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Marvin leaned back, crossing his arms. "Additionally, I will provide a separate ten million dollar capital fund to immediately acquire real estate and establish a state-of-the-art sister studio in Los Angeles. We will name it Wolf Cousins. You will be installed as the Head of Creative for both facilities, and I will grant you a five percent equity stake in the LA expansion. You will have unlimited budgets, the finest acoustic architecture money can buy, and absolute creative control over the artists we sign. How does that sound?"
The sheer, overwhelming audacity of the deal hit Max Martin like a physical blow.
Marvin detailed. "Staff, writers, top-tier producers, a global pipeline. Then, by 1999, I should be able to inject another fifty million dollars into the studio. How I will do it doesn't matter, and at that time, don't worry about diluting your shares. Yes, dilution will happen on paper, but I can personally guarantee you they won't go down below your core five percent. In fact, we can write an anti-dilution clause directly into the contract."
Marvin leaned back, crossing his arms, looking like a young king surveying a map of the world. "And we might not even need the external capital. With your fire, your creativity, and your eye for talent, combined with my money, my talent, and my creativity... we can create something that might challenge even the Universal Music Group by the late new century."
Max frowned slightly at the sheer magnitude of challenging Universal—a corporate leviathan—but Marvin continued before the producer could voice his disbelief.
"It's a new entity. New capital. New market," Marvin said smoothly. "I take the absolute financial risk. You gain international expansion without losing a single drop of what you've already built."
Silence stretched across the office.
"You'd be the creative head of both," Marvin said softly. "Sweden and L.A. Two hubs. One unified sound."
Marvin was able to interpret Max's thoughts from his expressions, and thus proceeded to engage him further.
"And that is merely the European and American divisions," Marvin continued, refusing to let the momentum slow for even a second. "I have a distinct, supernatural eye for talent, just like yours, Max. I see a raging, undeniable fire in you. But I am an actor, a composer, a creator, and an investor. I cannot be here, or in other studios, micromanaging your mixing boards unless it's for my own recording sessions."
He offered a light, aristocratic wave of his hand. "I intend to be an entirely hands-off chairman. I do not like interfering with professionals. As the saying in my family goes: let the professionals do the professional work, and you only keep an eye on the horizon. As you can see, I am very young. I would like to actually enjoy my life, and I absolutely do not want to be stuck in an office building signing away papers and attending endless board meetings. I am not some sixty-year-old man who likes to see his workers dance like puppets on strings."
The sheer, overwhelming audacity of Marvin predicting his own thoughts hit Max like a physical blow to the chest.
This eleven-year-old child was sitting on his worn-out sofa, casually proposing a transatlantic, multi-million-dollar corporate merger that would instantly catapult Max from a hungry, mid-level Swedish producer to one of the most powerful executives in the history of the global music industry.
It was true that Marvin's first five-track instrumental EP might still require them to temporarily partner with a major label like Sony or EMI—assuming there was anyone left at EMI brave enough to take their call after Grant Brook's public execution—just to utilize their physical CD distribution trucks and pressing plants for the immediate release. But this deal... this was about owning the future. This was about establishing a fortress that no major label could ever penetrate.
Max looked at the boy. He saw the impossible handsomeness, the terrifying intellect, and the absolute, unshakeable confidence radiating from his relaxed posture.
"You..." Max stammered, wiping his sweaty palms on his denim jeans. "You want to give me creative control of a twenty-million-dollar transatlantic studio network?"
"I am offering you the keys to the kingdom, Max," Marvin smiled, his deep blue eyes gleaming with ancient, predatory delight. "I will bring you the capital. I will bring you the talent. You simply have to build the hits."
"And I bring something else to the table,"
Marvin added, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Max looked up, captivated. "What?"
"Product."
Max's breath hitched. He had just heard the product. He had wept in the control room listening to it. It was undeniable.
Amy looked up from her legal pad, her Midwestern heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had moved to London hoping to manage a child actor's tutoring schedule and fetch coffee. She was rapidly, dizzyingly realizing that she was acting as the Chief Operating Officer of a burgeoning international conglomerate. The stakes were astronomical, and she was entirely addicted to the rush of this little man dominating every talk.
"Mr. Marvin," Amy interjected smoothly. Her voice carried a calm, professional authority that perfectly complemented Marvin's dominating, magical presence. "If you are agreeable to the broad strokes of this proposal, I can have the Zenith Trust legal team in Los Angeles draft a binding Memorandum of Understanding before we fly back to America tomorrow. The initial capital can be held in escrow within forty-eight hours."
Max looked from the sharp, beautiful assistant in the designer trench coat to the terrifying child prodigy swirling a glass of orange juice.
Ambition, raw and ravenous, flared in the producer's chest. He looked at the platinum records on his wall. He thought about the grueling hours he spent making other men incredibly rich. He knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if he walked away from this table, he would regret it for the rest of his natural life.
"Ninety-ten on Maratone. Five percent of Wolf Cousins. Total creative control of the boards," Max repeated, his voice shaking slightly as he confirmed the monumental terms.
"And your absolute loyalty," Marvin added softly, sealing the verbal pact with a heavy dose of intent.
Max took a deep, shuddering breath. He extended his hand across the cluttered, coffee-stained desk, looking the ancient demon directly in the eye.
"You have a deal, Marvin," Max said, his voice firming up, the raw ambition finally eclipsing his disbelief. "...Alright. Let's build it."
Marvin reached out and shook the producer's hand. His grip was firm, cold, and entirely victorious.
The music industry, Marvin thought to himself, feeling the invisible, magical tethers of the verbal contract lock firmly into place around the Swedish producer's loyalty, is officially mine.
Max released his hand and slumped back into his chair, running his hands through his long blonde hair. The adrenaline was beginning to recede, leaving behind the stark, practical realities of the recording industry.
"Now, Marvin," Max suddenly asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the eleven-year-old boss sitting across from him. "We have the deal, the studio, and the creative control. But do you have a distributor in mind? I am sure you don't want this new parent company, Maratone, to handle the physical distribution of your music right out of the gate. We simply don't have the basic logistics—the pressing plants, the trucking fleets, the international retail contacts—at least not before you are famous."
Max leaned forward, his producer's mind working rapidly. "While talking to you, I think I can understand your overarching plan. Correct me if I am wrong... but you intend to release your initial work through another massive, established label. You'll do this at least twice, leveraging their billions in infrastructure to flood the global market, build your fame, and establish a rabid fanbase. And then, once you are an undisputed titan, you will shift entirely to your own studio that has already been quietly building its basic structure in the background. With the massive popularity of these amazing songs—which I am absolutely certain will create huge winds in the market—you will give the much-needed wings to Maratone and Wolf Cousins, allowing them to rise higher entirely on the back of your music."
Marvin couldn't help but grin. It was a terrifying, brilliant, and utterly predatory smile that perfectly fit his perfectly proportioned face.
"See, Max," Marvin said smoothly, raising his glass of orange juice in a mock toast. "That is exactly why I wanted to partner with you. You are an incredibly smart and resourceful person, with the fire to create something monumental. Yes. That is precisely the idea. We use the leviathans to build our ship, and then we sail away on it."
"Brilliant," Max breathed, shaking his head. "So now, do you need me to introduce you to the boardrooms? I have a very good working relationship with Universal Music."
Max asked the question with genuine eagerness. He felt he had just made the absolute best deal of his natural life, and he had a profound, gut-level feeling that this partnership would be a long, wildly lucrative one.
Max Martin's collaboration with Universal stemmed directly from his recent, explosive production of the Backstreet Boys' debut album. The self-titled record, heavily engineered by Max, was currently selling extremely well across North America and Europe. The lead single, "We've Got It Goin' On," had already reached number 32 on the American Billboard charts and number 54 on the notoriously difficult English Music Chart, and the album's momentum was only growing daily.
Therefore, the Universal Music Group highly recognized Max's unique production capabilities and had reached an informal agreement for a long-term collaboration.
Max felt certain that if he personally walked into the London offices and recommended Marvin to Universal Music, the executives would absolutely give him the requisite face and fast-track the boy's EP.
Marvin opened his mouth to agree, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Aunt Nancy.
The seasoned Hollywood director was sitting perfectly still on the worn leather sofa, but she was looking directly at Marvin and shaking her head. It was a very slight, almost imperceptible micro-expression, but to an Incubus trained to read human body language like a printed book, it was a screaming siren.
Marvin seamlessly pivoted his response without missing a single beat.
"There is absolutely no rush on locking down the distribution today, Max," Marvin said, his tone casual and polite. "I need to discuss the international partnerships and contract terms with my parents first."
"Okay, I don't mind," Max shrugged, leaning back. "I've only worked with Universal deeply on this one major project anyway. We have time."
The freezing London rain had begun to fall again, streaking the tinted windows of the rented Bentley as it glided smoothly away from the suburban studio and back toward the glittering heart of Mayfair.
Inside the plush, soundproofed cabin, the atmosphere was suffocatingly thick.
Gordon, the massive, silent bodyguard, was focused entirely on navigating the wet streets.
In the front passenger seat—the co-driver's position—Amy sat completely rigid. Her leather portfolio was clutched to her chest like a bulletproof vest.
In the spacious back seat, the heavy silence finally shattered.
"Marvin Meyers," Nancy breathed, her voice a mixture of profound shock, awe, and a rising tide of familial panic. She turned her entire body to stare at her little shark. "What in God's name did I just witness?"
Marvin looked away from the rainy window, offering his aunt a serene, angelic smile. "A corporate merger, Aunt Nancy. I thought the terms were quite clear."
"Clear?!" Nancy practically exploded, throwing her hands up. The Hollywood veteran, who routinely screamed at studio heads and managed multi-million-dollar film budgets, was looking at the boy as if he had just grown a second head. "You just offered a Swedish music producer twenty million dollars! You essentially bought an international studio, established a subsidiary in Los Angeles, and declared war on the entire music industry! When did you even come up with this plan?!"
From the front seat, Amy turned around slightly, her auburn hair catching the dim streetlights. "If I may add to your aunt's line of questioning, Boss... I am also deeply curious as to how you intend to wire ten million dollars into a Swedish escrow account by Friday."
*****
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