Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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This young prodigy has absolutely unlimited potential, Jeff thought to himself as he shook Marvin’s hand one last time and walked out of the home office. And it is not just limited to the film and television industry. He has his hands in publishing, music, and corporate finance. ’He isn’t just a client. He is going to become the single most important pillar of my entire career.’

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The return to Los Angeles marked a violent shift in the velocity of Marvin’s life. The freezing, rain-slicked streets of London were traded for the blinding, relentless sunshine of Southern California, but the pressure only compounded.

For the next weeks, Marvin’s schedule was a masterpiece of controlled chaos. The remaining California-based exterior scenes for The Parent Trap had to be filmed, requiring long days on the Disney backlots.

Simultaneously, the publishing arm of his publishing was shifting into high gear; Random House was aggressively pushing for the final manuscript of his next literary project, Ready Player One. Furthermore, the spec script for The Sixth Sense was currently circulating through the highest echelons of major film studios, triggering a quiet.

Fortunately, Marvin was no longer fighting on all fronts alone.

He had Jeff Raymond.

The senior CAA partner proved to be worth every single cent of his massive three-year retainer. Jeff took the immense administrative and political burden entirely off Marvin’s shoulders, operating with the ruthless efficiency of a Hollywood agent. The soft power generated by Jeff’s contract was staggering.

Because Marvin was financing fifty percent of The Sixth Sense, Jeff was able to use the project as a gravitational center for the rest of CAA’s elite roster. And after much discussion with Marvin Jeff seamlessly packaged A-list CAA director and a veteran co-star into Marvin’s orbit, trading favors, building insurmountable political capital across the studio system, and ensuring that Marvin’s sets were staffed entirely by loyalists.

At the Zenith Trust estate, Amy managed the day-to-day logistics. The the lady had completely shed her wide-eyed innocence, transforming into a formidable Chief Operating Officer. She coordinated the transatlantic conference calls with Max Marvin in Stockholm, managed the encrypted faxes from Random House, and fiercely guarded Marvin’s time. She was learning the architecture of power firsthand.

But while Hollywood and publishing were secured, the music empire still required a crown jewel: international distribution.

As soon as the final clapperboard snapped on the set of The Parent Trap, Marvin packed his bags once again. Escorted by his father, Grant Meyers, and armed with the master tapes from Cheiron Studios, Marvin boarded a private Gulfstream jet.

Destination: New York City.

The headquarters of Columbia Records in Manhattan was a monument to the staggering wealth of the global music industry. The towering glass skyscraper pulsed with the energy of platinum records and international superstars.

Escorted by a nervous assistant, Marvin and Grant bypassed the waiting rooms and were led directly to the palatial, top-floor executive suite.

Behind a massive desk of polished black marble stood Tommy Mottola. The tall, aggressively handsome head of Columbia Records was a legendary figure—the man who commanded the careers of Michael Jackson and Mariah Carey.

”Hi, Tommy,” Grant boomed, striding across the plush carpet.

”Grant, you son of a gun!” Mottola laughed loudly, stepping out from behind his desk.

The two incredibly wealthy, powerful men embraced tightly, clapping each other forcefully on the back. It was a display of genuine, established camaraderie. They served on the same elite philanthropic boards in New York and ran in the same untouchable circles of high society.

After they separated, Mottola’s sharp, evaluating eyes drifted down to the boy standing quietly to the side.

Marvin offered a flawless, aristocratic nod. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his bespoke blazer fitting his eleven-year-old frame impeccably. He let a fraction of his Incubus aura bleed into the room—a magnetic, impossible handsomeness that commanded immediate respect.

”Hello, Mr. Mottola,” Marvin greeted, his voice a smooth, resonant baritone.

”Hello, little Marvin,” Mottola grinned, thoroughly charmed. ”Do you remember me? I saw you when you were just a baby in Beverly Hills. Frankly, if your father had been willing to convert to Judaism back in the day, I might be your godfather right now.”

”Don’t even think about it, Tommy,” Grant shot back with a wide grin. ”Our whole family are devout Christians. We don’t need you corrupting the boy.”

”Is that so?” Mottola chuckled, pouring himself a drink. ”Such devout Christians. Yet, here you are, coming into the office of a heretic seeking a favor. What do you want to do, Grant? Burn me at the stake after I press your records?”

The two men looked at each other and burst into loud, booming laughter, the inside joke of billionaires echoing off the platinum records on the wall.

Marvin offered a polite, forced chuckle, his soul finding the theological banter of two man entirely tedious.

”Alright, Tommy, let’s get down to business,” Grant said, taking a seat on a sprawling leather sofa. ”To avoid wasting your time, I instructed Amy to courier the master tape of my son’s EP directly to your private secure line yesterday. You’ve heard his music. Tell me honestly: what do you think of it?”

Mottola stopped smiling. He set his glass down and stared at Grant with a look of profound, utter disbelief.

”So? You are actually asking me what I think?” Mottola asked, leaning against his desk. ”Grant... haven’t you heard it yourself?”

”Well—!”

Grant coughed, suddenly looking incredibly embarrassed. He adjusted his tie, his usual corporate bravado momentarily failing him.

The truth was, Grant had not heard a single note of Battle Hymn or Hometown Scenery or any of three reaming songs.

While Marvin had been recording the tracks in London, Grant had been operating as the ”Eye of God” from Los Angeles. The billionaire patriarch had been relentlessly busy pulling strings, marshaling the Zenith Trust lawyers, and leveraging his vast banking network to ensure the massive Cheiron Studios buyout went through flawlessly. He had been so consumed with protecting his young son from international corporate treachery that he hadn’t found a single free moment to actually sit down and listen to the art that sparked the acquisition.

Mottola shook his head, letting out a long, incredulous sigh.

”Grant, if you had actually put headphones on and listened to that tape, you would never have asked me such a ridiculous question,” Mottola said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute, religious reverence. ”You know, I envy you. I really do. You have a son who is a genuine, undisputed genius.”

Mottola began pacing the length of his office, his hands moving as he tried to articulate the impossible.

”His musical expression is entirely groundbreaking,” Mottola explained, looking at Marvin with awe. ”It isn’t just standard ’a cappella,’ where someone sings a solo or mimics a drum kit. It is a completely new, terrifyingly raw musical form. He uses a variety of complex, guttural throat sounds to express deep, sweeping orchestral rhythms. It bypasses the brain entirely and hits you straight in the chest.”

The Columbia executive stopped pacing, pointing a finger at the master tape sitting on his desk.

”But what’s even more impressive is his foundational composing skill,” Mottola continued. ”Every single piece on this five-track EP is a classic. It is the kind of art that will be passed down through generations. Let me put it this way, Grant: I deal with global pop stars every single day. But your son’s raw musical talent is in absolutely no way inferior to that of Mozart, Beethoven, or Liszt. He is an accomplished master trapped in an eleven-year-old body.”

Grant was visibly stunned. He looked at Marvin, his parental pride swelling to astronomical levels. ”My son’s musical talent is really that amazing?”

”Tommy, is it really that exaggerated?” Grant asked, seeking confirmation.

”No, Grant,” Mottola said deadpan, his eyes completely serious. ”I am absolutely not exaggerating. This EP is a weapon.”

Needing to break the heavy, reverent tension in the room, Mottola walked over to his fully stocked, crystal-lined bar cart.

”Let’s celebrate,” Mottola offered, picking up a heavy crystal decanter. ”Grant, what would you like to drink? Bourbon? Gin? Or that high-end Añejo tequila you love?”

”Tequila, I guess. Neat,” Grant nodded, still processing the sheer magnitude of the praise his son had just received.

Mottola poured the amber liquid, then turned to the impeccably dressed boy sitting quietly on the sofa. ”What about you, Marvin?”

”Milk, please,” Marvin answered smoothly, his face entirely unreadable.

”Well—”

Mottola froze, the crystal decanter hovering in the air. He scratched the side of his head awkwardly with his pinky finger, looking at his bar cart which contained thousands of dollars of vintage alcohol, but absolutely zero dairy products. ”I... I don’t actually have any milk in the executive suite.”

”Then, any fresh fruit juice?” Marvin inquired politely.

”Uh. No.”

Marvin turned his head, looking directly at his father. His ocean-blue eyes glinted with ancient mischief. ”If my father allows it, I would also like to try some of your Añejo Tequila.”

”Don’t even think about it!” Grant barked, flatly refusing the request with a stern, protective glare. He turned back to the executive.

”Tommy, just give the boy a glass of ice water.”

”Right. Okay. I definitely have ice water,”

Mottola said, visibly relieved. He poured a glass from a crystal pitcher and walked it over, handing it to the young billionaire. ”Sorry about that, Marvin. I completely forgot to stock the suite with drinks for children.”

”It is perfectly fine,” Marvin said, taking the glass. He took a slow, elegant sip of the ice water, his Incubus aura radiating a calm, patience.

”Alright,” Mottola said, taking a seat on the velvet armchair opposite the Meyers men. He swirled the tequila in his glass, his expression shifting instantly from a friendly host to a ruthless corporate shark. ”Let’s get down to the brass tacks.”

”Let’s establish the baseline first,” Mottola began calmly, his eyes narrowing. ”Marvin is the sole songwriter, and the Zenith Trust currently owns one hundred percent of the master copyrights to the five tracks on this mini-album. Correct?”

”Yes, he owns it entirely,” Grant nodded, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

”Very good. Second point: Max Marvin and Cheiron Studios haven’t signed an exclusive distribution deal with any other label yet, correct? EMI is out of the picture?”

”No other label,” Grant confirmed. ”The runway is entirely clear for Columbia.”

”Excellent,” Mottola smiled, taking a sip of his drink. ”So, Columbia Records is more than willing to sign Marvin Meyers to a priority record deal. We will put the entire weight of our European and Asian distribution networks behind this EP. However... in exchange for that global machinery, Columbia requires fifty percent of the copyright ownership to all of Marvin’s original works on this record.”

”That is absolutely impossible, buddy!”

Grant Meyers jumped up from the leather sofa so fast he nearly spilled his tequila. The friendly, billionaire camaraderie evaporated in a microsecond.

”Are you out of your mind, Tommy?!” Grant roared, his voice echoing off the marble walls.

”Fifty percent?! You didn’t write a single note! You didn’t pay for the studio time! My son recorded this EP put of his own pocket! You are offering zero creative risk and asking for half the ownership!”

”Grant, be reasonable!” Mottola fired back, standing up to meet him toe-to-toe. ”You are asking me to utilize a distribution network that costs hundreds of millions of dollars to maintain! I have to prioritize this over established stars! I need skin in the game if I’m going to push a purely instrumental EP to the top of the Billboard charts!”

The two men engaged in a fierce, screaming exchange. They waved their hands, pointed fingers, and completely abandoned the warm enthusiasm they had shown just ten minutes prior. They looked like two gladiators fighting to the death in the Colosseum of capitalism.

Sitting quietly on the sofa, sipping his ice water, Marvin watched the two billionaires arguing with great, detached interest.

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.

*****

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