Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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******

”I...” Grant choked, tears of pure, unadulterated humiliation streaming down his red face. The magic forced the words up his throat like shards of glass. ”I formally, and unreservedly, apologize to Ms. Diana. I was a coward. I betrayed her trust, and I spoke of her with vile, unforgivable disrespect.”

A deathly silence fell over the room, save for the furious clicking of camera shutters.

”Furthermore,” Grant sobbed, his voice echoing tragically across the ballroom, ”I... I announce my immediate, permanent resignation as Senior Executive Producer at EMI Records. Hearing the profound, undeniable genius of this young man’s composition has made me realize the devastating truth: I have fundamentally, completely lost my ear for true talent. I am a fraud.”

The EMI executives in the crowd stared at the stage in paralyzed shock, mentally drafting the press releases that would distance the label from this spectacular meltdown.

”And finally,” Grant gasped, his chest heaving as he delivered his own professional eulogy. ”I promise, before God and this room, that I will walk out the front doors of the Savoy tonight, and I will never return to the music industry. I am unfit for this art. If any of you ever see me attempt to set foot in a recording studio again... you have my explicit permission to walk up and spit directly in my face.”

Grant dropped the microphone. It hit the wooden stage with a horrific, screeching thud of feedback.

He didn’t look at Diana. He didn’t look at Marvin. He turned, stumbled blindly down the stairs, and ran wildly, frantically pushing his way through the silent, disgusted crowd toward the exit.

In no time, the heavy oak doors swung shut, and Grant Brook disappeared from everyone’s astonished gaze forever.

A faint, flawlessly polite smile appeared on Marvin’s lips.

’Vengeance for a demon is best served immediately,’ Marvin thought, absorbing the massive, delicious wave of shock and submission radiating from the room.

He stepped gracefully off the stage, walking directly toward where Diana was standing. He stopped two feet in front of her, placed his right hand over his heart, and executed a slight, impeccable gentlemanly bow.

”I am incredibly sorry, Ms. Diana,” Marvin murmured, his tone carrying a note of genuine, charming contrition. ”I am afraid I have completely hijacked your beautiful charity gala.”

”No, Marvin,” Diana breathed, stepping forward and taking his hands in hers. Her sea-blue eyes were shining with tears, awe, and a fierce, profound gratitude. She had spent the last year being relentlessly bullied by the British establishment; to see someone brutally, flawlessly defend her honor in front of the world’s elite was a gift beyond measure. ”There is absolutely no need to apologize. On the contrary, I should be thanking you. You showed me exactly what kind of backstabbing coward he truly was.”

She squeezed his hands, her radiant smile returning in full force. ”And please. I told you. When we are together, you must call me your sister.”

High above them on the mezzanine, the two teenage princes were staring down at the interaction in stunned silence.

”Bloody hell,” Harry exclaimed in sheer horror, gripping the mahogany railing. ”Mum actually made him call her sister again! In front of everyone! William, does that mean we genuinely have to call this American bloke ’Uncle Marvin’ for the rest of the night?!”

”Shut up, Harry,” William muttered, though there was no real anger in his voice. He stared down at the eleven-year-old boy in the velvet tuxedo. ”A bet is a bet. We lost.”

But William’s capitulation wasn’t just about honoring the wager. It was because of the song. Battle Hymn. The global press loved to paint Prince William as the refined, gentle, perfect heir to the throne. But bubbling beneath that suffocating royal veneer, William possessed a fierce, rebellious wild side—a desperate craving for adrenaline and freedom that would later manifest in his fervent, adult passion for racing high-speed motorcycles. A passion so dangerous that Her Majesty the Queen would eventually have to issue a draconian, strict order forbidding the future King from ever touching a motorbike again.

Marvin’s Battle Hymn had bypassed William’s royal training and struck that exact, hidden nerve. The sheer, magnificent, warlike intensity of the composition—the auditory illusion of cavalry charges and breaking clouds—had resonated with the trapped prince’s soul. It was genuinely impossible to imagine that a human’s voice could produce such a powerful, symphonic performance.

’Someone who can create that kind of visceral, earth-shattering art,’ William thought, a profound respect settling over his young features, ’even if he is the exact same age as me... that is a person worthy of absolute respect.’

With the dramatic execution concluded, the atmosphere of the gala rapidly shifted from shock into a frenzied, electric euphoria.

Diana, acting as a fiercely proud older sister, took Marvin by the arm and began formally introducing him to the absolute titans of the European elite.

Amy fell into step half a pace behind them, her Midwestern pragmatism fully engaged as she seamlessly managed the sudden, overwhelming influx of VIP attention. She accepted embossed business cards with a polite, professional smile, mentally cataloging the names and net worths of the men bowing to her boss..

”Marvin, allow me to introduce Lord Jacob Rothschild,” Diana smiled, presenting a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman.

”An absolute honor, my Lord,” Marvin bowed smoothly.

”The honor is mine, young man,” the legendary banking patriarch replied, his sharp eyes evaluating the boy. ”That performance was staggering. Tell me, do you currently have corporate representation in London?”

The bankers in the room had not just heard beautiful music; they had heard the unmistakable, roaring sound of a financial tsunami. The heads of Barclays, Deutsche Bank, and the elite Swiss private banks quickly formed a gravitational orbit around Marvin. They ran the rapid, ruthless calculations in their heads.

If this kid could move a room of cynical billionaires to tears with a single vocal performance, the global commercial appeal was unfathomable. The revenue from a debut EP containing Battle Hymn and two other tracks of similar quality wouldn’t just be measured in the millions; it would easily shatter the hundred-million-dollar ceiling. It was a license to print capital.

”My representation is currently handled internally by my own trust, Mr. Jacob,” Marvin replied smoothly, effortlessly holding court with men five times his age. ”Though, as I prepare to formally launch my European distribution, I am certainly open to discussing strategic financial partnerships with institutions that understand the velocity of my timeline.”

”If you require aggressive capital to bypass the traditional studio delays, Mr. Meyers,” the head of Deutsche Bank interjected smoothly, handing Amy a heavy, gold-embossed card, ”our private wealth division would be more than happy to facilitate a highly favorable credit line. A rising star should not be hindered by logistics.”

”I appreciate your foresight, gentlemen,” Marvin smiled, exuding the dark, effortless charm of a miniature James Bond. ”My chief of staff, Ms. Adams, will reach out to your offices to schedule an initial consultation.”

Amy nodded professionally, slipping the card into her velvet evening bag. She watched Marvin seamlessly pivot from high-level corporate negotiations with the bankers to deploying his devastating, Incubus charm on their aristocratic wives.

He kissed the hands of French duchesses, offered witty, perfectly timed compliments on the jewelry of Italian heiresses, and had a circle of A-list actresses laughing in genuine delight within seconds. He didn’t look or act like a child navigating an adult world; he looked like the undisputed king of the room graciously entertaining his subjects.

”He is terrifying,” Nancy whispered, coming to stand beside Amy, holding two flutes of champagne. She handed one to the young assistant.

”He is efficient,” Amy corrected softly, taking a sip of the vintage champagne. She looked at the eleven-year-old boy charming the wealthiest women in Europe, securing millions of dollars in potential leverage without breaking a sweat. ”He treats this entire room like a chessboard. And he already knows exactly how the game ends.”

For the next hour, Marvin operated not as a child star, but as a seasoned sovereign holding court. He seamlessly entertained the upper echelons of European society, sipping sparkling cider while charming duchesses, debating fiscal policy with Swiss bankers, and effortlessly cementing his status as a terrifyingly brilliant rising titan. His Incubus aura hummed at a low, intoxicating frequency, keeping the elite utterly captivated.

But magic, even for an ancient predator, required stamina. As the antique grandfather clocks in the Savoy chimed midnight, Marvin decided the harvest was sufficient. Aunt Nancy had already written a staggering, highly publicized check to the North African hospital charity on behalf of the Meyers, fulfilling their philanthropic obligations for the evening.

Furthermore, Marvin had no desire to linger until the early hours of the morning. The human body he inhabited still required rest, and more importantly, his mind was already racing ahead to the unwritten empires waiting in his hotel room. He had future intellectual properties to outline—billion-dollar cinematic universes and literary phenomena that needed to be copyrighted before the decade turned.

He caught Amy’s eye across the room. The assistant, looking breathtaking in her emerald silk gown, gave a barely perceptible, highly professional nod. She had already settled the cloakroom logistics and signaled the chauffeur.

Marvin navigated the crowd and approached the host of the evening.

Diana was standing near the grand entrance, bidding farewell to the French ambassador. When she saw Marvin, her formal, aristocratic smile instantly melted into one of genuine, sisterly warmth.

”Leaving so soon, my little knight?” Diana asked, her sea-blue eyes sparkling. The heavy, melancholic shadow that usually haunted her features had been completely banished by the evening’s triumphs.

Marvin stepped forward, taking her hand with effortless grace. He bowed perfectly, pressing a chivalrous kiss to the back of her knuckles. ”Even knights must sleep, Sister Diana,” Marvin murmured smoothly. ”It has been an absolute honor to share your stage. You threw a spectacular gala.”

”And you gave it a soul,” Diana replied softly, squeezing his hand. ”Thank you, Marvin. For the music. And for... handling our cowardly friend.”

”Pest control is a complimentary service,” Marvin smiled, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. ”I wish you a wonderful night, Sister.”

As Marvin, Nancy, and Amy turned to make their final exit toward the grand lobby, a figure suddenly detached himself from the shadows near a marble pillar.

He was a relatively unassuming man, certainly not dressed in the bespoke Savile Row tailoring of the billionaires surrounding him. He had shoulder-length hair, a slightly scruffy rocker aesthetic, and wore a dark blazer over an open-collared shirt. He looked entirely out of place among the aristocrats, yet his eyes burned with a frantic, obsessive creative energy.

He stepped directly into Marvin’s path, holding out a sleek, minimalist business card.

”Mr. Meyers,” the man said, his voice carrying a distinct, thick Swedish accent. ”My apologies for the intrusion. Your vocal performance tonight... it fundamentally altered my understanding of acoustic resonance. My studio is willing to produce a full album for you. If you are interested, we must find a time to discuss it in detail.”

Amy immediately stepped forward, her Midwestern protective instincts flaring, ready to intercept the stranger and take the card. But Marvin raised a hand, stopping her.

Marvin took the business card himself. He glanced at the embossed silver lettering.

Cheiron Studios. Stockholm, Sweden.

Max Martin - Producer & Songwriter.

Marvin’s heart gave a rare, genuine jolt of surprise.

Max Martin? The name echoed in the deepest, most heavily guarded vaults of his transmigrator memories. He rummaged through the archives of his past soul—a soul where he had been a ravenous consumer of global entertainment with pop and hip-hop music. As the files unlocked, a staggering, multi-decade resume unfurled in his mind.

Max Martin. Born 1971 in Stockholm. This was the man who, just two years ago in 1995, had begun quietly producing tracks for a relatively unknown boy band called the Backstreet Boys, crafting impending global juggernauts like ”Quit Playing Games (With My Heart),” ”As Long As You Love Me,” and ”Everybody (Backstreet’s Back).” But that was merely the prologue. In his past life’s timeline, this unassuming Swede standing in front of him was the architect of the 21st-century music industry. In 1998, he would forge Britney Spears’ catastrophic debut, ”...Baby One More Time,” followed by ”Oops!... I Did It Again.” In 1999, he would write the definitive pop anthem, ”I Want It That Way.” He would win the ASCAP Producer of the Year award three consecutive times.

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