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****
Matt understood.
He'd spent enough time around Hollywood to know exactly what Marvin was talking about.
"You want me to keep him in line."
"I want you to keep your friend alive."
Matt's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
Marvin sat back. "Then we're clear."
Matt nodded. "We're clear."
He started to rise. "Thank you."
Marvin looked at him. "Don't thank me yet."
Matt stopped. "For what?"
"I haven't asked for anything."
Matt hesitated for a moment, needing to clarify the terms of their survival. "What exactly do you need us to do in return, sir?"
Matt, ever the intensely loyal friend, deliberately said "us" and "we" in every sentence, explicitly letting Marvin know that Ben was also fully involved in this debt and ready to help pay it off.
'This guy really is a remarkably good friend,' Marvin thought. It was a rare, exploitable trait.
"For now? Nothing," Marvin smiled, leaning back again. "Just remember... you owe me."
Matt stared at him. "Nothing?"
"Nothing."
That almost made Matt laugh. "You really are strange."
"So I've heard."
Matt shook his head. "All right. Then... if you ever need something, call me."
Marvin didn't answer immediately.
Matt stood there, then added, "And Ben."
"Ben too?"
"Yeah." Marvin raised an eyebrow.
Matt shrugged. "He's an idiot, but he's my idiot."
That finally drew a genuine smile from Marvin. "I like that."
Matt breathed a shuddering sigh of relief and stood up on shaky legs. "Thank you for your understanding. Ben and I both owe you, Mr. Meyers. We won't forget." Matt started walking away. " Good night, Mr. Meyers."
"Good night, Matt Damon."
Matt disappeared into the crowd. Marvin watched him go.
Matt genuinely hadn't expected the explosive matter to be resolved so cleanly and easily. A simple, vague verbal promise of future "favors" to a teenager—wasn't Marvin being a bit too generous and naive with his leverage?
Matt was confused, but he was more than happy to leave things exactly this way and escape with their careers intact.
There were simply too many ways a vague verbal promise could be legally dodged or turned into minor leverage later down the line. It wasn't a blood oath.
The words had been simple. If you ever need something, call me. And Ben.
Most men would have heard nothing more than a promise made in the aftermath of an ugly night.
Marvin heard something else. He'd felt the moment Matt had said it.
A faint pull beneath the words. A thread tightening somewhere beyond the physical world.
Matt hadn't known what he'd offered.
He didn't need to. The Demon had.
The party carried on around him.
People were already whispering about Ben. About Charlize. About the fight. About Marvin.
None of them knew that, in a quiet corner of the room, Matt Damon had just given him something far more valuable than an apology.
A promise.
And promises, when spoken to the right creature, had a way of becoming much more than words. A pact was made with the demon. The words themselves held power.
How could an Incubus ever truly be so kind?
After finishing his drink and conversation with Matt Damon and getting the contract signed, Marvin decided he'd gotten enough out of the evening.
He'd come here for Nicole, partly to get out of his office for a few hours and partly to finally put an end to Harvey Weinstein's plans for his IP. Instead, the night had handed him considerably more.
He'd met one of his future fathers-in-law and made exactly the impression he wanted. He'd secured Matt. And somewhere in the middle of his confrontation with Ben Affleck, the emotions rolling through the room had given him a steady surge of mana.
'Not a bad night.'
Marvin made a final round through the room, exchanging a few words with the people who mattered. Nicole got a quieter goodbye. Tom, Alejandro, Javier, and the rest of *The Others* cast and crew received the appropriate handshakes and farewells. Most of them were still trying to process everything that had happened.
Lindsay was the only obvious absence. She'd slipped out earlier with Dorothy for some late budy birthday shopping on Rodeo Drive, apparently unwilling to let the night end quietly.
A few veteran directors introduced themselves before Marvin could leave. Ron Howard was the one he remembered.
Then Marvin slipped through the side doors.
Gordon was already waiting at the VIP entrance. Two short rings from Marvin's pager had been enough. The armored Rolls-Royce Silver Seraph sat at the curb, engine running quietly.
Marvin climbed into the back and sank into the leather.
Gordon reached for the gear selector.
"Wait."
His hand stopped.
Gordon didn't ask why. He'd heard and seen. enough about what had happened inside to know better than to start asking questions. His job was to notice things, not demand explanations.
'Look more. Talk less.'
That was the difference between a bodyguard and someone trusted to keep a powerful man's life intact.
They waited.
At the far end of the doorway, a figure emerged from the shadows.
She walked with a noticeable limp, one hand gathering the side of her dress as she made her way toward the waiting Rolls-Royce. The night had thinned the crowd outside, leaving only a few drivers, security men, and photographers lingering near the entrance.
Marvin watched her approach through the rear window.
She stopped beside the car then a pale hand rose and tapped softly against the tinted rear window.
The glass rolled down with a near-silent hum, revealing Charlize Theron's stunning, flawlessly contoured face, framed by the Los Angeles streetlights.
Charlize bent slightly, looking into the cabin. "Is there any chance I can come with you?"
Marvin studied her. "Where's your car?"
"Apparently dead."
"Apparently?" She gave him a tired look. "My driver says he's waiting for another car. I don't particularly feel like waiting with him."
Marvin's mouth twitched. "That's your excuse?"
"It's the one I'm using."
There was no point pretending either of them believed it.
Charlize could have called an agent. An assistant. A driver. Anyone. She could have had a car waiting within minutes.
She hadn't. She'd come here. To him at the right time.
Marvin pushed the door open. "Get in."
"Thank you." She slipped inside and settled beside him, closing the door behind her.
For a few seconds, neither spoke.
The Rolls-Royce pulled away from the curb. Only then did Marvin look down.
"Your ankle."
Charlize followed his gaze. "I twisted it."
"During the rush?"
"Yes."
"You were running?"
"I was trying not to get trampled."
That answer came quickly enough that he believed it.
The photographers outside had become aggressive when the party ended. Charlize had been trying to get through them without losing her balance in five-inch stilettos. She had failed.
She sighed as she reached down, unbuckling the delicate straps, and removed her stilettos. She revealed a delicate, perfectly manicured, pale foot, then the other.
With a boldness that bordered on the theatrical, she extended her bare foot across the rug, resting it gently near Marvin's thigh. "Look," she murmured, her voice husky. "My ankle is horribly sprained."
Marvin inhaled lightly. The enclosed cabin was instantly filled with a complex, intoxicating cocktail of scents. There was the faint, natural, heated musk of her body, mingled with the sharp, expensive floral notes of her Dior perfume.
If he were a normal teenage boy—or even a grown human man—the only thing his overwhelmed senses would register would be the alluring perfume and the proximity of one of the world's most beautiful women.
But this was exactly why she felt so comfortable presenting herself to him in this vulnerable position. Temptation was everywhere in Hollywood. She was used to weaponizing it.
Yet Marvin was no ordinary person.
With near perfect control his olfactory senses operated on a different level. He was acutely attuned to the fragrances of human desire, particularly those emanating from beautiful women. The underlying scent wasn't unpleasant; though it was a bit unusual to his palate, he found the raw ambition mixed with her natural pheromones oddly appealing.
His gaze shifted downward to her ankle, which was indeed slightly swollen and inflamed with a red tint. She hadn't lied; she had actually sprained it, though she was clearly milking the injury for intimacy.
"Those things are beautiful," she said, holding one of the stilettos between two fingers. "They're also bloody torture."
Marvin smiled. "Then why wear them?"
"Because they look good."
"Fair."
She stretched her leg out and flexed her ankle.
Marvin looked at it for a moment. "You really did hurt it."
"I told you."
"I thought you were exaggerating."
"I was."
He looked at her.
Charlize smiled. "The injury is real. The drama was optional."
That got a quiet laugh from him.
She leaned back into the seat, finally allowing some of the tension she'd been carrying since the banquet to leave her body.
Marvin noticed. "You should have gone home."
"I didn't want to."
"Why?"
Charlize turned her head toward him. "Because I wanted to see you."
The answer was simple. No performance. No coy smile. Just the truth.
Marvin held her gaze. "After tonight?"
"Especially after tonight." She looked down at her hands. "You saved me."
"I stopped Ben."
"You know what I mean."
Marvin said nothing.
Charlize's fingers tightened around the strap of one of her shoes. "When you walked in, I thought..." She stopped.
"What?"
She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it yet."
"All right."
"Thank you."
"You've already said that."
"I know." She looked at him again. "I wanted you to hear it anyway."
The car moved through the city, the lights of Los Angeles sliding across the darkened windows.
Charlize leaned her head back. "I kept thinking about what you said earlier."
"Which part?"
"That I didn't have to let people decide what I was worth."
Marvin's expression changed slightly. "And?"
"I believed you." She gave a small laugh. "That's the frightening part."
"Why?"
"Because I've spent years being told what I should do, who I should impress, what sort of woman I need to be if I want to work." She looked toward the window. "And tonight some idiot actually tried to tell me I should sleep with Harvey to get a movie." Her jaw tightened. "I hated him for saying it."
Marvin watched her quietly.
"But I hated that he thought I'd say yes even more."
"You didn't."
"No." Her voice softened. "I didn't."
She turned toward him. "And then you came along."
There was something different in her expression now. Not gratitude alone. Trust. Maybe something more dangerous than either.
"You make everything feel very simple," she said.
"Most things are."
"Not for me."
"I know."
Charlize smiled faintly. "That's another thing I like about you."
Marvin raised an eyebrow. "You're collecting quite a list."
"Perhaps." She shifted slightly, careful of her ankle. "Do you know what I was thinking when I got into this car?"
"What?"
"I thought I finally found someone who doesn't look at me and see a way to get something."
Marvin's eyes rested on her. "I want things from you."
Her smile returned. "I know."
"That doesn't bother you?"
"No."
"Why?"
She considered the question. "Because you don't pretend."
That answer stayed between them.
Marvin reached toward the compartment beside him and opened it. "I have a cold compress."
Charlize glanced down. "And the alcohol?"
"For cleaning the skin. Not for drinking."
She laughed softly. "Shame."
He handed her the compress. She took it and pressed it against her ankle.
After a moment, she sighed. "That's better."
"Good."
She looked at him over the top of the compress. "You really were going to treat me like an injured woman instead of taking advantage of the situation, weren't you?"
"I said I'd help."
"I know." Her smile softened. "That's why I came."
Charlize, gazing deeply into Marvin's calm eyes, suddenly felt a sharp pang of genuine embarrassment. The performance suddenly felt rather silly.
She had walked out of the party intending to find an excuse to get close to him. She had expected Marvin to play along, perhaps tease her about the injury, perhaps make her work a little harder for his attention. Instead, his gaze was so deep, so heavy, it made her feel completely transparent. He was simply looking at her ankle. Not her dress. Not her legs. Her ankle.
It made her strangely self-conscious.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm checking how badly you twisted it."
"Oh." She gave a small laugh, suddenly feeling foolish for playing such a cheap game with a mind like his. "Right."
She started to pull her foot back. But before she could retreat, her foot was gently captured in his strong, warm hands.
****
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