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******
"Intellectual property is valuable, Marvin, I grant you that," Grant argued, playing the devil's advocate. "But twenty million is a massive initial burn rate. You are asking me to gamble on your business acumen, not just your artistic talent."
"My business acumen?" Marvin laughed—a low, dark, and thrilling sound. "Dad, let us not pretend I haven't already proven my intelligence with capital. Have you checked the performance of my Yahoo portfolio this morning?"
There was a brief pause on the line. The sound of a keyboard clacking echoed from Grant's end.
"Just look at the current Yahoo strike price," Marvin pressed, his Incubus charm bleeding through the satellite connection, heavy and persuasive. "It has increased by a full five dollars per share since the last time I authorized a buy order. Not to mention the heavily leveraged, bullish options I have been holding long for the past three months. They are maturing perfectly. The market is exclusively rising. I have already more than tripled the original seed amount you permitted me to trade."
Marvin stopped pacing, looking directly at his own perfect reflection in the dark glass of the window.
"I am a Meyers," Marvin stated softly, yet the words carried the weight of a sledgehammer. "I don't gamble. I conquer. But, if even after all this, you will not give me the twenty million, my lovely father... I will simply have to take a morning stroll to the European banks."
"Excuse me?" Grant said, his voice dropping.
"The elite private bankers were practically tripping over themselves at the Savoy tonight," Marvin purred, an edge of ruthless leverage entering his voice. "Even if they won't accept my unvested Yahoo shares as collateral, I can simply put my multi-million-dollar Disney and Random House contracts on the table. I am quite sure the heads of Deutsche Bank and Barclays won't mind loaning a paltry twenty million to the sole, rising heir of the 2.3 billion-dollar Meyers fortune. If nothing else, they would jump at the chance to build a relationship with me early."
Amy's pen slipped, leaving a dark ink mark on her legal pad.' Two point three billion dollars.' Her Midwestern mind practically short-circuited trying to comprehend the sheer scale of the wealth she was currently managing.
Grant let out a loud, booming laugh that forced Marvin to pull the phone slightly away from his ear. It was the laugh of a man who had just been flawlessly checkmated by his own flesh and blood, and was incredibly proud of it.
"You little shark," Grant chuckled affectionately. "You'd really leverage the family name to the Swiss bankers just to bypass me? Why didn't you just ask your grandfather for the money? The old man dotes on you so much he would throw fifty million at you with open arms just for asking nicely."
"I couldn't," Marvin replied, his tone softening back into a more familiar, respectful register. "Grandpa and I made a specific deal regarding a big deal before I left for London. I cannot ask him for a bailout, and I honor my contracts. That is why I came to you, Dad."
The affection between father and son hummed over the encrypted line, a rare, genuine tether to humanity for the Incubus. Grant loved his only son fiercely, and while he demanded excellence, he also deeply respected the terrifying maturity Marvin possessed.
"Okay, okay," Grant finally conceded, a wry smile evident in his heavy sigh. "You win. I'll authorize the transfer. But you severely underestimate the sheer greed of some people, son. The owner of Maratone isn't going to hand over that record label for a mere ten million, not even if you corner them with an ultimatum. So, thirty million dollars will be moved into the Zenith Trust's operational accounts by tomorrow morning. Do as you please with it, Marvin. If nothing else, this is going to be an incredibly expensive, highly educational lesson that one man cannot possibly build an empire entirely by himself."
"I completely agree," Marvin nodded, his expression the very picture of calm, calculated certainty. "With that extra twenty million, they won't have a choice but to fold. That is exactly why I hired Max and handed him equity. Let the professionals use that thirty million to do their professional jobs. I merely provide the architecture."
"Speaking of architecture," Grant added, "I will personally make a call to Tommy Mottola at Columbia Records this afternoon to smooth the runway for your distribution deal. But I can't guarantee anything. Tommy is a shark himself."
"Thank you, Dad, I love you," Marvin said earnestly. "Please, just deal with that man. And please, guard the escrow tightly. I am your only son. You wouldn't want to see my hard-earned money being swindled away by European lawyers, would you?"
"Hard-earned money, huh?" Grant scoffed playfully. "You sang a single song at a charity dinner and charmed a few bankers. You haven't done hard labor a day in your life!"
"You're laughing at me," Marvin said, perfectly injecting a note of childish indignation into his voice. "I'm going to tell Grandpa you are mocking my artistic labor."
"Wait, wait," Grant groaned, the billionaire instantly folding at the threat of the family patriarch. "I'll instruct the lawyers to prioritize your contracts. Seriously, Marvin, can you please stop using the 'Grandpa' tactic every time I tease you?"
"Hehe. As long as it works, Dad, it is a valid strategy," Marvin smirked, his ocean-blue eyes dancing with amusement.
"You're impossible," Grant sighed, though the deep affection remained. Then, his tone shifted back into a strictly professional gear. "Marvin, listen to me. This London trip has proven one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. You are expanding too fast. You really must have a formal, shark-toothed Hollywood agent. You cannot keep bothering Aunt Nancy, me or your mom with every single corporate negotiation and press release."
Grant paused, and Marvin could hear the rustle of papers over the line. "And while Amy is clearly doing the job well handling the logistics," Grant continued, unaware that Amy was sitting ten feet away, listening intently, "she is not an industry agent. She is more of a high-level nanny and secretary for you. You need someone whose sole job is to smell blood in the water and negotiate your royalties."
Marvin glanced over at Amy. She had her head down, writing diligently, but he could see the slight tightening of her jaw. She was tough, but being reduced to a "nanny" by the patriarch of the family stung.
"I understand, Dad," Marvin said smoothly, already planning how to elevate Amy's status. "I will begin interviewing top-tier agency representation the moment I land back in Los Angeles."
"There is no need," Grant replied casually. "I've already found one for you. I signed the preliminary representation papers this morning."
Marvin froze. For a creature who demanded absolute control over every aspect of his existence, the idea that a crucial piece of his empire had been slotted into place without his explicit consent was highly jarring.
Marvin: "..."
"Dad," Marvin said, his voice dropping its warmth, returning to the cold, absolute resonance of the Incubus. "Who is it?"
"You'll know exactly who it is when you get back," Grant said, completely unbothered by his son's sudden shift in tone. "Have a safe flight tomorrow, little shark. And tell Nancy to stop drinking my good scotch."
The line clicked dead.
---
The heavy phone was still warm in Marvin's hand when the confirmation beeped through.
Within five minutes of Grant authorizing the transfer, a staggering thirty million dollars had materialized in the Zenith Trust's offshore operational accounts. For most human beings, staring at that many zeroes would induce a paralyzing sense of caution. For the Incubus, it was merely ammunition. And ammunition was entirely useless if it remained locked in the armory.
"Amy," Marvin called out, not looking away from the rain-streaked windows of the Dorchester suite. "Get Andrew Cohen in Century City on the line. Immediately."
Amy Adams, who had barely finished organizing the morning's legal briefs, blinked in surprise. "Marvin, it is four in the morning in Los Angeles. The New York Stock Exchange isn't even open yet."
"Andrew is a broker, Amy. He doesn't sleep; he waits," Marvin replied smoothly, turning to face her with a predatory glint in his ocean-blue eyes. "Connect the call."
Two minutes later, a groggy but sharply alert Andrew Cohen was on the line.
"Mr. Meyers," Andrew's voice crackled through the speakerphone. "I wasn't expecting a directive until the European markets closed. How can I help?"
"Andrew, I have just received an aggressive capital injection of thirty million dollars," Marvin stated, his voice a cool, commanding baritone that completely belied his eleven-year-old frame. "I want every single liquid cent of it temporarily dumped into Yahoo! shares. Execute the buy orders the absolute second the bell rings in New York."
Amy stopped breathing. She stared at the speakerphone. "Marvin," she whispered frantically, covering the microphone. "You need that money to buy the studio! If the market dips—"
Marvin held up a single, elegant finger, silencing her.
"Mr. Meyers, all thirty million?" Andrew asked, a note of professional hesitation bleeding through the line. "That is a massive, highly concentrated exposure. Yahoo is bullish, yes, but parking your entire fund in a volatile tech stock..."
"Andrew, I did not hire you to offer conservative financial counseling," Marvin interrupted, his tone dipping into a chilling, absolute authority. "I hired you to execute my plays. Corporate acquisitions of the magnitude I am currently structuring in London may take more than a week of due diligence, legal wrangling, and contract drafting to finalize. That money is going to sit in escrow for at least seven days.
Capital that sits still is dead capital. I absolutely refuse to let thirty million dollars devalue in a stagnant bank account while lawyers argue over commas. If Yahoo moves even a fraction of a percent over the next week, I will generate an additional fifty thousand dollars. In my ecosystem, fifty thousand dollars is not a rounding error; it is leverage. Buy the shares."
"Understood, Marvin. Executing the massive buy order at the bell," Andrew confirmed, the sound of furious typing echoing before the line went dead.
Marvin set the phone down, looking at his pale, wide-eyed assistant.
"Never let your capital sleep, Amy," Marvin instructed softly, offering her a devastating, flawless smile. "Now. Let's focus on the work."
For the next several days, the shooting schedule fractured. Aunt Nancy was forced to return to LA alone at Shepperton to direct the intricate, secondary character sequences that did not require Marvin's presence.
This left Marvin and Amy permanently stationed in the lavish confines of the Dorchester, transforming the Presidential Suite into a high-stakes corporate war room.
And the war had definitively begun.
When the British morning tabloids hit the newsstands in the United States, Hollywood completely lost its mind.
The image of the impossibly handsome, impeccably dressed American boy standing calmly amidst the flashing bulbs of Fleet Street—combined with the breathless, verified reports that he had brought European billionaires to tears with a vocal performance and had been publicly claimed by Princess Diana as her godbrother—sent shockwaves through the studio system.
The phone in the suite did not stop ringing for four consecutive days.
Amy was baptized by fire. She transitioned seamlessly from a Midwestern actress and high-level nanny into the Chief Operating Officer of a phenomenon. She sat at the glass dining table, surrounded by empty espresso cups, fielding calls from some of the most powerful executives on the planet.
"No, Mr. Georgia, Marvin is not available for a promotional radio interview this afternoon,"
Amy said crisply into the receiver, expertly handling the head of marketing department of The Parent Trap. "Yes, we are fully aware that the London press has generated an unprecedented organic marketing wave for The Parent Trap. Marvin intends to leverage that momentum upon his return to Los Angeles. I will schedule a marketing summit for the 22nd. Goodbye."
She slammed the phone down, only for it to instantly ring again.
*****
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