
William raised his glass with a playful half-smile.
"A director's job is to assemble elements and visualize what doesn't yet exist. I just happen to see certain inevitabilities a little earlier than most."
Their conversation was flowing effortlessly when a sudden ripple moved through the ballroom.
Voices hushed. Cameras shifted. Guests subtly realigned themselves.
The entrance had become the center of gravity.
Where moments ago the press had hovered around Tom and several studio heads, they now gravitated toward a slender figure stepping into the light—sequined jacket shimmering, signature black fedora tilted just so.
Every movement carried rhythm. Every gesture felt choreographed even in stillness.
Michael Jackson.
"That's Michael," Mariah said quietly, reverence unmistakable in her tone.
William narrowed his eyes slightly as he watched the legend enter the room.
He understood, perhaps more than anyone else present, what that man represented—not merely stardom, but an era. A global cultural force. A brand that transcended nationality, race, and industry.
This wasn't just a celebrity walking into a charity gala.
It was a symbol of the modern entertainment empire.
And William knew something else too.
Icons shine brightest at their peak—but history is rarely kind to them forever.