Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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******

Sitting at the edge of the kitchen island, a plate of half-eaten breakfast resting in front of her, Beyoncé was officially sixteen years old.

She was wearing a simple oversized t-shirt and athletic shorts, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. But her eyes were not focused on her food, nor were they looking at her family bustling around the kitchen. Her gaze was completely locked onto the beige, wall-mounted landline phone hanging just a few feet away.

She had a wide, expectant smile on her face, her leg tapping anxiously against the floor as if she were trying to physically will the plastic receiver to ring..

Her parents walked around her, entirely ignoring her behavior. By now, Mathew and Tina had grown accustomed to it. They had watched their fiercely driven, highly disciplined daughter—a girl who usually cared about nothing but vocal runs, choreography, and building her group’s future—voluntarily tie up the house line at least once a day to talk to a boy in California.

And they saw no harm in it. In fact, they quietly encouraged it.

The boy wasn’t some inappropriate, predatory older industry executive. He was an eleven-year-old child prodigy. But more importantly, he was a prodigy who had just secured a Platinum-certified EP, starred in a blockbuster film, and commanded an money of old, aristocratic wealth that stretched back over a century and a half.

Mathew, ever the pragmatic, calculating manager of his daughter’s career, saw the undeniable strategic value of the relationship. He actively encouraged Beyoncé to interact with Marvin. If his incredibly talented daughter could genuinely win the boy’s heart and affection, her entire trajectory in the brutal music industry would be smoothed over with golden pavement.

Mathew knew the realities of the business. He had seen the unheard-of contract Marvin had extracted from Mottola at Columbia Records. They had practically handed the boy the keys to the Columbia. The music industry was a treacherous, bloodthirsty machine, often far darker and more dangerous than Hollywood. The rising hip-hop and R&B scenes were currently deeply entangled with coastal rivalries, gangster posturing, sex, drugs, and ruthless label executives like Suge Knight and Puffy. Having a powerful friend in the highest possible echelons of old money and corporate leverage was the ultimate shield for a rising young Black artist in America.

But as the morning ticked on, the phone remained agonizingly silent.

By the time the kitchen clock struck ten, Beyoncé’s wide smile had slowly fractured into a look of quiet disappointment. She let out a long sigh, resting her chin in her hands, her dark eyes losing their spark.

Tina walked over, placing a gentle, comforting hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

”Don’t look so down, Bey,” her mother soothed softly, smoothing a stray curl away from the teenager’s face. ”Marvin is a brilliant boy, but he is incredibly busy. He’s running around, doing press tours, recording albums. He probably hasn’t forgotten about your birthday at all. He might just be caught up in a studio session. You know how boys are at that age—they get tunnel vision when they are working.”

”I know, Mama,” Beyoncé murmured, trying to mask the sting of rejection. ”It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting him to call right at midnight or anything.”

She was lying. She had absolutely expected him; it would have been so romantic just before 12 AM.

Shortly after breakfast, Mathew and Tina grabbed their keys and briefcases. They were entrenched in managing the logistics of Beyoncé’s group and running Tina’s successful salon; a birthday did not mean the hustle stopped. After wishing her a happy birthday and promising a family dinner later, they walked out the front door, leaving the house to the teenagers.

Beyoncé stood up, abandoning her plate in the sink, and walked into the living room. She slumped down onto the carpet right beside the end table holding the phone, refusing to completely give up her vigil.

A moment later, her sister, Bianca, walked into the room.

Bianca plopped down onto the floral couch, grabbing the TV remote and immediately changing the channel with a loud, abrasive click. She looked down at Beyoncé sitting miserably by the phone, a cruel, satisfied grin slowly spreading across her face. Bianca was older, inherently cynical, and currently burning with a deep, festering jealousy over her younger sister’s talent, her rising local fame, and most of all, her connection to the most famous boy in America.

”Come on, Bey. You might as well go back to bed,” Bianca sneered, the venom dripping from her words, entirely enjoying the sadness radiating from her sister. ”You can stare at that plastic all day; he isn’t going to call you back.”

Beyoncé tightened her jaw, keeping her eyes fixed on the television screen. ”Shut up, Bianca.”

”I’m just trying to give you a reality check before you embarrass yourself,” Bianca continued, twisting the knife, weaponizing every deep-seated insecurity a Black teenager in the South could possibly have. ”You shouldn’t forget exactly who he is. He is a white boy. And not just any white boy. He is California old money. For all you know, his great-grandfathers probably owned slaves like us. People like that don’t look at us as equals.”

Beyoncé’s hands curled into tight fists in her lap, her fingernails digging into her palms.

”He just takes a fancy to you like a shiny new toy,” Bianca taunted, her voice rising with bitter, jealous energy. ”Like a pet, or some exotic monkey he hasn’t seen in his country club zoo. He comes from absurd wealth. He spends his weekends with European royalty and Diana Spencer. He probably hasn’t even seen a real Black girl from Houston up close before you. He does not see you as anything, Bey. You’re just an amusement until he gets bored.”

”You do *not* talk about Marvin like that!” Beyoncé snapped, springing up from the carpet, her dark eyes flashing with sudden, explosive fury.

The racial and class insults struck a nerve, but not because Beyoncé believed them. It was because the boy she had looked into at the Roosevelt Hotel had completely defied every earthly categorization.

”He is nothing like the hood boyfriends you hang around with who only see skin color and zip codes!” Beyoncé fired back, her voice ringing with the fierce power that would one day command stadiums. ”When he looks at me, he doesn’t see a pet, and he doesn’t look down on me! He looks deeper. He looks straight into the soul. He sees the artist I am going to become. He treats me like a queen, which is a hell of a lot more than anyone has ever treated you!”

Bianca’s face flushed a shade of red. The jealousy erupted.

”A queen?!” Bianca mocked, standing up from the couch to close the distance, pointing a finger at her sister. ”You think because you can hit a few high notes and a billionaire kid gave you his pager number, you’re royalty? You’re delusional! What makes you think you’re so special that you get to have it all? The talent, the group, and the white boy who looks like a Greek god? You think you’re better than me?”

”I don’t think I’m better than you,” Beyoncé stepped forward, refusing to back down an inch, her chin held high. ”I just know what I am worth. And I know what he sees in me!”

The argument escalated into a blistering, high-volume screaming match. Years of sibling rivalry, industry pressure, and raw teenage hormones clashed in the middle of the Houston living room. Bitter insults flew back and forth, tearing at each other’s pride, the air growing thick and dangerous.

Just as the verbal sparring reached a boiling point, right as it looked like it was about to cross the line into a physical, hair-pulling altercation...

*Ding-dong.*

The sudden, cheerful chime of the front doorbell echoed through the house, shattering the tension like a hammer to glass.

Both sisters froze, panting slightly.

Beyoncé shot Bianca a warning glare. She turned on her heel and stomped toward the entryway, her blood boiling with anger. She reached the door, her face contorted in a furious scowl. ”Who the hell is it this early in the morning?!” Beyoncé yelled through the wood.

There was no answer.

”Don’t tell me it’s those ding-dong-ditch kids from down the block again, or another damn magazine seller!” she screamed, her frustration boiling over. She threw the deadbolt back and yanked the door open.

”Who the fu—”

The profanity completely, instantly died in her throat. Her breath left her lungs in a sharp, sudden gasp.

The blinding Texas sun poured into the entryway, but it was entirely eclipsed by the figure standing on her porch.

Marvin Meyers stood perfectly framed in the doorway.

He was dressed in a tailored, crisp navy blazer over a simple white v-neck, looking like he had just stepped out of a high-fashion editorial rather than a commercial flight. His golden-brown hair was perfectly tousled by the humid Houston breeze. The Incubus flared instantly upon making eye contact, wrapping around her in a warm, intoxicating aura of magnetic charm.

But it wasn’t just him.

In his arms, he held the most spectacular, massive bouquet she had ever seen in her entire life. It wasn’t just a few cheap bodega roses. It was an overflowing, highly curated bucket of deep crimson, velvet-petaled roses, intricately intertwined with imported, gold-foil-wrapped artisan chocolates and cascading green vines.

Marvin offered a slow, devastatingly handsome, dimpled smile. The demon looked down at the furious girl, thoroughly amused by her fiery temper.

”My lady,” Marvin purred, his velvety baritone washing over her like a cool wave, completely extinguishing her anger. ”Such harsh, cursing words do not suit the angelic beauty of your voice.”

Beyoncé stood paralyzed, her hands gripping the doorframe. Her heart, which had been hammering with anger seconds ago, suddenly executed a frantic backflip.

”Marvin?” she whispered, her voice cracking, utterly unable to process the reality of his presence on her porch in Texas. ”You... you’re here. I thought... I thought you had forgotten.”

Marvin’s perfect brow furrowed slightly, feigning profound, theatrical offense. He stepped closer, the rich scent of the roses and his ozone-laced Marvin’s enveloping her completely.

”Forgotten?” Marvin asked, his voice adopting a smooth, Shakespearean cadence that made her knees feel inexplicably weak. ”How could I possibly forget the day the heavens gifted this earth with such a radiant soul? To forget the birthday of a woman as beautiful and talented as you, Beyoncé, would be a high crime against God’s finest creation. I did not call... because a mere telephone wire is insufficient to convey my emotions.”

He held out the massive bouquet.

Beyoncé felt a brilliant, atomic flush of heat rush to her cheeks. She was completely, hopelessly swept away. The cynical taunts of her sister vanished into the ether.

She took the bucket of roses, her fingers brushing lightly against his. The physical contact sent a jolt of electricity straight up her arm.

”I... I am so sorry I yelled,” Beyoncé stammered, completely overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all. The anger was gone, replaced by a frantic, dizzying teenage panic. She was wearing old gym shorts and a messy bun in front of the most flawless human being on the planet.

”Do not apologize for your fire,” Marvin smiled softly, his blue eyes gleaming. ”It is what makes you a queen. Now, tell me... will you do me the honor of accompanying me on a date for your sixteenth birthday?”

”Yes!” Beyoncé blurted out instantly zero hesitation in her voice.

Before her brain could even catch up to her actions, she reached out with her free hand, firmly grabbed his wrist, and pulled him across the threshold into the house. She kicked the front door shut behind him. She dragged the prodigy straight through the living room.

As they passed the floral couch, Bianca was standing there, completely frozen, her jaw practically unhinged in shock. She stared at the impossibly handsome boy being pulled through her house.

Beyoncé didn’t stop. She didn’t let Marvin look at her sister, and she didn’t let Bianca get a word out. But as she marched past, Beyoncé turned her head just enough to shoot Bianca a lethal triumphant smirk.

*Monkey? Pet?* the look screamed. *Watch me.*

She dragged Marvin straight down the hallway and pushed open the door to her bedroom, pulling him inside and quickly shutting the door behind them.

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, the reality of the situation crashed down upon her.

Her heart began to beat so fast and so violently against her ribs she thought she might actually faint. This was the very first time she had ever invited a boy into her private sanctuary. She had just turned sixteen today. Most girls in the Western hemisphere experienced their romantic first time at this age; she had friends who were already deeply experienced.

But Beyoncé had spent her adolescence in dance studios and vocal booths. She was completely out of her depth.

She stood frozen in the center of the room, clutching the bucket of roses to her chest like a shield, her face burning.

Marvin, however, was entirely unbothered by the sudden intimacy.

He stood in the center of the room, slowly turning to observe her room. It was a perfectly ordinary, slightly messy teenage girl’s room. There were stacks of CDs towering in the corner, heavily used vocal exercise cassette tapes scattered on the desk, and a makeup vanity cluttered with lip gloss and hairspray. He did not judge the modest, middle-class surroundings; the Incubus only cared about the soul and body of the occupant.

*****

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