Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

Most open bloody situations will be handled without killing, with only a very small number of people actually dying. After all, Marvin doesn’t want to come across as someone mentally unstable, even if those deaths were acts of self-defense.

On another note, he doesn’t mind having kids. In fact, there will be plenty in this book, though only with women of the appropriate age—after 25—while also keeping their careers in mind.

The establishment of the studios was always part of the strategy, alongside ventures in the stock market, technology, social media, the internet, as well as areas such as fashion, branding, merchandise, and more.

Lastly another Noble Kate Middleton

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*****

”I finally watched *The Parent Trap*,” Diana admitted, stirring a pot of simmering sauce, her eyes glowing with pride. ”William and Harry practically dragged me to a private screening room in London before they went back to school. Marvin, it was absolutely magnificent.”

”Did it meet your high cinematic standards, My Lady?” Marvin teased, expertly searing seasoned chicken breasts in a cast-iron skillet.

”It exceeded them,” Diana insisted, turning to look at him. ”Your performance... it was staggering. You played those two boys with such distinct, opposing personalities that I found myself genuinely forgetting I was watching one person. If I didn’t know you, I would have sworn on my life that the Meyers family was hiding a secret twin in California.”

”It is all simply a matter of psychological compartmentalization,” Marvin explained, flashing her a dazzling smile. ”And a generous visual budget.”

”Oh, hush. It’s pure talent,” Diana laughed, bumping her hip gently against his as she reached for the salt...

...

...

...

...

As the kitchen filled with the mouth-watering aroma of roasted garlic and basil, Diana poured herself a glass of red wine, offering Marvin a crystal goblet of grape juice. She leaned against the marble counter, taking a slow sip, her blue eyes narrowing slightly as she studied his flawless profile.

”Alright, Marvin,” Diana said, her tone shifting from playful to softly probing. ”The food is simmering. We are alone. Tell me the truth. Why are you really here in England?”

Marvin didn’t miss a beat. He smoothly tapped the wooden spoon against the edge of the skillet.

”I told my parents the truth,” Marvin replied, his voice a picture of boyish innocence. ”I am currently drafting the second installment of my *Harry Potter* series. The setting requires an authentic, brooding atmosphere. I cannot properly write about ancient, damp, gothic castles and treacherous British weather while sitting by a sun-drenched swimming pool in Los Angeles. I needed inspiration. I needed the gloom.”

Diana raised a skeptical eyebrow. She loved him dearly, but she wasn’t a fool. She had navigated the most treacherous, manipulative royal court in modern history; she knew a carefully constructed PR narrative when she heard one.

”Inspiration,” Diana repeated flatly. ”You expect me to believe that the boy who just made it big in the global box office, and the Billboard Hot 100 all in the same summer flew across the Atlantic solely to look at some gray clouds?”

Marvin let out a rich, melodic chuckle, turning down the heat on the stove. He knew she sensed there was more to the story—he was actually here to monitor his European financial maneuvers and, more importantly, to ensure she remained anchored and safe during the volatile month of August. But he wasn’t going to burden her with the realities of her death in other timeline.

”Sister, you wound me with your skepticism,” Marvin deflected smoothly, leaning against the counter beside her. ”Do you not believe in my artistic process? Just last week, my publisher demanded a plot summary for the second book. I told them a giant, murderous basilisk is going to terrorize the school through the plumbing system. The executives looked at me as if I needed psychiatric evaluation. I have to deliver a masterpiece to justify my royalties.”

Diana burst into laughter, nearly spilling her wine. ”A murderous snake in the plumbing? Marvin, what goes on inside that little head of yours?”

”Only the most lucrative forms of chaos,” Marvin smirked, reaching out and gently wiping the stray smudge of flour off the tip of her nose.

The casual, affectionate contact sent a warm, soothing wave of closure straight through her system. Diana’s probing questions melted away, completely disarmed by his charm and the comforting joy of his presence. She didn’t care if he was hiding his true motives. He was here, and the loneliness of Wormleighton Manor had vanished.

Rather than sitting at the long, isolating, fifty-seat table in the formal dining hall, Marvin and Diana carried their plates to a small, intimate wooden table nestled in the breakfast nook, overlooking the darkening, moonlit gardens.

Diana took her first bite of the chicken and pasta. Her eyes immediately widened in sheer astonishment.

She looked down at her plate, then back up at the little man sitting across from her.

”Marvin...” Diana breathed, taking another bite to confirm she wasn’t imagining it. ”This is... this is extraordinary. The seasoning, the sear on the chicken, the depth of the sauce... I helped you make this, but I know for a fact I have never cooked anything this spectacular in my entire life.”

”A man must be entirely self-sufficient, sister,” Marvin replied, his eyes gleaming with hidden amusement. He had, of course, utilized a microscopic fraction of his dexterity and magic to perfectly balance the chemical reactions of the ingredients, elevating a simple rustic meal into a Michelin-star experience.

”If Hollywood ever tires of you,” Diana laughed, shaking her head in continuous amazement as she ate, ”you could easily open the finest restaurant in London. Even the Queen’s private chefs cannot produce a ragù this perfect.”

”I will keep that in mind as a backup career,” Marvin chuckled, taking a sip of his sparkling water.

They spent the next two hours completely lost in conversation. They traded stories like old war comrades. Marvin regaled her with hilarious, exaggerated tales of Jeff and Amy losing their minds over Hollywood contracts and the absurdity of American paparazzi.

In return, Diana spoke openly about her charity work, the landmine campaigns, and the quiet, peaceful moments she was finally finding away from the relentless flash of the tabloid cameras.

Sitting in the warm glow of the manor’s kitchen, miles away from the chaos of their respective worlds, Marvin and the Princess found a rare, beautiful sanctuary in each other.

...

...

...

After the dishes had been cleared by Mary, the sprawling silence of Wormleighton Manor returned. But unlike the suffocating, isolating quiet that usually plagued Diana’s evenings, the air tonight felt profoundly warm, charged with an undeniable, comforting electricity.

They moved into the grand living room, illuminated only by the roaring, crackling fire in the stone hearth and the soft glow of a few strategically placed lamps. The scent of aged oak woodsmoke and rain-dampened earth drifted through the room.

As Marvin casually walked toward the velvet sofas, his deep, nebula-blue eyes caught the reflection of the flames dancing off the polished, ebony surface of a magnificent Steinway grand piano resting in the corner.

He stopped, turning back to look at her.

”Sister,” Marvin asked, his voice a smooth, inviting purr. ”Would you like to hear the new song I composed for Cameron’s behemoth movie, *Titanic*? I am not certain if Horner’s leaked instrumental drafts have reached your side of the Atlantic yet.”

”Oh,” Diana breathed, her eyes widening slightly. ”Yes, of course! I would absolutely love to hear it.”

She was a massive admirer of his musical genius. But the moment the words left her mouth, a sudden memory crawled back her mind. She vividly recalled sitting alone in her Kensington sitting room, listening to the heavy, intoxicating, and wildly lustful magic woven into *Song of Enchantment* and *I Need Your Happiness*.

The phantom sensation of her hands on her depths, the overwhelming, mature desire—it all rushed back in a flood.

Instantly, a brilliant, burning flush of crimson stained her elegant cheekbones. She looked away, suddenly intensely fascinated by the pattern of the Persian rug, her heart fluttering with a mix of deep embarrassment and latent, undeniable craving.

Marvin, however, completely ignored her sudden bashfulness.

He didn’t politely invite her over. He simply closed the distance between them, reached out, and firmly, warmly grasped her hand. The sudden physical contact sent a massive jolt of electricity straight up her arm.

”Come,” Marvin murmured, gently but irresistibly pulling the Princess of Wales across the room.

He led her to the long, leather-padded piano bench. He guided her to sit down, and then, rather than pulling up a secondary chair, he sat down directly beside her.

He deliberately breached all standard, polite boundaries of personal space. Their thighs were separated by mere millimeters. The side of his arm lightly brushed against her cashmere sweater. The intoxicating scent of his body enveloped her entirely, wrapping around her like a suffocatingly warm blanket.

Diana’s breath hitched in her throat. She turned her head slightly to look at him, intending to make a lighthearted comment about his proximity, but the words completely died on her lips.

Sitting this close, fully illuminated by the flickering firelight, the true magnitude of his physical perfection was inescapable. His facial features were flawless—sharp cheekbones, a high, aristocratic nose bridge, and lips sculpted like the petals of a dark rose.

It was as if God Himself, in a moment of supreme, focused artistry during His free time, had carved the boy out of celestial marble.

The concentrated Incubus charm flared, flooding her system. The maternal affection she felt for the ”little rascal” warred with the magnetic, and profoundly mature aura of the soul sitting beside her.

She was completely, hopelessly lost in the gravitational pull of his gaze. Her mind went entirely blank, slipping into a dazed, flushed trance.

She shifted her weight nervously, her hand slipping off her lap.

*Ding-ding-dong-dong.*

Diana flinched. Her fingers had accidentally crashed down onto the high-treble ivory keys. The sudden, discordant cluster of bright notes shattered the heavy, sensual silence of the living room, abruptly snapping her out of her breathless stupor.

She quickly snatched her hand back to her chest, her face burning hotter than the fireplace. ”Oh! Good heavens, I—I am so sorry, Marvin. I was just... distracted.”

Marvin let out a chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest. ”There are no mistakes in music, sister. Only unexpected introductions.”

He turned his focus to the keys, his long, elegant fingers hovering over the soundboard.

The playful, teasing aura vanished instantly, replaced by the profound, sorrowful gravity of the artist’s grand master in his art.

And so, Marvin began to play.

He didn’t just sing *My Heart Will Go On*. He unleashed the exact, undiluted masterpiece that had broken James Cameron and reduced grown, hardened Hollywood veterans to tears.

The melody rose from the piano, sweeping and mournful.

*”Every night... in my dreeeams... I see you... I feeeel you...”*

If the song had devastated Max and Amy, its effect on Diana was catastrophic.

Diana was an incredibly sensitive woman, a soul deeply moved by the architecture of art. More importantly, she was a woman who had spent her entire adult life utterly starved for true, unconditional love. She had endured a cold, hollow marriage to a Prince who loved another, and she had navigated a string of post-divorce romances that felt fleeting and scrutinized.

When Marvin’s voice—subdued, tragically tender, and laced with the heavy, shimmering magic of the sound—sang of a love that defied distance, death, and time, it completely bypassed her royal armor and struck her directly in the core of her soul.

*”Near... faaar... wherever you aaaare... I believe... that the heart... does go oooon...”*

She didn’t just hear the music; she felt it physically anchoring her. It was a promise of eternal safety. By the time the final, shimmering chord faded into the crackling ambient noise of the fireplace, Diana was weeping.

Heavy, silent tears streamed down her flushed cheeks, dropping onto the fabric of her sweater.

She sat completely frozen, overwhelmed by a tidal wave of cathartic sorrow and desperate hope.

When the magic slowly receded, leaving her raw and exposed, the ingrained British stoicism tried to reassert itself. She quickly raised a trembling hand, frantically trying to wipe the moisture from her face, feeling a sudden wave of deep shame.

”I am so sorry, Marvin,” Diana choked out, her voice thick and unsteady, refusing to look at him. ”I... I shouldn’t be crying. Showing you such a pathetic side of myself. You must think I am such a fragile, pathetic woman to break down over a song.”

”Stop,” Marvin commanded softly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

He reached into the breast pocket of his tailored shirt and withdrew a pristine silk handkerchief. He gently grasped her chin with his free hand, turning her face toward him. The touch of his fingers against her skin made her pulse completely skyrocket.

With incredible, tender care, Marvin began to dab the tears from her cheekbones.

”Do not ever apologize for your emotions, Diana,” Marvin murmured, his blue eyes staring deeply into hers. ”Tears are never a sign of weakness, nor are they pathetic. *Tears are simply the ink with which the soul writes its deepest truths.* Only a heart capable of profound, shattering love can produce something so beautiful. They do not diminish you; they make your soul infinitely more radiant.”

Diana’s breath hitched. The devastating poetry of the compliment—one that praised the depth of her spirit rather than just the physical beauty of her body—struck her harder than the song had. Her heart hammered a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs.

To quickly calm her racing heart and break the overwhelming, suffocating intimacy of the moment, Diana let out a wet, shaky laugh.

”I... I never knew you were such a master pianist,” she deflected, offering a watery smile. ”Is there any instrument you cannot play?”

Marvin offered a wicked, devastatingly boyish smirk, tucking the handkerchief away. ”Well, my lady, the world is very competitive. A man must acquire every conceivable skill in his arsenal if he ever hopes to impress a girl as extraordinarily beautiful as you.”

*****

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