Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

Yes, there will be killing in this novel. He is a demon, and there will be a great deal of bloodshed, though only a small portion of it will become publicly known. The remaining acts will occur in secrecy, involving kidnappers, terrorists, poachers, and others tied to the darker underworld surrounding African land, oil, and the countless horrors with that come with such wealth and conflict. Not to mention the PDF’s

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******

Twenty-three.

He sang the rest of the song with the clean directness that characterized everything he did. His voice wasn’t a thin, boyish treble; it was a rich, velvety baritone, carrying the simple, traditional melody with a profound warmth that made the familiar lyrics feel vastly less like a polite social obligation, and infinitely more like an actual, intimate communication from his soul to hers.

When he finished the very last, resonant note. He simply looked at her across the kitchen island with an open, and beautiful smile that she had not seen from him all day. It was slightly less guarded than his usual composed expression.

It was more simply, genuinely pleased. It was the radiant smile of a person who has executed a complex plan that required significant, meticulous effort, and is finally allowing themselves to be completely satisfied by its success.

”Happy birthday, Amy,” Marvin purred, his blue eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

She was still standing frozen in her own entryway. Both of her hands were still clamped tightly over her mouth. Her eyes were suddenly stinging with hot tears.

”How did you—” she started, her voice cracking, unable to form a coherent sentence.

”Blow out the candles first, beautiful lady,” Marvin spoke softly, his tone laced with that irresistible, magnetic charm. ”We can attend to the explanations after the wishes have been properly secured.”

She crossed the kitchen in something approximating an adult manner, though her knees felt inexplicably weak. She leaned over the massive cake, closed her eyes, made a wish that she didn’t even dare to articulate to herself, and blew.

All twenty-three candles extinguished in one breath.

Marvin immediately acknowledged the victory with a slow clap that was more enthusiastic than his usual polite applause. It was genuine and percussive.

”Twenty-three,” Amy whispered, still staring down at the wisps of smoke rising from the cake.

”One for every single year since the moment you graced this earth,” Marvin said, setting the glass cake stand carefully onto the marble counter. ”I briefly considered procuring actual, Roman-numeral shaped candles, but the structural implications and the melting point on this frosting surface area seemed inadvisable.”

She let out a wet, genuine laugh. It came out slightly unsteady—the laugh of someone operating dangerously on the razor-thin edge of a completely different emotional response entirely. She was choosing the laugh because it was safer, lighter, and the alternative involved a level of profound, overwhelming emotions that she was not quite ready to manage in real-time.

”Marvin,” she said, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. ”Seriously. How did you know?”

He produced a small stack of pristine porcelain plates from somewhere—she wasn’t entirely sure how, considering the cabinets were behind him—and picked up a silver cake knife.

”Your employment file contains your exact date of birth, Amy,” Marvin said casually, without looking up from the cutting. ”It has been logged there since the very beginning of your trial period.”

”You... you memorized my employment file?”

”I read every single document that passes through my office,” Marvin corrected smoothly, slipping a slice onto a plate. ”I possess an eidetic memory of shorts. I retain all of it. The date of your birth was not a difficult piece of data for my mind to hold onto.” He held the plate out to her.

She took the plate, her hands trembling slightly.

She looked down at the perfectly cut slice of red velvet cake. Red velvet was her favorite. It was a piece of personal trivia that was not contained in any corporate employment file. It was a fact she knew she had never, ever told him.

She looked back up at the perfect little man.

”Marvin. Red velvet.”

He was currently plating his own, slightly smaller slice. ”Yes.”

”That’s my favorite.”

”I am aware.”

”How are you aware? I never told you—”

”You mentioned it, three and a half weeks ago,” Marvin stated, with the mildness of a computer citing an easily retrievable, archived fact. ”You stated that the only thing capable of improving a exhausting Tuesday afternoon was a proper, authentic slice of red velvet cake.”

He picked up a silver fork, finally looking up to meet her astonished gaze.

”You actually said it to yourself, Amy. I do not believe you were addressing me. You were staring at an infuriating Miramax holdings document, and you muttered it out loud as a statement of general, universal principle.” His lips curved into a smirk. ”I took note of the principle.”

She stared at him, her jaw slightly slack.

”You were eavesdropping on me,” she accused weakly.

”I was standing in the room,” Marvin corrected, taking a small bite of his cake.

”There is a legal distinction.”

She sat down onto one of the leather kitchen stools with her plate, primarily because standing was beginning to feel like an entirely inadequate response to the overwhelming gravity of the situation.

She took a bite of the cake with her fork.

Her eyes widened. The cake was extraordinary. It was not a cheap bakery pickup. It was masterfully made—the exact kind of culinary architecture that required genuine, practiced skill and attention, rather than the quick, soulless approximation of a boxed mix. The crumb was moist, and the cream cheese frosting carried the exact Michelin-star balance of sweet vanilla and sharp tang.

She lowered her fork. ”Marvin... did you make this?” she asked, suddenly realizing this was the most important question of the entire evening.

”I prepared the batter this morning,” Marvin replied, settling gracefully onto the stool directly across from her. ”I began the process at approximately six AM, long before you arrived at the estate. It actually took two attempts. The first iteration was structurally acceptable, but the crumb density was far too heavy for my liking. I discarded it and adjusted the buttermilk ratio.”

He said this with the calm, matter-of-fact tone of a military general reporting a minor logistical problem and its immediate solution.

He spoke as if the undeniable fact of a billionaire, eleven-year-old boy baking a two-layer red velvet cake entirely from scratch, before dawn, solely to surprise his executive assistant on her birthday, was simply an ordinary, mundane event that he was casually debriefing her on.

Amy ate another bite of the supernatural cake and felt something permanent move through her soul. She was not going to attempt to categorize the emotion while sitting in her own kitchen at six PM on a Tuesday, especially with the entity responsible for it watching her from across the marble counter.

”Thank you,” she whispered. It came out quieter, and more fragile, than she intended.

”You are welcome, Amy,” Marvin said simply, his charm radiating a wave of pure, comforting warmth that wrapped around her like a physical embrace. ”It is your birthday. You should have cake.”

They ate in a comfortable companionable silence for a few minutes. The heavy, frantic stress of the Asian Vanguard report completely bled out of Amy’s muscles, replaced by the deep, intoxicating peace of his presence.

When they finished, Marvin set his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

”However,” Marvin purred, his voice dropping an octave into a register of rich. ”The culinary arts were merely the prelude to the evening.”

Amy looked up, her heart giving a sudden flutter. ”Marvin, you didn’t have to get me anything else. This cake... you being here... it’s already more than enough.”

”A man does not deal in ’enough,’ Amy,” Marvin corrected gently. ”I deal in what is deserved.”

It was, she discovered over the next ten minutes, not only cake.

The refrigerator—when she finally managed to pull herself away from the marble island, looking for a bottle of sparkling water to settle her racing heart—had been reorganized from how she had hastily left it that morning. It now contained an arrangement of glass containers that told a stunning, impossible story.

Each container was labeled in Marvin’s elegant handwriting, detailing their contents and reheating instructions where applicable. Amy read the small, cream-colored labels with the attention of a cryptographer decoding something of monumental importance:

*French onion soup — oven, 350°F, 12 minutes. Add gruyère in final 3.*

*Chicken piccata — low heat, covered, 8 minutes. Do not overcook the capers.*

*Roasted autumn vegetables — room temp is fine if you prefer. 5 min in oven if not.*

*Lemon tart — do not refrigerate. It is on the counter. Do not look yet.*

She closed the door of the refrigerator. She turned around. Sitting on the far side of the granite counter, completely hidden behind where the massive red velvet cake had been, there was indeed a lemon tart resting under a glass dome. She had somehow failed to notice it during the overwhelming, cake-based emotional drama of the last fifteen minutes.

She looked at Marvin.

”When did you—”

”I have been here since approximately four o’clock this afternoon,” Marvin said smoothly, finishing the last bite of his cake. ”Your primary work was completed by then. I calculated that you would be home by six at the earliest, given the afternoon workload and the standard flow of Sunset Boulevard traffic. That gave me sufficient time to prepare the space.”

He set his fork down, his blue eyes capturing hers.

”The French onion soup is because you mentioned it in the context of your mother’s cooking once, during your second week,”

Marvin purred softly. ”I researched the traditional Midwestern preparation and adjusted the culinary recipe for the highest quality available ingredients. The piccata, however, I was far more confident about.”

Amy put both of her hands flat on the cool granite counter.

She was a professional. Today, she was officially twenty-three years old. She had been rigorously managing her own emotional landscape since she was considerably younger than that, navigating the challenges of a life spent in the periphery of an entertainment industry that ran exclusively on attention and the strategic withdrawal of it. She had learned very early in life the difference between care that was genuine, and care that was cheaply performed for an audience.

She was, by any reasonable, objective assessment, a capable, and intelligent woman.

She was also currently standing in her own kitchen, on her birthday, looking at the evidence of approximately eight hours of meticulous, loving preparation by a child. A child who had memorized her corporate employment file. A man who had actively listened to a throwaway sentence she’d muttered to herself three weeks ago, and had spent his morning making her favorite cake from scratch. Who had spent his afternoon cooking her a three-course dinner in her own apartment before arriving in the shadows just to sing to her.

Her composure was doing its best, but it was currently fighting against supernatural odds.

”Marvin,” she breathed, her voice trembling.

”Yes, Amy.”

”This is—” She stopped, closing her eyes. ”I don’t—” She stopped again. She looked at the refrigerator. She looked at the lemon tart under the glass dome. She looked back at him.

”I didn’t think you knew,” Amy said finally, the truth spilling out of her chest. ”About today. I really thought... I was walking home from the garage, and I was telling myself that it was unreasonable to feel anything about it. Because I hadn’t explicitly told you, and because you’re—” she caught herself, biting her lip.

”Eleven,” Marvin provided softly, his voice completely without edge, carrying only understanding.

”Yes,” she said, looking at him directly, her eyes shining. ”And most eleven-year-olds—”

”Do not track or remember the birthdays of people they have known for less than two months,” Marvin finished for her. ”Yes.” He reached out, his long fingers gently resting over her hand on the counter. ”But I am not most eleven-year-olds, Amy.”

”No,” she agreed, her breath hitching at the contact. ”You are profoundly, terrifyingly not.”

Something incredibly soft moved through his expression. It was something beautifully in between that carried a radiant quality of warmth. She inherently associated that look with the quiet moments at the Steinway piano, when he played for her. It was the particular quality of his attention when it was romantically directed.

”You were disappointed,” Marvin stated. It was not a question.

She thought about denying this, to protect her pride. And then she thought about the undeniable fact that she was currently talking to an omniscient being who had spent his entire day cooking her dinner, and who already knew the truth of her soul.

”Yes,” she confessed, a tear slipping down her cheek.

”Good,” Marvin purred, his thumb gently brushing across her knuckles.

She blinked and caught off guard. ”Good?”

”It means that you expected something from me,” Marvin murmured, his voice dropping into a velvety register that made her heart hammer wildly. ”It means that the last forty-seven days meant something to you in the direction of a genuine relationship, rather than merely a sterile employment arrangement.”

He looked at her with that clear steady quality.

”That is very good, Amy. It is accurate. I would rather you be temporarily disappointed, and then subsequently surprised, than to have expected nothing because you didn’t think I was paying attention to you.”

She sat down heavily onto the stool again. Her legs were making a highly reasonable suggestion that she could no longer stand.

”You’re *always* paying attention,” she whispered.

”Only to the things that truly matter to me,” Marvin said, his eyes burning into hers. ”Yes.”

She looked at him for a long moment in her kitchen. In the beautiful apartment that his family owned. On her twenty-third birthday.

With the cake he had baked, the dinner he had cooked, and the song he had sung. She thought: ’What is the correct way to feel about this?’ And then her soul answered: ’There isn’t one.’* And then her heart finalized the thought: ’And that is completely fine.’

*****

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