Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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******

It was late 1996. The ink on her divorce from the Prince of Wales had dried in August. She had been stripped of her Her Royal Highness title, reduced by the establishment to simply ”Diana, Princess of Wales.” She was thirty-five years old, desperately trying to reinvent herself, throwing her energy into banning landmines and visiting hospitals. Yet, the paparazzi still swarmed the lobby of the hotel like starved wolves, their camera flashes waiting to dissect her every move. She was the most famous, and perhaps the most profoundly isolated, woman on the planet.

As she stared out at the rain-slicked streets of Mayfair, a faint, impossible sound breached the thick glass of the suite.

Diana blinked, tilting her head. ”Mary,” she called out softly, her posh, melodic voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. ”I hear someone singing. Would you go open the balcony door?”

Mary, her fiercely loyal personal companion and confidante, paused her unpacking. ”Yes, Your Royal Highness. Right away.”

Diana offered a faint, tired smile, not turning away from the window. ”I am no longer a Royal Highness, Mary. The Palace made sure of that. Just call me Diana. Go, please.”

Mary offered a sympathetic nod, walking steadily to the heavy glass doors and pulling them open. The freezing December wind immediately rushed into the warm suite, but it carried something else with it.

It was an ethereal, melodious voice drifting up from the balcony directly below them.

Diana squinted, stepping closer to the open threshold. She listened intently, her breath catching in her throat. The sound was entirely devoid of lyrics, instruments, or modern production. It was a raw, guttural, yet impossibly beautiful melody that seemed to vibrate on a frequency the human heart was desperate to hear.

Drawn by an invisible, magnetic pull, Diana stepped out into the freezing cold of the balcony, completely ignoring the wind whipping through her silk blouse. She closed her eyes and just listened quietly.

As the elven tune of homesickness washed over her, an extraordinary thing happened. The crushing, suffocating anxiety that constantly sat on Diana’s chest—the paranoia of hidden microphones, the bitter sting of Charles’s betrayal, the relentless, judgmental glare of the Windsor family—began to dissolve.

The song acted like an emotional balm, stripping away the armor she wore for the public and cradling the exhausted, wounded woman underneath.

For the first time since she had walked out of the Royal Courts of Justice, Diana felt entirely, blissfully at peace.

But magic, by its very nature, is fleeting. When the song finally ended, fading into the ambient noise of the London traffic, the sudden silence felt violently cold.

Diana opened her eyes, looking lost and profoundly dejected. The magical reprieve had been snatched away, leaving her standing on a freezing balcony in a city that felt more like a prison than a home.

She turned back to her companion, her eyes shining with unshed tears. ”Mary... go down to the suite below us. Find out which artist is staying there. If it is at all possible, I would like to invite him to join me for dinner tonight at the rooftop garden restaurant.”

”Right away, ma’am,” Mary said, turning toward the door.

”Wait. Never mind.”

Diana suddenly called out, her voice cracking. The brief spark of hope in her sea-blue eyes was instantly extinguished by a wave of deep, paralyzing insecurity. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as the reality of her situation crashed back down.

”I almost forgot,” Diana whispered, a hint of bitter resentment bleeding into her tone. ”I’m no longer the Princess in the eyes of the establishment. I am just a divorced, thirty-five-year-old woman carrying the heaviest, most scandalous baggage in the world. The tabloids track my every breath. Why would a brilliant, soulful musician want to risk his privacy to dine with a tabloid headline like me?”

Mary stopped with her hand on the brass doorknob. She turned around, looking at Diana with a fierce, profound pity.

Mary had been by her side for years. Their relationship had long ago transcended that of master and servant; they were sisters in the trenches of royal warfare. Mary knew exactly what the young woman standing in front of her had endured. She had held her hair during the darkest days of her bulimia. She had wiped her tears when Camilla Parker Bowles’s shadow loomed over her marriage. She had watched the monarchy blame Diana for their own archaic failings, and she had stood by as Diana resolutely, bravely severed the chains of her marriage.

Mary hadn’t seen Diana look as relaxed and unguarded as she had just looked on that balcony in over a decade. She wasn’t going to let that moment die.

Mary let go of the doorknob, walking back to her mistress with absolute determination.

”Diana, with all due respect, you are talking absolute rubbish,” Mary said firmly, dropping the formal titles entirely. ”You are the most beloved woman in this country. I will go down there, and I will extend the invitation. I’ll go try.”

Before Diana could protest again, Mary spun around, marched out of the suite, and firmly shut the door behind her.

Mary rode the gilded elevator down exactly one floor, her mind racing. She was expecting to knock on the door and find a brooding, thirty-something tortured artist. Perhaps a reclusive opera singer or a eccentric composer surrounded by empty wine bottles and sheet music.

When she knocked on the heavy mahogany door of the suite below, it swung open to reveal something entirely different.

Standing in the doorway was an eleven-year-old boy. He was dressed in tailored, expensive cashmere. His dark hair was perfectly styled, and he was casually holding a silver Montblanc fountain pen.

Mary had blinked in confusion, ready to ask the child to fetch his father.

But then the boy looked up at her. His ocean-blue eyes locked onto hers, and the air in the hallway suddenly felt incredibly dense.

He didn’t speak like a child. He didn’t carry himself like a child. He addressed her with the smooth, hypnotic, devastatingly polite charm of a seasoned aristocrat. When Mary awkwardly explained that her employer from the suite above had heard the singing and wished to extend a dinner invitation, the boy hadn’t giggled or looked for a guardian.

He had simply smiled—a knowing, impossibly charming smile—and accepted with the grace of a visiting king.

Ten minutes later, Mary returned to the Presidential Suite.

Diana was pacing the thick Persian rug, looking expectant, nervous, and incredibly fragile.

Mary closed the door, a massive, relaxed, and highly amused smile spreading across her face. ”Diana. I have returned.”

Diana stopped pacing, wringing her hands together. ”Well? Did he refuse? Did he know who I was?”

”He did,” Mary said, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. ”And I must tell you, the name ’Diana’ carries far more weight than you imagine. It does not need the archaic title of ’Her Royal Highness’ to enhance it. He would be absolutely honored.”

Diana’s eyes widened, lighting up like a thousand-watt bulb. She gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. ”He agreed?! Truly?”

”Yes, he agreed,” Mary confirmed, struggling to keep her composure. ”He said he will come up to escort you from this suite at eight o’clock, and join you for dinner at the rooftop garden.”

”Wow... that’s wonderful!” Diana spun around, the heavy melancholy of the past year completely vanishing, replaced by a radiant, almost girlish excitement. ”I really, truly loved the song he was humming. It touched my soul, Mary. He must be an incredibly deep, amazing musician.”

Diana, completely oblivious to the deeply strange, highly amused look in Mary’s eyes, began pacing excitedly around the luxurious room, her mind shifting into overdrive.

”I need to think about what to wear tonight. I can’t be impolite, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, either. We aren’t going to a state banquet, it’s just a private dinner.” She rushed over to the massive mahogany wardrobe, pulling the doors open to reveal a row of designer garments. ”Perhaps the Catherine Walker burgundy slip dress? Or the Jacques Azagury silk? No, that’s too formal.”

She pulled a sleek, sophisticated navy-blue cocktail dress from the rack and held it against herself, looking in the full-length mirror.

”Mary, what do you suggest?” Diana asked, turning to her confidante. ”Did you discern the gentleman’s preferences during your interaction? What kind of man is he? He sounded quite young from the balcony. Thirties? Twenties? I wonder what his personality is like?”

The strange, twinkling look in Mary’s eyes intensified. She desperately wanted to burst out laughing, but she bit the inside of her cheek, managing to hide her mirth behind a polite cough.

Wanting to completely blindside her mistress with the surprise, Mary casually walked over and adjusted the collar of the navy dress.

”Well,” Mary said, her tone perfectly even, ”that gentleman seems to be an incredibly kind person. He is extremely well-spoken. And he is also very... young... and devastatingly handsome. I think you will definitely like him.”

Diana blushed, a soft, genuine pink dusting her cheeks. She quickly looked away from the mirror, suddenly feeling like a teenager getting ready for a blind date. ”Mary! No, no, that’s not what I meant at all. I am not looking for romance. I just appreciate his music and his spirit.”

Mary smiled without saying a word.

She loved seeing the princess act so girlishly. It was a beautiful, rare sight that completely swept away the heavy, hesitant, traumatized demeanor that had clouded Diana’s life for months. If an evening with an little handsome prodigy was what it took to bring the real Diana back to the surface, Mary was all for it.

’I just hope you don’t faint from shock when you open the door to meet your ’gentleman,’ Mary thought to herself, turning away to hide her grin.

Mary checked her watch. It was 7:15 PM. She was increasingly, desperately looking forward to eight o’clock.

---

Diana was a profoundly emotional and deeply sensitive woman. She was someone who did not navigate the world through cold logic or cynical political maneuvering, but rather through the raw, unfiltered lens of the heart. She was moved by empathy, by art, by beauty, and by the genuine connections emotions that most people took for granted.

Because her soul was entirely unguarded, she was uniquely susceptible to the kind of ethereal, magical resonance created by Marvin.

Such people are most easily moved by art from Marvin who it all packaged in one.

The elven melody he had hummed wasn’t just a beautiful arrangement of notes; it was like an ancient spell of longing, infused with the purest emotions. For a woman who had spent her entire adult life starving for genuine affection, that magic acted like a key turning in a rusted lock.

Her life had always been defined by these visceral emotional connections. Her surprising, enduring friendship with Michael Jackson had blossomed simply because the raw vulnerability in his pop songs resonated with her own quiet isolation. Her heart responded to authenticity.

And tragically, that same sensitive heart had nearly destroyed her.

Years ago, the agonizing reality of her marriage had become impossible to ignore. Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles had been carrying on their romance right in front of her, a poorly kept secret that suffocated Diana in her own home. The young Princess of Wales had been drowning in depression, feeling entirely invisible.

And then, she saw Barry.

Barry Mannakee was a Royal Protection Squad officer, a tall, grounded man with a commanding presence. Their connection had sparked during an equestrian performance.

Seeing him riding a magnificent, towering horse, exuding a quiet strength and protective warmth that her husband entirely lacked, Diana’s repressed emotions had erupted uncontrollably.

Initially, she admitted to herself, leaning into his comforting presence might have been a subconscious act of retaliation against Charles.

*****

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