Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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******

In terms of an eye for cinematic scripts, Harvey eclipsed his conservative brother.

Bob’s strength lay in administrative management and corporate accounting. Harvey was the shark who smelled the blood.

In addition to brilliant scripts, Harvey was obsessively interested in Marvin’s literary novels.

Not to mention *Kung Fu Panda*. Even if that beloved novel became a feature film, Harvey knew it would likely take the form of 3D animation, which wasn’t Miramax’s live-action wheelhouse.

But *Ready Player One* was radically different.

Harvey had read the science fiction book no less than five times. He was intimately familiar with its sprawling, pop-culture-infused universe.

He realized Marvin had considered the Hollywood adaptation the entire time he wrote the novel. The tight narrative structure aligned flawlessly with the classic three-act structure of a blockbuster movie.

The boy harbored the idea of adapting it into a billion-dollar movie from the first page.

If the cooperation on *The Sixth Sense* went well and broke the bank, Harvey wanted to continue working with the boy. Miramax could acquire the global film rights to *Ready Player One* and build a franchise to rival *Star Wars*.

And Marvin was only twelve years old. Dozens of dominant works would come out of that terrifying brain in the future.

For the power, billions of dollars, and Academy Awards this child could bring to his studio, Harvey did not mind kowtowing to someone who brought limitless benefits. Harvey worshipped power above all else.

’If Marvin Meyers asked for it,’ Harvey thought greedily, taking a deep drag of his cigar, ’I would offer myself up as his footstool.’

---

The Shakespeare Problem

Marvin hung up the plastic receiver of the car phone.

It was a brick-sized Motorola device Amy had insisted on carrying in the car since January.

His schedule had become complex enough to require constant mobile communication, especially with the Asian markets. He stared at the grey plastic, sighed softly, and said to the empty interior, ”Ouch.”

Gordon, navigating the car through Los Angeles traffic, did not react. The bodyguard had developed the professional skill of ignoring statements addressed to the universe rather than to his ears.

’Strange,’ Marvin thought, rubbing his temples. ’Why did I suddenly feel sick to my stomach?’

He looked out the tinted window at the baking Los Angeles afternoon. The early July heat pressed against the car’s freezing air conditioning.

It was the kind of heat that made the concrete outside look vivid, yet fundamentally unreal—the way looking at bright objects through safety glass makes them look like they’re performed on a soundstage.

He felt... odd.

He was not physically unwell. His Incubus nature insulated his host body from trivial things like the flu or food poisoning. No, it was the *other* kind of odd.

It was the vibrating psychological frequency he had been developing the vocabulary for over the past year.

It was the distinct frequency associated with the JAR awareness that something volatile had occurred in the emotional landscape of a girl he paid attention to. That occurrence produced a ripple effect on his soul that he had not seen coming.

He picked up the grey phone again.

He dialed the out-of-state number from memory. It rang twice.

”Oh.”

The female voice came through the crackling speaker with the flustered quality of someone who had answered the phone reflexively without checking caller ID, and was now deciding whether they actually wanted to have answered it at all.

”So... my *Shakespeare* finally remembered that this humble girl in Houston actually exists,” the voice said, dripping with sarcasm. ”After getting cozy with the little blondy in New York.”

Marvin’s mind processed this opening salvo in a millisecond. He knew exactly what this prickly, defensive barrier was. It was the armor of a girl who had been trained from childhood that vulnerability was a liability, that any sign of weakness would be exploited by a demanding world. ”Hello, B,” he said, his voice a velvet shield against her fiery tone.

”Don’t *’Hello B’* me, Marvin Meyers,” Beyoncé snapped back.

She spoke in a high tone, not quite boiling angry, but performing adjacent to anger, while maintaining plausible deniability about her actual emotional state. ”You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He did know.

The high-resolution paparazzi photographs had been everywhere for the past twenty-four hours. It was the unavoidable geography of toxic gossip coverage in the mid-90s—dominated by printed newspapers, teen magazines, and entertainment television programs designated for celebrity image circulation.

He and Scarlett Johansson had been photographed walking the red carpet at her *Horse Whisperer* premiere.

The gossip press presented the photographs as considerably more romantic than two teenage friends standing next to each other.

The headlines screamed: *”The Boy Wonder’s New Queen?”* and *”Marvin’s Manhattan Romance!”*

”Beyoncé, the photographs were simply—” he began, attempting to deploy logic.

”I know what the photographs were, Marvin,” she cut him off, her accent thickening with irritation. ”I have eyes. I saw them. Jessica showed them to me first. Then Lindsay called me and showed me live on the broadcast. Then Dorothy paged me just in case I’d miraculously missed it.” A pause. ”And then... I saw it on television. They replayed you two whispering to each other on *Access Hollywood* three times.”

”You know I am too young for the media narrative they are selling,” Marvin said calmly, leaning back against the leather seat.

”She was arm-in-arm with you on the carpet, Marvin!”

”She was gesturing while talking about her director,” he corrected smoothly. ”It’s a habit some anxious people have when suddenly surrounded by cameras.”

”Mmhmm. She was very *enthusiastic* about her physical gestures on your bicep.”

”She was describing a film she’d just seen,” he stated, refusing to take the bait. ”The physical enthusiasm was entirely about the film’s pacing.”

”Uh-huh,” Beyoncé said. She delivered the phrase in a tone that communicated the word *uh-huh* was doing emotional heavy lifting beyond its two syllables.

Marvin settled deeper into the cool seat. He navigated the conversation with the quality of a diplomat who has identified the bleeding issue buried underneath the loud presentation.

He could see the structural blueprint of her pain—the hyper-vigilant golden child who was hardwired to view every relationship through a lens of conditional worth, constantly terrified of falling from grace or being replaced the moment she wasn’t perfectly occupying the center of attention.

”You’re not angry about Scarlett,” Marvin stated flatly, stripping away the illusion.

A pause on the phone line. ”I didn’t say I was angry,” she deflected.

”You just said *uh-huh* in a specific, aggressive way,” he pointed out.

”I say *uh-huh* in all kinds of different ways, Marvin. That doesn’t mean—”

”Beyoncé.” His velvet voice dropped an octave, radiating a protective authority. It brokered no further nonsense, bypassing the practiced mask of the pop-star-in-training and reaching for the fragile teenager underneath.

Another long pause. Significantly longer and heavier this time.

”I’m not *angry,*” Beyoncé finally whispered. She spoke with the surgical precision of a girl selecting a word that was technically accurate, while leaving more explosive words available for later deployment. ”I just...” She stopped.

Started again, her breath hitching slightly.

”Look, Marvin. You know we had our thing going on. And I was fine with... I understood it wasn’t... I’m not naive, okay? I grew up in this industry. I know what we are, and what we’re not. I know you’re...”

She seemed to be having a frantic conversation with herself, simultaneously with the one on the phone. It was the internal chaos of a girl whose father ran her life like a drill sergeant, teaching her that her only value lay in what she could produce, what she could achieve, and how flawlessly she could perform for the world’s approval.

”I just wanted to know why it wasn’t *me,*” she confessed, her voice cracking under the weight of a sudden, raw vulnerability.

He remained quiet in the back of the car for a long moment, letting his silence act as a safe harbor for her confession. ”Why wasn’t what you, B?” he asked softly.

”The *pictures,* Marvin,” she sighed. Her vocal register shifted. The sassy irritation dropped away entirely, and the bleeding truth appeared from underneath it. Which was not anger at all. It was a profound hurt.

”I’ve known you since last June, Marvin,” Beyoncé said quietly, her voice trembling over the miles of wire. ”You came to my sixteenth birthday in Houston. You gave me that beautiful song on the Ferris wheel. We’ve talked on the phone... I don’t even know how many hundreds of times this year. You’ve become someone incredibly important to me.” She laughed softly, though there was no real amusement in it.

”We’ve shared things a boy and girl don’t usually share unless they mean something to each other. And yet, the first time the entire world sees the great Marvin Meyers out somewhere looking like that... it’s not with me. It’s with some blonde girl they’re going to plaster across every magazine cover in America.”

She paused, swallowing hard, fighting the conditioned instinct to lock her emotions away and apologize for being imperfect. ”I just wondered. That’s all. I sat in my room and wondered why. I thought... maybe I didn’t perform well enough. Maybe I hadn’t hit the right notes to keep you there.”

The tragedy of her words struck Marvin with clarity. She was equating her personal relationships to her grueling vocal rehearsals—believing that love was a transaction, a reward to be earned only through flawless execution.

”Because, Beyoncé Knowles, you and the other girls are more important to me than a cheap paparazzi photograph,” Marvin stated, his voice ringing with an unshakeable truth.

Silence fell on her end of the line.

”That’s...” she started, completely taken aback by the psychological weight of his response.

”I mean it precisely,” he said, leaning forward in the quiet of his vehicle. ”A photograph in a sleazy gossip column becomes a public story that cynical people legally own. The tabloids own the narrative. They turn human beings into products to be bought and sold. Your father and the industry already try to do that to you every single day. I refuse to let them do that to what we have. I do not want that toxic environment for you. Not yet. Not like that.”

”That is a very *calculated* way of looking at it, Marvin,” she noted, a hint of her defensive suspicion returning as her brain tried to find the hidden catch.

”Careful,” he corrected gently, his tone wrapping around her like a protective shield. ”There is a massive difference.”

”What is the difference?”

”Calculated is when you coldly do something purely for a PR outcome or a transaction,”

Marvin explained, targeting the exact pathology that haunted her childhood. ”Careful is when you do something because the person involved is worth the protection. Hear me, B: you do not have to kill yourself to earn my approval. You don’t have to be perfect, or hit every high note, or run laps singing until your lungs burn just to ensure I stay. You are cared for without any conditions. You don’t have to trade your peace for my affection.”

The words acted like a psychological crowbar, fracturing the relentless drive for perfection that had caged her for a girl.

Over the phone, he could hear her sharp, ragged intake of breath. No one had ever told her she had value outside of her utility. No one had ever offered her a love that didn’t demand her exhaustion in return.

”Hmm,” Beyoncé hummed softly, her entire posture melting over the line, thoroughly mollified but committed to not entirely surrendering just yet.

”Also,” Marvin added, a wicked, playful smirk returning to his face to give her room to recover from the emotional weight. ”Scarlett stubbornly spent forty grueling minutes convincing me to walk that carpet. You know the toxic heat she is getting from my fanatic fan base right now. She was very committed to suffering in the path of fame.”

Beyoncé made a sharp sound trying to maintain her solemn facade but failing. ”Oh, really? Is that what the arm-locking was about on the carpet?” she teased, her warm drawl finally bleeding back into her voice.

”She makes strong points,” Marvin sighed dramatically. ”It is apparently a dangerous conversational habit of hers.”

”Uh-huh.”

”The *Titanic* song does not address the scientific load-bearing capacity of floating wooden debris in freezing water,” he offered helplessly. ”I had no counter-argument available to her logic.”

She finally laughed out loud—the real, booming, unvarnished laugh he adored for all his girls. ”You are so...” she started.

”Charming? Devastatingly handsome?” he offered playfully.

”*Impossible,*” she declared firmly, though the relief and joy in her voice were undeniable.

The tension broke completely. Laughter settled over the phone line, and the true, intimate register arrived—the golden tone their conversations always reached when her armor cleared away, leaving only her genuine self safe in the dark.

”So, how’s the album doing?” he asked, shifting to the professional world they both inhabited.

”It’s building,” she said, her tone instantly tightening into its familiar air.

”Building is good in this market.”

”Building is *agonizingly slow,*” she corrected with a directness she only ever used with him. She had intuitively understood from day one that she didn’t need to perform for Marvin, nor did she need to dress the truth up in pretty bows. ”Our debut single *’No No No’* is still charting decently. The urban radio stations are picking up the new single. But it’s not...” she paused, her voice laced with an intense, internal frustration. ”It’s not where I demand us to be.”

*****

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