On another note, should I add Dakota Johnson? After all, Marvin will write Fifty Shades of Grey, and it's not like he cares whether his women have strong acting range. Just look at Kristen Stewart, Amber Heard, Sydney Sweeney, or Sophie Turner.
And yes, he doesn't care whether they have acting range.
I think someone readers got confused by this question. Marvin will play the main lead himself alongside the girl. If it's not Dakota, then it will be one of his other girls. After all, it would be the easiest role for him since he would basically just be playing a hyper-focused version of himself while also showing off his real wealth in the movie.
As for the physical scenes like kissing, sex, or nudity, why do you think he would let his girls actually do that? It's pretty easy to fake with the many techniques that exist or can be created like body double, or prosthetics. Even for MVs, he would just play himself. Light touching holding is fine, but anything beyond that crosses into his possessive side the demon regarding personal space. It was fine before meeting him, but not anymore.
And yes, open killing would not only be self-defense, but could also be seen as very heroic.
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*****
"I won't let you down, Marvin," Amy promised, her eyes shining with confidence. Recently, her workload had significantly decreased, leaving her with more free time, similar to Marvin, who appeared free on the surface but was occupied with matters in Asia.
The next day, under the heavy, overcast skies of a late-summer morning, the flight touched down on the tarmac of London Heathrow.
After bypassing the standard customs labyrinth via a VIP diplomatic corridor, Marvin slid into the back of a waiting Bentley. Gordon took the wheel, adjusting his dark suit, while another black Range Rovers carrying the four extra bodyguards boxed them in seamlessly.
"First stop, Gordon," Marvin commanded, his tone dropping its boyish warmth entirely. "The London studio."
The Bentley glided through the bustling, damp streets of the British capital, pulling up to an unassuming, brick-faced building in Soho. Much like the Westlake facility in California, Max Martin's newly acquired UK studio was currently a chaotic maze of ongoing renovations, dust, and exposed wiring.
Marvin stepped out of the car, flanked instantly by two guards, and walked into the facility.
Max Martin wasn't around, and most of the crew were also out since this studio also was being renovated.
The Swedish producer was completely consumed by the logistical warfare of the Wolf Cousins. With *My Heart Will Go On* slated for an impending global release alongside the *Titanic* marketing machine, Max was building the physical distribution chains.
Standing in the empty office of Max, Marvin looked at the blueprints on the wall, a dark smirk curving his lips.
Max was utilizing the pre-existing, massive supply chains of Cheiron Studios to distribute the new Meyers Records single while also selling Backstreet boys album. It was a brilliant, parasitic corporate maneuver. Wolf Cousins was systematically, quietly devouring Cheiron Studios from the inside out. They were siphoning Cheiron's talent, utilizing its European distribution deals, By the time they are done, Cheiron would be just a subsidiary holding some big names, and Wolf Cousins would be the undisputed monarch of European pop.
"The acoustics in here will be adequate," Marvin noted dryly, turning on his heel. "We are done here, Gordon. Take me to the country."
---
The drive out of London and into the sprawling, lush greenery of the English countryside took just over an hour.
Sitting in the plush, leather-scented quiet of the Bentley's backseat, Marvin did not look out the window at the rolling hills. He had an bulky laptop resting on his knees, the screen glowing with columns of red and green financial data.
The Asian Financial Crisis of 1997 was currently in full, catastrophic swing.
The Thai Baht had completely collapsed. The South Korean Won was tumbling toward the abyss. Entire national economies were hemorrhaging capital, plunging millions into sudden, terrifying poverty.
But where the world saw tragedy, the transmigrator saw an feast.
Every time a foreign bank declared insolvency, every time a currency peg snapped, the digits in the Zenith Trust's ledger multiplied with sickening velocity. He was making a fortune—tens of millions of dollars of pure, liquid capital flowing directly into his war chest.
When the markets eventually hit rock bottom, the four executive teams he had just deployed to Tokyo, Beijing, Seoul, and Taipei would swoop in, utilizing his capital to buy up the foundational pillars of the Eastern entertainment and tech industries for pennies on the dollar.
He closed the laptop with a soft *click*. The financial world was bleeding, and he was holding the only bucket.
He looked up as the Bentley turned off the main road, the iron gates of an ancient, sprawling estate looming in the distance.
They had arrived at Wormleighton Manor.
Wormleighton Manor was the Spencer family's original 16th-century ancestral home. Built of imposing red brick and surrounded by manicured gardens, it stood as a silent monument to centuries of British aristocratic power.
It was located far, far away from the oppressive, media-hounded perimeter of Kensington Palace.
And currently, it was the primary residence of Diana, Princess of Wales.
It was one of the most painfully poignant realities of her post-divorce life. Here was one of the most famous, beloved, and relentlessly photographed women on the face of the earth, living largely alone in a sprawling, cavernous manor. Stripped of the title of Her Royal Highness, stripped of her royal staff, and stripped of the suffocating but necessary security apparatus of the Crown, she was navigating the reality of a life without a real, genuine support structure around her.
She was a bird locked in a gilded, empty cage.
The Bentley slowed as it approached the iron gates. A stern-looking private security guard stepped out of the gatehouse, holding up a hand.
Gordon rolled down the window, his muscular frame immediately establishing dominance. But it was the face in the backseat that commanded entry.
Marvin lowered the tinted window. He offered the guard a warm familiar smile.
The guard's strict demeanor instantly melted.
He recognized the boy immediately. In the eyes of the British press and the Spencer household, Marvin Meyers was not just an American child prodigy; he was publicly viewed as someone as incredibly close to Diana as a little godbrother. He was her loyal confidant, the boy who had publicly shielded her from the paparazzi and orchestrated the Althorp Gala victory.
"Mr. Meyers," the guard said respectfully, dipping his head. "Welcome back to the UK, sir."
"Thank you," Marvin replied smoothly. "Would you be so kind as to inform Mary that I have arrived?"
The guard immediately retreated to the booth, picking up the receiver to dial the manor's internal line. He connected directly to Mary, the head maid of the house who followed Diana everywhere like a loyal shadow. Once Mary heard the name, the iron gates immediately began to swing open with a low, metallic groan.
---
Deep inside the quiet, echoing halls of Wormleighton Manor, Diana was sitting in a sunlit drawing room, staring blankly out the antique leaded windows.
She was dressed in simple, elegant beige trousers and a cashmere sweater, looking breathtakingly beautiful but undeniably melancholic. The silence of the manor was deafening. The summer had been a whirlwind of charity campaigns and fleeting romances, but underneath the glamorous surface, an aching loneliness gnawed at her soul.
The wooden doors of the drawing room opened softly.
"Ma'am?" Mary's voice broke the silence. The older woman was smiling—a genuine, radiant smile that Diana hadn't seen on her maid's face in weeks.
"Yes, Mary?" Diana asked, turning her head, her long blonde hair catching the afternoon light. "A car has just cleared the front gates, Ma'am," Mary announced, her eyes crinkling with joy. "It's him. Marvin is here."
Diana froze.
For a second, her brain refused to process the information. Marvin was in California. He was in the Billboard charts. He was miles away across an ocean.
But as the reality settled in, her entire mood shifted. The melancholy that had draped over her shoulders evaporated into thin air. A brilliant, blinding smile bloomed across her face, lighting up her features with the pure, unadulterated radiance that had made the world fall in love with her.
"Marvin?" Diana gasped, springing up from the armchair.
She abandoned all royal decorum. She practically ran across the Persian rug, her short heels clicking rapidly against the polished hardwood floor of the corridor. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. The little man whose music had literally hypnotized her, the little man whose presence made her feel entirely, completely safe—he was here.
She rushed down the grand, portrait-lined hallway, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. But as she approached the soaring arches of the foyer, the ingrained discipline of a decade of royal life kicked in. She suddenly remembered her grace. She forced herself to slow down, deliberately composing her posture, smoothing the front of her simple, elegant cashmere sweater, and seamlessly transitioning her frantic, eager run into an elegant, poised walk.
The front doors of the ancestral manor were pulled open by the remaining household staff.
Marvin stepped out of the Bentley.
He wore a beautifully tailored, dark trench coat draped effortlessly over a crisp white shirt, the cool, damp English breeze ruffling his golden-brown hair. The moment his leather shoes crunched onto the gravel driveway, the power of the Incubus flared to its maximum capacity. He didn't project an aura of danger; he projected an aura of warmth, impenetrable safety, and undeniable magnetism.
He didn't look like a boy. Standing there in the fading light of the British afternoon, he looked like a handsome, poised little man arriving to rescue his queen from a lonely tower.
Diana stepped out onto the stone portico.
Their eyes met. The deep, nebula-blue of his gaze locked onto her.
"Hello, sister," Marvin purred, his velvety baritone echoing warmly in the cool, damp air.
Diana let out a soft, watery laugh, all pretense of aristocratic composure completely shattering. She practically flew down the stone steps, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling him into a hug.
She buried her face in his neck, breathing in the fresh air feeling a crushing weight lift off her chest.
For the time in months, she felt entirely safe.
After a long, breathless moment, Diana finally separated from the embrace, keeping her hands warmly resting on his shoulders. She looked down at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy, her famous, radiant smile illuminating her face.
"So," Diana asked, tilting her head with a playful, teasing glint in her eye. "What brings this little rascal of Hollywood all the way out here, so far away from the city?"
Marvin immediately placed a hand over his chest, staggering back half a step as if he had been struck by an arrow. "Oh, sister, you wound my fragile little heart!"
Marvin gasped, his voice dripping with dramatic, theatrical agony. "Can I not simply cross the Atlantic to visit my one and only sister? Do I require a formal, written itinerary just to bask in your presence?"
"Haha!" Diana threw her head back, a rich laugh echoing across the quiet courtyard. She reached out and affectionately pinched his cheek. "You little rascal. Those charming little tricks won't work on me anymore. I've gotten to know you far too well, Marvin Meyers. I know that brilliant brain of yours is operating a dozen steps ahead of everyone else."
Marvin offered a devastatingly handsome, dimpled smirk, letting the theatrical act drop. "Guilty as charged. However, my immediate concern is far less strategic and far more biological."
He looked up at her with wide, pleading eyes. "I haven't eaten a single thing since I boarded the flight in Los Angeles. I am starving."
Diana's maternal instincts instantly flared. "Oh, you poor darling! Of course. Come inside, immediately."
Diana ushered him through the grand foyer, bypassing the formal, cavernous dining halls and leading him directly toward the sprawling, rustic kitchens at the back of the manor.
After the divorce from the Prince of Wales, Diana had chosen to keep a very small, tightly knit household staff. It was a stark contrast to the sprawling armies of servants at Buckingham Palace. Here at Wormleighton, she only employed a cleaner, a private cook, a dresser, and her loyal maid, Mary beside security.
As they entered the kitchen, the private cook—a stout, kind-faced woman in a white apron—immediately stood at attention.
"My Lady," the cook greeted, bowing her head. "Shall I prepare a meal for the young gentleman?"
"That won't be necessary, Martha," Diana smiled warmly, waving a hand. "You are dismissed for the evening. Mary, please see to it that the rest of the staff takes the night off as well. I will personally cook for Marvin tonight."
"Yes, Ma'am," Mary beamed, recognizing the happiness radiating from her mistress. The staff quietly emptied the kitchen, leaving the two of them entirely alone.
Marvin unbuttoned his trench coat, draping it over a wooden chair, and immediately began rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt.
"Marvin, what are you doing? Sit down and relax," Diana scolded lightly, moving toward the industrial-sized refrigerator. "You just flew across the world."
"And let my sister toil away over a hot stove entirely by herself? Absolutely not," Marvin declared, walking over to the marble island and picking up a chef's knife. He spun it effortlessly in his hand, a flash of Incubus dexterity that made Diana blink in surprise. "Cooking is a collaborative art. What are we making?"
Diana laughed, tying a simple linen apron around her thin waist. "Well, seeing as you are a growing little man, how about a proper, hearty pasta with roasted garlic and tomato ragù? And perhaps some seared chicken?"
"Perfect."
For the next hour, the kitchen was filled with the sounds of sizzling olive oil, chopping vegetables, and echoing, joyous laughter. It was a deeply intimate familial scene.
Marvin worked with inhuman precision. He diced onions and minced garlic so fast that his hands were a blur, his culinary skills heavily augmented by his supernatural physical control.
Diana, on the other hand, was charmingly messy. She managed to get a dusting of white flour on her nose and a splash of tomato sauce on her apron, entirely unbothered by the lack of royal perfection.
"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.
*****
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