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******
He didn't intervene. He understood that this was the grand, necessary theater of high-level business. They were establishing dominance, testing boundaries, and fighting for fractional percentages that would equate to millions of dollars. He found his father's dominating-side deeply entertaining.
For twenty minutes, the screaming match continued.
In the end, as Marvin had already calculated, Mottola finally gave in. The sheer, undeniable quality of the music was too valuable to let walk out the door.
"Fine!" Mottola huffed, straightening his tie, breathing heavily. "Here is the final offer. Marvin will sign a two-year two album exclusive distribution contract with Columbia Records. Yes, two years, not the standard three. During this twenty-four-month period, Columbia Records will temporarily hold a twenty percent copyright stake in these specific compositions. In exchange, Columbia will fully front all manufacturing, distribution, and international promotional costs."
Since Marvin had already fully produced, mixed, and mastered the album through his new ownership of Cheiron Studios, Columbia was effectively acting merely as a highly paid delivery service. It was an absolute victory for Cheiron Studios' future.
"Twenty percent. For two years only," Grant confirmed, his chest heaving slightly. "And the masters revert entirely to Marvin's holding company the second the contract expires."
"Agreed," Mottola grumbled.
Mottola pressed a button on his intercom. Within minutes, his terrified executive assistant rushed into the room, drafting the modified contract parameters. The high-powered entertainment lawyer Grant had brought along from Los Angeles—who had been waiting patiently in the hallway—was summoned into the office. The lawyer meticulously reviewed every single clause, checked the reversion dates, and gave Grant a firm, greenlighting nod.
Grant signed on behalf of the Zenith Trust. Marvin signed his own name with a flawless, looping script.
The moment the ink dried on the final page, the heavy, suffocating tension in the room instantly vanished.
"Fantastic doing business with you, Grant," Mottola beamed, clapping his hands together as if the screaming match had never occurred. "We are going to make a fortune together."
"Likewise, Tommy," Grant smiled warmly, raising his tequila glass in a cheerful toast. "I'll see you at the charity gala next month."
Marvin blinked, taking another slow sip of his ice water. He watched the two men seamlessly transition from bloodthirsty enemies back to best friends in the span of three seconds. He found the entire scene incredibly, delightfully magical.
'The distribution network is secured,' Marvin thought to himself, the demon inside him purring with satisfaction. 'Now, it is time to release the music to the world.'
---
The sheer, jarring whiplash of Marvin's existence was enough to break the psychological continuity of an ordinary mortal.
Less than forty-eight hours ago, he had been sitting in the palatial, top-floor executive suite of Columbia Records in Manhattan, ruthlessly maneuvering a billionaire mogul into surrendering a fortune in distribution leverage.
He had waged a corporate war, dictated terms to Wall Street, and fundamentally altered the trajectory of the global music industry.
Today, however, it was a Tuesday morning in Los Angeles. And legally, he was required to attend middle school.
The transition from the boardroom to the manicured, sun-drenched courtyards of the elite Los Angeles private academy was entirely surreal. Yet, Marvin navigated the sprawling campus with the same immaculate, unbothered grace he used to navigate the Savoy Hotel. He wore the required school uniform—a crisp white button-down and a navy blazer—but on him, the standard attire looked like bespoke armor.
Since returning from London, the atmosphere at school had radically mutated. He was no longer just the wealthy heir among many; he was a walking, breathing tabloid sensation. The European press clippings had crossed the Atlantic. Every student and teacher had seen the photographs of Marvin standing calmly amidst the flashing bulbs of Fleet Street. The rumors were intoxicating: he had starred in a Disney movie, he was releasing a secret album, and most unbelievably, Princess Diana had publicly claimed him as her godbrother.
As Marvin walked down the hallway toward the library, whispers erupted in his wake like a series of small detonations.
But the true chaos was not the generalized awe of the student body. The true chaos was highly concentrated, and it was currently waiting for him at his locker.
"Marvin, try the chocolate I brought for you," a distinctly confident, slightly raspy voice demanded.
Lindsay was leaning casually against the metal lockers. Her vibrant red hair caught the morning California sun, and she was already wielding the effortless, magnetic charisma of a seasoned child star.
But her territory was currently under invasion.
Standing opposite Lindsay, glaring with intense, adolescent hostility, was Dorothy. She was a beautiful, dark-haired classmate from a prominent Beverly Hills family, and she possessed the fierce, unyielding stubbornness of a girl who was used to getting exactly what she wanted.
"What is so great about store-bought chocolate?" Dorothy scoffed, aggressively holding out a carefully wrapped Tupperware container. She stepped closer to Marvin, completely ignoring Lindsay. "Marvin, look at these. These are fresh chocolate chip cookies my mom made this morning. They're still warm. They're delicious."
Lindsay rolled her eyes dramatically, crossing her arms. "I am the same class as him, Dorothy. I think I know what kind of snacks he likes. Besides, didn't the bell ring? You're not even in our morning homeroom block. Why do you keep coming over to this hallway?"
"I came over because Marvin is in my advanced literature seminar," Dorothy shot back, her cheeks flushing with defensive anger. She turned her large, pleading eyes to the boy. "Marvin, I don't know how to solve this structural analysis problem for the essay. Can you teach me?"
"Oh, please," Lindsay scoffed, taking a step forward, her Hollywood temper flaring. "You don't need help with an essay, you just want an excuse to stare at him."
So what you aren't so different after all Back off, Lindsay. Believe it or not, I will actually beat you up."
"Excuse me?!" Lindsay gasped, clutching her Tupperware. "Marvin, did you hear her? She's threatening to beat me up! That is incredibly barbaric and very rude for a lady."
The tension in the hallway spiked. The two girls were practically vibrating with hormonal fury, ready to engage in a physical screaming match right in front of the science labs.
Marvin let out a soft, inaudible sigh. The Incubus found the primitive, territorial displays of adolescent human females entirely amusing, but highly inefficient for his schedule.
"Girls," Marvin's voice sliced through the rising argument.
It wasn't a shout. It was a smooth, resonant, impossibly deep hum that carried a concentrated wave of closeness.
He stepped directly into the narrow space between them. With fluid, terrifyingly grace, Marvin raised both of his arms and wrapped his hands firmly around their soft, slim waists, simultaneously pulling both girls flush against his sides.
"Calm down," Marvin murmured, his breath brushing the tops of their heads. He looked down, offering them a smile of devastating, perfection. "We are all friends here. You are both brilliant, beautiful girls. You should be treating each other like sisters, not rivals. Let's just sit down and play this game in peace and quiet."
The physical contact with such closeness was an absolute, psychological short-circuit.
The moment Marvin's hands gripped their waists, the emotions flooded their developing nervous systems. The aggression evaporated instantly, replaced by a blinding, overwhelming rush of pure, unadulterated infatuation.
Lindsay's breath hitched in her throat, her Hollywood bravado crumbling into dust.
Dorothy's eyes widened, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Both of their faces flushed a brilliant, burning shade of crimson. The teenage hormones, already running high, went completely nuclear.
Their minds essentially flatlined, completely unable to process the sheer, magnetic dominance of the boy holding them.
The immediate surroundings became deathly quiet. Neither girl argued back. They simply stood there, securely tucked under his arms, entirely docile, stealing shy, rapid glances up at his impossibly handsome profile.
Sitting on a bench a few feet away, clutching a thick textbook on early computer programming, Mark watched the entire scene unfold.
The young, curly-haired student pushed his glasses up his nose, his jaw slightly slack. Mark watched the two prettiest, most popular girls in the entire school instantly melt into obedient puddles the absolute second Marvin touched them.
'God,' Mark thought to himself, a heavy, burning pang of profound envy twisting in his gut. 'How wonderful would it be if two girls were ever fighting over me like that? I wouldn't even care whether they were pretty or not. I just want someone to look at me the way they look at him.'
Marvin, sensing the heavy gaze of the future tech titan, smoothly released the girls. He gave them each a charming, lingering smile, took the cookies and the chocolate, and walked over to the bench.
"Mark," Marvin greeted, taking a seat beside the stunned boy. He didn't mock Mark's envy; he immediately pivoted the conversation to a frequency that would secure the boy's absolute intellectual devotion. "Did you review the HTML structuring concepts we discussed yesterday?"
Mark blinked, violently shaking himself out of his romantic despair. "Uh. Yeah. Yes, Marvin. I was looking at the basic architecture for the static bulletin boards."
"Static is the past, Mark," Marvin said softly, leaning in, his voice dropping into the hypnotic cadence of a visionary. He was actively molding the boy. "The internet websites of the future will not be static billboards. They will be living, breathing, interconnected social ecosystems. Imagine a digital architecture where every user has their own central hub—a face-book, if you will—where the human desire for connection and validation is mapped algorithmically."
Mark's eyes went wide. The romantic envy completely vanished, replaced by the sheer, terrifying thrill of a technological revelation. He scrambled to open his notebook, his pen hovering over the paper.
"Wait, say that again," Mark whispered, completely captivated. "An algorithmic map of social validation... Marvin, that's genius. How would we structure the database servers to handle that kind of multi-directional traffic?"
As the bell rang across the courtyard, Marvin smiled. The girls were courting his physical form, but Mark was surrendering his mind. The Incubus was establishing his empire on every conceivable front.
By 2:00 PM, the illusion of youth ended. The moment the chauffeur-driven Bentley deposited Marvin back at the sprawling estate in San Marino, the eleven-year-old schoolboy vanished, and the apex predator resumed command.
The massive home had been entirely converted into a corporate room.
Amy was standing by the buzzing fax machine, her sleeves rolled up, sorting through a mountain of international contracts. Amy was thriving in the chaos. She had negotiated printing deadlines with Random House all morning, fielded legal inquiries from CAA regarding The Sixth Sense, and was currently finalizing the escrow receipts from Stockholm.
"Random House agreed to the June delay for Ready Player One, Boss," Amy reported briskly as Marvin walked into the office and tossed his school blazer onto a leather chair. "And Jeff Raymond called. Warner Brothers is seems to be interested in the story the budget sheet for the script. He's making them sweat."
"Excellent work, Amy," Marvin praised, moving behind his massive oak desk. He opened a heavily encrypted laptop to check the closing bell of the stock market. "Keep Jeff hungry, but do not let him close any deals until I have reviewed the backend royalty structures."
Before Amy could reply, the heavy, secure landline on the desk began to ring.
It was 2:30 PM. Right on schedule.
Ever since Marvin had returned to Los Angeles, Jessica had treated his post-lunch hour as a mandatory daily check-in. It was as if the fifteen-year-old actress had somehow meticulously cataloged his exact daily schedule.
Marvin hit the speakerphone button, not looking up from his glowing screen.
"Hello, Jessica," Marvin answered smoothly.
"Marvin," Jessica's voice crackled through the speaker.
For the first few weeks of their acquaintance, Jessica had aggressively played a specific role: the obedient, bashful, slightly tragic young girl who harbored a sweet, innocent crush on the brilliant young actor. It was a survival mechanism she had learned early in Hollywood to disarm powerful men.
*****
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