Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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”That forms a temporary condition,” Jobs countered without missing a beat.

”So is everything,” Marvin agreed.

He held out his hand. Marvin laughed.

”But fair enough.”

”The Kung Fu Panda rights,” Jobs said, shaking it firmly. ”We’ll start with Pixar’s standard licensing agreement. I’m guessing your lawyers are going to argue over sequel rights.”

”They probably will.”

”They’ll win,” Jobs admitted. ”It’s not worth wasting time fighting over something that doesn’t change the deal.”

”I appreciate that.”

Jobs lowered his voice—not secretive, just quieter. ”And the other conversation...”

”...never happened,” Marvin finished.

Jobs nodded once. ”Good.”

”What matters is the relationship.”

”And relationships only work if people do what they say they’re going to do.”

”I couldn’t agree more.”

For several seconds, Jobs simply looked at him. It wasn’t suspicion anymore. It was evaluation. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

”All right.” He adjusted his glasses and stood.

”Here’s to working together.”

Marvin rose and shook his hand once more.

”Here’s to working together.”

Jobs left the restaurant carrying the unmistakable energy of a man who had accomplished exactly what he set out to do.

Marvin watched him disappear into the night.

The Kung Fu Panda partnership was off to a promising start.

Marvin wasn’t worried about Pixar.

John Lasseter had built a studio that understood something most of Hollywood still struggled with. Technology could impress an audience once. Heart kept them coming back for generations. Pixar’s relentless habit of rewriting, testing, and throwing away good scenes until they became great was exactly what Kung Fu Panda needed.

The movie would make money.

The toys would make more.

The real fortune, however, would come from everything that followed—television, video games, licensing, and theme park attractions. Long after the box office numbers faded from memory, the brand would still be printing money.

Apple was a different kind of investment.

The company had found its footing again, but only just. The iMac had proved Steve Jobs was back, yet Apple’s biggest weapons were still locked behind the doors of its research labs. The iPod wasn’t on store shelves. iTunes didn’t exist. The iPhone wasn’t even a dream the public could imagine.

The market saw a recovering computer company.

Marvin saw the future.

That was why he wasn’t in a hurry.

The dot-com bubble was stretching further every month, and bubbles always burst. When the panic finally arrived, Apple wouldn’t escape it. Its stock would be dragged down with the rest of the technology sector, losing roughly eighty to eighty-five percent of its value before the dust settled.

That was when he would move.

Not before.

Fear made people sell great companies for terrible prices.

By then, his quiet understanding with Steve Jobs would matter. Terrified institutional investors would be desperate to unload technology holdings, and Scarlet Capital would be waiting with cash. While everyone else ran from Apple, Marvin intended to buy as much of it as he reasonably could before the iPod changed the company’s future forever.

Steve had already made one thing clear.

As long as everything remained above board, Apple would welcome Scarlet Capital as a long-term shareholder. Fresh capital meant more room to execute his vision and less influence from directors still clinging to the past.

Steve already quietly assured Marvin the Scarlet Capital share purchases would proceed smoothly on the corporate side, as soon as Marvin’s funds were ready. Steve felt eager to use the incoming capital to clean up some of the lingering inefficiencies and resistant board members within the company.

Patience was the entire strategy.

Not the patience of a man waiting for luck, but of an investor waiting for inevitability.

By the time the market realized what Steve Jobs was building, the opportunity would already be gone.

Marvin left the restaurant with two valuable deals in hand.

One was public.

The other would never exist on paper.

The late evening air of LA carried a crisp autumn chill as Marvin made his way back through the arrondissements, his steps quick with anticipation. The meeting had concluded faster than expected—a mere formality, really—and his thoughts had immediately returned to the pink palace high above the city streets where he’d left his girl sleeping.

But he couldn’t return empty-handed.

He stopped at a luxury boutique along Rodeo Drive, just minutes from the Beverly Hilton, the kind of place that catered to celebrities, wealthy tourists, and desperate lovers even late into the night. Inside, everything was arranged by color, and Marvin headed straight for the pink section with singular determination.

”The biggest pink teddy bear you have,” he told the clerk, his voice firm despite his youthful face. ”And I mean the biggest.”

What emerged from the stockroom was a monstrosity of plush affection—a four-foot-tall teddy bear the color of cotton candy, wearing a silk bow tie in a deeper shade of fuchsia. It was ridiculous, extravagant, and absolutely perfect.

To this, Marvin added a bucket of pink roses—not red, not white, but the delicate blush pink that matched the Hilton suite’s décor—fifty stems at least, heavy-headed and fragrant.

Then he wandered into a high-end chocolatier.

He sampled one chocolate after another—ruby truffles, strawberry creams, rose ganaches—taking each with surprising seriousness before giving a tiny shake of his head.

”No.”

”No.”

”...This one.”

He pointed to a ruby-pink chocolate truffle with a rich strawberry filling.

”I’ll take a box.”

The college girl smiled as she wrapped the chocolates in pink foil and tied them with a satin ribbon. Her eyes drifted over the odd little customer whose face was hidden beneath a cap, sunglasses, and a mask.

”A gift?” she asked.

Marvin nodded.

””For the girl waiting for me.”

The girl couldn’t help but smile. Before she could say anything else, Gordon stepped forward and paid while Marvin picked up the neatly wrapped box.

As they walked out, she watched them disappear into the Beverly Hills night.

”That’s actually really cute,” she murmured.

By the time he reached the Hilton suite, his arms were full of pink softness and sweetness. He entered quietly, using the key he grabbed before leaving, and found the room exactly as he’d left it—bathed in the soft glow of the crystal chandelier, the air still carrying the scent of their earlier passion, and Paris...

Paris was still sleeping.

She lay sprawled across the pink velvet bed, the sheets tangled around her naked form, her blonde hair a golden halo against the pillows. She’d moved slightly in her sleep, one arm thrown above her head, her face turned toward the light with an expression of such peaceful vulnerability that Marvin’s chest ached with tenderness.

She was only eighteen. It was 1999, and the woman the world would one day know as Paris Hilton had not fully taken shape. Beneath the designer clothes, practiced confidence, and famous last name was a teenager carrying wounds she rarely let anyone see. Only a few months had passed since she had escaped a place that taught her distrust, obedience, and fear instead of safety. Genuine kindness still caught her off guard. Real affection felt unfamiliar. For all the privilege surrounding her, she remained remarkably young, emotionally fragile, and searching for someone who made her feel safe rather than controlled.

She was still becoming the icon the world would know, still soft around the edges, still capable of being surprised by genuine affection, still very young, very hurt, and very easily influenced.

He set the giant teddy bear in the corner—watching over the room like a pink guardian—and placed the roses and chocolates on the dresser. Then he approached the bed and leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead that lingered, his lips brushing the soft skin where her hairline began.

”Sleep, baby,” he whispered. ”I’m home.”

...

..

.

In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and frowned. The frittata sat untouched, the berries still pristine in their bowl, the juice unopened. She hadn’t eaten a thing.

”Stubborn girl,” he murmured, but his tone was fond.

He set to work again, but this time he cooked with intention—not just nourishment, but healing. He reached inside himself, drawing on that strange well of energy that made him different, that made her, his in ways beyond the physical. As he cracked eggs into a bowl, he infused them with golden light that only he could see. As he whisked cream and herbs, he whispered words that made the mixture shimmer with restorative power.

He prepared French toast using brioche bread, soaking it in a custard enriched with vanilla and cinnamon, cooking each slice in butter until it was golden and crisp at the edges, soft in the center. He made fresh whipped cream by hand, beating it until it formed stiff peaks, sweetening it with just a touch of honey. He arranged strawberries in a fan pattern, their red contrasting beautifully with the pink plates.

But the true magic was in the tea—a special blend he brewed with herbs that glowed faintly as he steeped them, adding a spoonful of the Mana that would soothe her sore muscles and give her cells much needed energy. The steam rising from the cup carried sparkles of gold that dissolved into the liquid.

He arranged everything on a tray—the French toast dusted with powdered sugar, the strawberries glistening, the whipped cream in a separate bowl, the healing tea in a delicate porcelain cup—and carried it into the bedroom.

”Wakey wakey, my little Paris,” he sang softly, setting the tray on the bedside table and sitting on the edge of the bed.

Paris stirred, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings. She made a small sound—half whimper, half sigh—and blinked up at him, her eyes hazy with sleep and confusion.

”Marvin?” Her voice was rough, scratchy from sleep and earlier screams. ”Oh my God, you came back.”

”Of course I came back, silly girl,” he said, brushing hair from her face. ”I told you I would. Now sit up slowly—your body needs fuel.”

She tried to push herself up, wincing immediately. ”Ow... oh my God, everything hurts. In like, the best way possible, but still.”

”I know, baby. Let me help.”

He carefully propped another pillow behind her, adjusting it until she settled comfortably against the headboard. The pink sheets rested around her figure, framing her bare shoulders as her trembling hands betrayed the exhaustion she was still trying to hide.

”Here,” Marvin murmured, picking up the fork.

”You really don’t have to...”

He smiled softly and gently shook his head. ”Paris, I’ve lived by a lot of rules in my life.” His eyes met hers, warm and unwavering. ”One of the few I’ve never broken is this—I never do something because I have to. I do it because I want to.” He brought the fork closer, his voice dropping into a fond murmur. ”And right now... I want to take care of you.”

A faint blush colored her cheeks.

”So...” he teased gently, ”be the good girl and open up.”

A quiet laugh escaped her despite herself. She obeyed, parting her lips, and he fed her the first bite of warm French toast, the maple syrup still pleasantly warm. Watching her savor it, Marvin couldn’t help but smile. Somehow, seeing her cared for brought him a satisfaction no grand gesture could.

Paris’s eyes widened. She took her time chewing, and the look on her face softened into genuine delight.

”Oh my God...” she murmured. ”Marvin... this is amazing.” She shook her head in disbelief before laughing. ”No, seriously. This is, like, the best French toast I’ve ever had. I’m obsessed.”

”You really like it?” he asked with a smile, offering her another bite before gently brushing a stray drop of maple syrup from the corner of her lips with a napkin.

”I don’t just like it—I love it,” Paris said, already leaning in for another bite. She laughed, shaking her head. ”Seriously... how are you this good?” She looked down at the French toast in disbelief before meeting his eyes again. ”I knew you could write, act, make music... but nobody ever mentioned you could cook like this.” She smiled, genuinely impressed. ”This is so major. I’d honestly pick this over breakfast at any five-star hotel.”

A quiet smile tugged at Marvin’s lips. ”There’s still a lot you haven’t discovered about me.”

Paris raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. ”Oh?”

He held her gaze for a moment. ”And I plan on keeping it that way,” he said softly. ”Life’s more fun when I can keep surprising you.”

Paris smiled back, warmth spreading across her face.

”Well...” she said with a quiet laugh, ”don’t stop. I kind of love being surprised by you.”

He continued feeding her—the French toast, strawberries dipped in whipped cream, small sips of the healing tea. With each bite, color returned to her cheeks, and the trembling in her hands subsided slightly. The mana was working, healing her from the inside, restoring what their earlier passion had depleted.

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