Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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As the youngest, incredibly handsome heir to the Heath fortune, Frank had recognized early on that he didn’t actually need to do anything with his life. So, he didn’t. He lived a life of absolute leisure. His full-time occupation consisted of racing vintage sports cars, attending high-society parties, and utilizing his massive trust fund to relentlessly charm the world’s most beautiful women.

But today, the playboy had arrived in Los Angeles completely swept up in the global hysteria surrounding his nephew.

”Look at you — our big star!” Frank practically dropped his duffel bag, rushing over to grab Marvin by the shoulders. He looked down at the boy, momentarily stunned by the sheer, magnetic gravity of Marvin’s face up close. ”Marvin Meyers, the new face of the box office! Twenty-one and half million in the first four days — number two in the country, right behind Men in Black of all things. With such great word-of-mouth Will Smith himself couldn’t keep a Meyers film down for long. Would you mind taking a picture with your favorite uncle before you get too famous to speak to me?”

Frank pulled a bulky, expensive Polaroid camera from his jacket pocket and thrust it toward his sister, who had just walked into the foyer. ”Linda, take a picture of us, quickly! The lighting in here is perfect.”

Grant stepped out of the living room, smoothly snatching the camera right out of his brother-in-law’s hands.

”Hold on a second, Frank,” Grant joked, his billionaire authority easily matching Frank’s chaotic energy. ”Don’t you dare order my wife around in her own house. Because the only person who gets to order her around... is me. And even then, it’s a massive gamble.”

Linda rolled her eyes, smiling fondly at the two men.

Grant backed up, framing the shot. Frank threw a heavy arm around Marvin’s shoulders, flashing a million-dollar, playboy grin. Marvin didn’t smile like a goofy kid; he offered a cool, devastatingly handsome, enigmatic smirk directly into the lens, projecting the aura of a seasoned leading man enduring his eccentric fan.

Click!

The Polaroid flashed, whirred, and spat out a thick, square photograph.

Frank snatched the photo from the slot, aggressively shaking it a few times as the chemical image materialized. He looked at the picture, let out a low whistle of appreciation at how ridiculously photogenic his nephew was, and handed the glossy square to Marvin along with a silver Sharpie.

”Marvin, please. Sign this for me,” Frank demanded, entirely serious. ”Do you have any idea how much leverage this is going to give me at the clubs in Miami next week? ’Oh, you loved The Parent Trap? Yeah, the star is my nephew.’”

Marvin let out a soft, melodic chuckle, taking the pen. He uncapped it with one hand, his intellect highly amused by his uncle’s unabashed opportunism.

”Always a pleasure to assist in your romantic conquests, Uncle Frank,” Marvin purred, his voice smooth and laced with a sophisticated wit that made Frank blink in surprise. Marvin scribbled a flawless, sprawling signature across the bottom white margin of the photo, adding a cheeky inscription: To Frank. Try to behave. — Marvin Meyers.

Frank read the inscription and burst into loud laughter, clapping Marvin on the back. ”You little shark. I love it.”

They migrated into the opulent living room, the household staff quickly appearing to offer Frank a crystal tumbler of aged scotch.

As Frank took a long sip of his drink, he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, suddenly looking unusually nervous. The reckless playboy energy seemed to fracture, replaced by a strange, tightly wound tension.

”So, Frank,” Linda asked, taking a seat beside Grant on the sofa. ”To what do we owe the pleasure of this spontaneous visit? You usually don’t fly to Los Angeles unless there’s a supermodel convention.”

Frank stopped pacing. He took a deep breath, gripping his crystal glass tightly. He looked at his sister, then at Grant, and finally at Marvin, who was watching him with deep, analytical Incubus eyes.

Today, Frank Heath had brought the Meyers family a piece of news that was arguably more shocking than Marvin’s box office numbers.

”I’m getting married!” Frank blurted out, the words tumbling from his mouth in a breathless rush.

A profound, absolute silence descended upon the living room.

The idea of Frank Heath—the undisputed king of commitment-phobia, a man who changed girlfriends as frequently as he changed his designer watches—willingly entering into the holy bonds of matrimony was a concept that defied all known laws of family they knew.

”What?!” Grant and Linda exclaimed in perfect, stunned unison, their eyes wide with sheer disbelief.

Sitting in the leather armchair, Marvin simply raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, the demon inside him leaning forward with sudden, intense curiosity.

---

”I’m getting married!”

The words hung in the opulent living room of the Meyers estate, suspended in the air like shattered glass.

For a long, agonizing moment, Grant, Linda, and Marvin were rendered completely speechless. The sheer, gravitational absurdity of the statement defied all family logic. Frank Heath—the unapologetic, globe-trotting playboy, a man who treated high-society romances like seasonal sports—was willingly surrendering his freedom.

Grant blinked, his hand pausing halfway to his scotch glass. ”Frank, are you kidding me?” he asked hesitantly, searching his brother-in-law’s face for the punchline.

”Shut up, Grant,” Linda interrupted sharply, her maternal and sisterly instincts violently overriding her usual composed elegance. She stood up, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto her younger brother.

Then, a relentless, rapid-fire barrage of high-society interrogation rained down upon the prodigal uncle.

”Marriage is a wonderful institution, Frank, and heaven knows you genuinely needed to settle down eventually, but who is she?” Linda demanded, stepping closer. ”What family does she come from? What exactly does her family do? How on earth did she come to tolerate, let alone like, you? And why are you suddenly rushing into a marriage with her right this second?”

Frank held up his hands in surrender, taking a step back. ”Sister, please! Are you interrogating a hostile witness or welcoming your brother?”

”Answer me, Franklin!”

”Okay, okay! Just let me breathe,” Frank sighed, running a hand through his sun-bleached blonde hair. He collapsed onto the opposite leather sofa, suddenly looking less like a billionaire playboy and more like an exhausted, genuinely lovestruck mortal.

As Frank began to recount the story, Marvin sat perfectly still in his velvet armchair. The Incubus leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, deeply fascinated. He was a creature of desire, fundamentally wired to understand lust and obsession. But watching the absolute transformation of a hedonist into a devoted romantic was a rare, exquisite psychological study.

The girl’s name was Kris Kerr. She was an Australian national, a graphic designer completely disconnected from the toxic, sycophantic circles of Hollywood and the American elite. Frank had met her late last year while on a luxury surfing vacation in Sydney.

”I saw her at a café near Bondi Beach,” Frank explained, his voice softening, his blue eyes taking on a distant, reverent glaze. ”And I just... stopped. It was love at first sight. I know how cliché that sounds, Linda, I really do. But I pursued her for ten straight days. She completely ignored my money. She thought I was an arrogant American idiot. It took me practically begging just to get her to agree to a single dinner date.”

As the two spent time together in Australia, Frank fell, and he fell hard. Contrary to his usual, ironclad routine of changing female companions every month, he extended his vacation. He stayed in Sydney for six entire months, living a quiet, dangerously domestic life with Kris before the reality of his family obligations forced him to return to the United States.

According to Frank’s original, cynical playbook, six months was the absolute expiration date for any romance. It was time to return to America, return to his trust fund, and return to his original, unfettered life. Kris, possessing her own pride, didn’t shed a tear or pester him. They broke up amicably at the airport.

But to Frank’s absolute, terrifying surprise, his feelings for Kris ran infinitely deeper than his ego had calculated.

”I got back to the States, and I felt hollow,” Frank admitted, staring down at his hands. ”I tried to go back to the old routine. I even started seeing a model from New York. But I felt completely listless. Even when I was... intimately involved with the new girl, I couldn’t focus. Kris’s face, her laugh, the way she looked at me—it just kept invading my mind. It was driving me insane.”

Marvin’s ocean-blue eyes glinted with dark amusement. Ah, the demon thought, the inescapable, crushing gravity of true human attachment. How deliciously paralyzing.

”So,” Frank took a deep breath, looking up at his sister. ”I decided to finally stop running from my own heart. I chartered a jet, flew straight back to Australia, showed up at her apartment in the pouring rain, and won her back. And this time, I am absolutely not letting her go. I want to marry her.”

He had flown Kris back to America to officially meet the Heath family patriarchs in Montana.

After securing their cautious but genuine consent, he had immediately flown Kris to Los Angeles to meet his most formidable hurdle: his older sister, Linda.

Linda crossed her arms, processing the sheer emotional weight of the story. ”So, you brought Kris all the way to California? Where is she right now?”

Linda instinctively glanced toward the grand marble foyer, expecting a nervous Australian girl to be hovering by the doorway.

Frank chuckled, a deeply awkward, defensive sound. ”She’s... well, she’s currently resting at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I just came over alone first to let you know the situation. I’ll bring her over for a formal dinner tomorrow so you can meet her properly.”

”Aranda!” Linda instantly called out, her voice echoing toward the kitchens.

The estate’s head housekeeper quickly appeared in the archway. ”Yes, Madam?”

”It seems we will need to prepare a significantly more lavish, multi-course dinner tomorrow evening. Please contact the butchers and ensure the floral arrangements are refreshed,”

Linda instructed with military precision.

”Yes, Madam.”

Once the housekeeper retreated, Linda turned back to her brother, her eyes flashing with a mix of offense and affection. ”Frank Heath, honestly. Couldn’t you have asked me to prepare a lavish dinner for your own arrival today?”

”Hmph,” Frank smirked, regaining a fraction of his old bravado. ”You feed me whatever you guys are eating. I’m family. Kris is a guest.”

Linda huffed, sitting back down beside Grant. She was slightly offended, acutely aware that her brother had deliberately come alone to ”test the waters” first. ’Is he seriously afraid that I would target that poor girl?’ Linda thought indignantly. ’Does he really think I’m such an inconsiderate, elitist monster?’ However, on second thought, the sheer caution Frank was displaying proved one undeniable fact: he truly, deeply cared about protecting Kris.

A sudden pang of bittersweet sadness hit Linda. Her wild, reckless younger brother was finally growing up. He was settling down. Grant, sensing the sudden shift in his wife’s emotional state, wrapped a warm, comforting arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

Frank, sensing that the familial emotional minefield had been successfully navigated, stood up. He caught Marvin’s eye and subtly jerked his head toward the terrace.

Stepping out onto the sprawling, sun-drenched stone terrace, the heavy emotional atmosphere of the living room vanished, instantly replaced by the sharp, electric current of high-stakes Hollywood business.

Frank leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at his nephew.

Frank was a playboy, yes, but he was still a Heath; he understood the mechanics of money, leverage, and building something. And right now, he was looking at a child who was casually writing the rules of entertainment.

”Marvin,” Frank began, his voice dropping the playful uncle routine entirely. ”I had drinks with a few high-level distribution executives at Disney before coming over. Word from the inner office is staggering. They are tracking the weekend actuals. You are currently pacing toward sixty million dollars domestically by the end of July alone.”

Marvin stood perfectly still, his hands resting in the pockets of his dark trousers. He absorbed the numbers with the cold, focused quality of a CEO running a real-time internal audit.

”If the Kung Fu Panda book continues feeding the film’s demographic the way it has been these first four days,” Frank continued, leaning in closer, ”and if the Asian markets perform the way Random House’s international division is currently projecting... some of the senior vice presidents at Disney are quietly whispering about hitting one hundred and five million dollars worldwide before the month of July is over.”

Frank paused, letting the sheer magnitude of the math settle between them.

”We are in the late 90s, Marvin. One hundred and five million worldwide for a live-action family film, helmed by a first-time director, carrying an unknown child lead? On the budget of 15 million. That is a seismic anomaly.” Frank shook his head in disbelief. ”That would not be a small thing. You would be entering the elite tier of bankable leading men.”

*****

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