Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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******

Miranda’s round, chubby little face turned a glowing shade of atomic red instantly. She frantically fumbled with the zipper of her crossbody bag, her hands shaking as she tried to retrieve the heavy hardcover book, completely humiliated by her own lack of control.

Marvin simply stood there, his hands resting casually in his pockets, watching the future supermodel unravel before him. The hunt was turning out to be far more entertaining than he had anticipated.

---

Standing under the warm glow of the portico, Miranda Kerr wished the meticulously laid cobblestones would simply open up and swallow her whole.

’What on earth was that just now?’ her brain scrambled, her face burning with the heat of a thousand suns. What just happened to me? ’Was I... enchanted?’

In a very real sense, she was. She had just been struck by Incubus’ charm. She was bewitched.

Just as the silence threatened to stretch into humiliation, Marvin smoothly stepped forward, completely shifting the gravity of the room. He didn’t mock her. He simply closed the distance between them, his movements radiating an effortless, aristocratic grace, and politely extended his hand toward her.

”Hello, Miranda,” Marvin said, his velvety, resonant baritone wrapping around her frayed nerves like a warm blanket. ”Welcome to San Marino. It is entirely too crowded out here with the adults. Please, let me show you around.”

Marvin’s perfectly timed intervention instantly eased Miranda’s crushing embarrassment. She looked down at his outstretched hand. Assuming it was a standard, formal handshake, she instinctively reached out and grasped it.

”Okay, Marvin,” she breathed, offering a shy relieved smile.

But then, to the astonishment of everyone standing in the motor court, Marvin didn’t shake her hand.

Instead, his long, elegant fingers smoothly intertwined with hers. He adjusted his grip, firmly and warmly securing her hand in his, and turned, leading the stunned girl directly through the mahogany doors of the villa.

Behind them, Frank’s jaw practically unhinged.

’This kid...’ Frank thought, his playboy instincts reeling in unadulterated shock. ’I thought he was stepping up for a polite handshake, but he completely bypassed the formalities and went straight for the hand-hold! In front of her sister!’

Frank rubbed his chin, a wicked, appreciative smirk crossing his face. ’Hmm. That was a masterclass in psychological dominance. Maybe I could try that exact trick the next time I’m picking up...’

Frank’s internal monologue crashed as he saw Kris turning around to greet Grant and Linda with a warm hug.

Sigh. ’Never mind,’ Frank mentally corrected himself, shaking his head. ’I’ll be a married man soon. The days of stealing hearts are over. I leave the battlefield to you, my little nephew.’

---

Inside the sprawling estate, Marvin casually held Miranda’s soft hand as they strolled down the echoing, marble-floored corridors.

The physical contact was electric. Miranda was acutely aware of the warmth of his palm, the slight, deliberate brush of his thumb against her knuckles. She was a head taller than him, yet she felt entirely, inexplicably protected and guided by his presence.

”This is the conservatory, which leads out to the back gardens,” Marvin narrated smoothly, gesturing toward an expanse of glass overlooking a moonlit rose garden.

”This wing houses my parents’ master suite.”

”This corridor leads to my private quarters.”

”This is our kitchen.”

”This is my room.”

”And this,” Marvin announced, pushing open a set of heavy, soundproofed oak doors, ”is my study. Which also serves as the temporary office for the work.”

Miranda finally began to realize the absurdity of the situation—she was a fourteen-year-old aspiring supermodel, willingly holding hands with an eleven-year-old boy. But instead of letting go, she felt a sweet, intoxicating warmth blooming in her chest.

As for whether she was actually paying attention to the architecture of the house?

Absolutely not. She was too busy sneaking covert glances at his perfect, petal-like lips and the way the ambient light caught the golden-brown strands of his hair.

But as Marvin led her into the center of the study, the romantic haze clouding Miranda’s mind was pierced by sheer, overwhelming awe.

The room was massive, lined wall-to-wall with towering bookshelves, but it was the center of the room that commanded attention. Arrayed across the Persian rugs were several enormous, reinforced architectural storage boxes. Each box was huge—over two meters long and wide, and standing over a meter high.

Marvin finally gently released her hand, leaving her skin tingling with the loss of contact. He stepped toward the nearest box, trailing his fingers over the polished lid.

”These,” Marvin said, his voice dropping into a register of quiet ambition, ”contain the foundational blueprints of the IPs I am currently building.”

He gestured to the first box. ”This one contains the conceptual designs and legal drafts for technological patents I will begin filing over the next decade. Architecture for global communication, digital ecosystems, and hardware that the world currently believes is science fiction.”

He moved to the next box, tapping it lightly. ”This one contains biological and character designs for a sprawling multimedia project. I draw these creatures simply for the intellectual exercise. If you are familiar with the rising popularity of the Japanese Pokémon franchise, you will recognize the demographic similarities. But mine are designed to be far more expansive, integrating into digital pet ecosystems and trading cards.”

Miranda took a slow, hesitant step forward, her eyes wide.

”This box,” Marvin continued, his ocean-blue eyes gleaming with predatory delight, ”contains the sequential art and storyboards for my original comic books. And right beside it, an entire crate dedicated strictly to Manga—highly stylized graphic novels engineered specifically to dominate the Japanese market. The adjacent box is formatted entirely for the Manhwa industry to capture Seoul and the broader Korean demographic.”

He swept his arm toward the back row. ”And those house my side projects. Random fragments of inspiration, architectural designs, and cinematic treatments that simply pop into my head at three in the morning. I either sketch them out or write the foundational lore, waiting for the right decade to develop them.”

Miranda, slightly regaining her senses from the charm, looked at the labeled, two-meter-long boxes in disbelief. The sheer volume of intellectual property was completely incomprehensible for a single human lifetime, let alone an eleven-year-old.

”Marvin...” Miranda exhaled, her voice trembling with awe. ”Are all of these boxes really full? Full of your completed creative works and manuscripts?”

Marvin let out a rich chuckle that vibrated through the quiet study.

”Of course not,” Marvin smiled, leaning casually against one of the heavy lids, crossing his arms. ”Not all of them are completed. In fact, some of these crates are entirely empty, or only possess one or two foundational documents. I am only human, after all.”

He paused, his gaze locking onto hers with a magnetic intensity.

”But my goal, Miranda, is to fill every single one of them to the brim. And when I am finished with these... I will simply build more boxes.”

He stepped over to the heaviest, most secure box in the room—labeled Literary Works—and unlatched the heavy brass locks. He threw the lid open, revealing that the manuscripts were meticulously arranged, currently occupying roughly a quarter of the cavernous space.

”This stack right here,” Marvin explained, pointing to a thick, bound manuscript resting on top, ”is Ready Player One. It is my new, dystopian science-fiction novel, which Random House will likely publish this coming around November. It will redefine the cyberpunk and gaming and VR genres.”

He pointed to another stack. ”This is the second installment of the Harry Potter series, which I am currently drafting. The concept was heavily inspired by the Gothic architecture I absorbed during my trip to London to film the movie. Below that are feature-film scripts, and below those... the raw fragments of immature ideas waiting to be refined.”

As Marvin explained the contents of his intellectual vault, the lingering teenage infatuation on Miranda’s face gradually, beautifully shifted. The blush of a simple crush was replaced by a profound astonishment and deep, unadulterated admiration.

She wasn’t just looking at a handsome boy anymore. She was looking at a mind that was operating on a frequency completely alien to the rest of the planet.

”Marvin,” Miranda whispered, shaking her head, completely stripped of her stubborn fourteen-year-old pride. ”You are... you’re absolutely amazing.”

”Of course I am,” Marvin laughed softly, entirely devoid of false modesty.

He reached into the heavy wooden crate, his hands closing around the thick, physical manuscript of Ready Player One. It was heavy, smelling sharply of fresh printer ink and crisp paper.

He turned and walked back over to her, extending the manuscript.

”Since you came all the way from Sydney,” Marvin murmured, his blue eyes softening as he looked down at her, deploying his charm with precision, ”would you like to take a look at my new book in advance? Before the rest of the world even knows it exists?”

Miranda gasped softly, her hands instinctively coming up to her chest. In the literary world, handing over an unpublished, raw manuscript to an outsider was an act of profound intimacy.

”Is... is that really alright?” Miranda asked, completely flattered, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs once more. ”You trust me with this?”

”Certainly I do,” Marvin smirked, his devastating, boyish charm shining through the intellect. He pressed the manuscript into her hands, his fingers lingering against hers for a delicious, electric second.

”Besides, I know for fact that you will still buy a hardcover copy when it officially releases anyway.”

---

Time passed, minute by microscopic minute, in the opulent living room downstairs.

The soft, ambient hum of high-society conversation floated through the estate, accompanied by the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. The adults were deeply engrossed in discussions of international distribution and Australian real estate, completely ignorant of the supernatural psychological warfare occurring on the floor above them.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany doors of the formal dining room slid open. Mrs. Aranda, the estate’s impeccably dressed head housekeeper, stepped into the living room, clasping her hands politely in front of her crisp apron.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Aranda announced, her voice carrying a practiced, warm authority. ”Dinner is prepared. You may proceed to the dining room to begin your meal.”

The adults chatting on the plush leather sofas all stood up, brushing out the wrinkles in their evening wear. Grant offered his arm to Linda, radiating the quiet satisfaction of a perfect host.

Kris, however, did not immediately move toward the dining hall. She stood near the fireplace, her brow furrowing with a sudden, sharp spike of sisterly anxiety. She looked up toward the grand staircase.

”Frank,” Kris whispered, leaning close to her fiancé and lightly gripping his tailored sleeve. ”Miranda hasn’t come down yet. She’s still up there. Alone with Marvin.”

Frank, completely oblivious to the protective worry lacing Kris’s voice, offered a bright, carefree smile. ”Oh, they’re probably just geeking out over his comic book collection. I’ll go up and call them down.”

Kris opened her mouth to protest, wanting to say something more explicitly cautionary, but after second-guessing herself, she snapped her mouth shut.

Frank wasn’t a particularly perceptive man when it came to reading the subtle, dangerous undercurrents of a room. She had hinted several times during their drive over that Marvin was far more intimidating than a standard pre-teen, but Frank still hadn’t realized the magnetic gravity the boy possessed.

’He’s just an eleven-year-old boy,’ Kris tried to forcefully remind herself, smoothing her dress. ’What could possibly happen in forty minutes?’

---

Upstairs, behind the heavy, soundproofed oak doors of the master study, twenty minutes had felt entirely like an eternity.

The sprawling room was illuminated only by the warm, concentrated glow of a brass desk lamp. The rest of the library was draped in rich, velvet shadows.

Miranda was no longer looking at the storage crates of intellectual property. She was standing behind the executive desk, utterly trapped in the boy’s orbit.

Marvin was seated in his high-backed leather chair, a thick sheet of premium, textured drawing paper spread out before him on the table surface. He held a simple graphite pencil in his right hand.

Miranda was leaning over him. Her face was mere inches from his shoulder, their heads practically pressed together as she watched the graphite glide across the paper.

She was completely mesmerized, but not entirely by the artwork.

As she leaned in, the subtle, intoxicating scent of his body, ozone, and something impossibly —washed over her. The proximity was devastating. She could feel the ambient heat radiating from his body. Every time he shifted his weight or made a broad stroke with the pencil, his shoulder would brush lightly against her arm, sending a massive, electric shockwave straight through her developing nervous system.

*****

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