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He would build his empire on the strength of his own intellectual property. He controlled the source code. He would never allow a situation akin to the future Marvel Studios dilemma, where Robert Downey Jr. commanded a hundred million dollars for a single appearance because the character had eclipsed the studio.
No actor, however talented, would ever own enough leverage to dictate the future of something Marvin had created. If a negotiation ever reached that point, he would rather shelve the franchise for years and start over with fresh faces than surrender control of its long-term value.
His heritage gave him another advantage.
The Incubus aura and charms could influence people, but Marvin had long since learned that brute-force manipulation was the least efficient way to use it.
While he possessed the hypnotic spellcraft of his bloodline, He wasn't living in a world of demons anymore.
His current reserves of magic were limited, and restricted by his developing physical vessel, rewriting a human being's personality, worldview, and ingrained corporate habits from scratch outright consumed far more than it was worth.
A gentle touch worked better.
A nudge here.
A little certainty there.
He didn't replace people's desires—he amplified the ones already inside them, softened their hesitation, and made the obvious choice feel even more obvious. The stronger his position became, the less effort it took. Wealth, reputation, and influence did most of the work before his aura ever had to. The easier the psychological guidance became.
Marvin turned his gaze toward the passing city outside.
His thoughts drifted to Sherry Lansing.
The woman running Paramount was no simple mark. The industry loved to gossip, suggesting she surrendered the DVD profits to Cruise because she couldn't control herself around a handsome leading man. It was a lazy narrative.
From 1994 onward, Lansing had ruled Paramount with an iron fist, leading the struggling company into a new era of unprecedented prosperity.
Under her direct leadership, the studio greenlit defining cultural blockbusters: *Braveheart*, *Forrest Gump*, *Titanic* (co-financed to mitigate risk), *Face/Off*, *The Truman Show*, and *Saving Private Ryan*.
She possessed a hardened personality. Even Sumner Redstone, the feared billionaire owner of Viacom, struggled to interfere with her decisions on the Paramount lot.
Lansing had famously told the press, "In Hollywood, if a woman wants to succeed, she has to work ten times, a hundred times harder than a man. So I must be as hard as a rock to crush those doubts."
The president's chair at Paramount was a throne surrounded by knives. Countless executives were constantly eyeing her seat, waiting for a single failure. She had to be tougher, colder, and more calculated than her competitors to suppress the conspiracies.
So, how did Tom Cruise breach her defenses to secure the king-level contract?
Was it really just a matter of sleeping his way to the top of the profit-sharing pyramid?
It couldn't be that simple. Lansing was at the peak of the Hollywood hierarchy. She had access to any man she wanted. If intimacy was the only currency exchanged, Cruise wouldn't be the sole actor receiving that financial treatment.
There had to be a structural reason.
Marvin traced the history of the studio. The answer stood out clearly: franchises.
Before *Mission: Impossible*, Paramount was notoriously poor at developing reliable movie series. Their only consistent intellectual property was *Star Trek*. They needed a modern tentpole to centre their quarterly earnings. *Mission: Impossible* provided that anchor, followed shortly by *Tomb Raider*.
Cruise held the keys to the tentpole, and Lansing paid the ransom to keep the studio's stock price stable.
Perhaps when Tom Cruise had first partnered with her as a producer, Sherry Lansing had been one of Hollywood's striking women in her forties. But the 1990s were unforgiving, and running one of the largest studios in the world demanded a price.
By fifty, the years of endless meetings, impossible decisions, and relentless corporate pressure had begun to show. Fine lines framed her face, and even the careful work of professional makeup artists could only soften them.
To Marvin's eye, she wasn't one of those rare women whose beauty seemed to deepen with age.
Some women simply won the genetic lottery.
She did not possess the timeless, fine-wine aging process of other Hollywood icons.
Women like Salma Hayek, who would remain drop-dead gorgeous well into her sixties.
The same went for Monica Bellucci, Sofia Vergara, and even Nicole. Makeup, skincare, cosmetic enhancement and the best stylists in the world certainly played their part, but they possessed the kind of natural presence that refused to fade. Time seemed content to negotiate with them rather than wage war.
Monica Bellucci, Sofia Vergara, Salma Hayek and Nicole—women who maintained a striking allure that defied the calendar. They were the certified MILFs and GILFs of Hollywood.
Lansing, however, had aged more like milk, like an executive than a movie star.
Years spent carrying the weight of a billion-dollar studio had left their mark, and Marvin could see them as plainly as the tailored suit she wore.
A wry, cynical smirk crossed Marvin's face in the darkness of the car. 'I wonder if Tom still maintains that bedroom arrangement, still fucking the boss just to keep the ink wet on his DVD contract?'
He shook his head, banishing the mental image. It wasn't his problem.
He needed to focus on generating his own leverage. He needed more chips on the table.
He considered his upcoming slate. 'Should I accelerate the *Twilight* series? What about acquiring the rights to *Final Destination*? No, New Line Cinema had already started filming that project.'
'What about *Saw*? It was cheap, highly profitable, and easy to produce.'
Marvin drummed his fingers against the leather armrest. There was no reason to panic.
No reason to twist the timeline into knots over a single obstacle.
He had already mapped out the road ahead long ago.
Brick by brick. Deal by deal.
He would build his empire the slow way—the lasting way. By the time he sat across the negotiating table from Hollywood's leading ladies, he wouldn't be asking anyone for favors.
He would be the one setting the terms. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
'Well... fuck it. I'll stick to the original plan.'
The plan had been taking shape in his mind for years, and so far, every piece was falling into place.
There was no reason to abandon it now.
….
…
..
.
July had wrapped New York in a blanket of heat. The asphalt had softened beneath the day's relentless sun, and the humid air clung to the skin like a second shirt. Even at half past eight, daylight refused to give up completely, leaving streaks of orange and deep violet stretched across the western sky.
The Meatpacking District still belonged to its old life.
The luxury hotels and designer boutiques of the future hadn't arrived yet. Warehouses lined the streets, many of them hiding illegal parties behind rusted loading doors. Music drifted through cracked windows, mixing with the smell of hot concrete, cigarette smoke, and spilled liquor on the damp cobblestones.
A black town car rolled to a stop outside an unmarked steel door on West 13th Street.
Nothing identified the place.
No glowing sign.
No velvet ropes.
Only a broad-shouldered bouncer in a vintage Versace shirt, his silk already darkened with sweat, checking names from a clipboard.
The rear door opened.
Marvin stepped out into the heavy evening air.
He hadn't bothered changing after a long fun date with Scarlett. He still wore dark Levi's, well-worn Doc Martens, and a cream-and-burgundy vintage bowling shirt. Freshly pressed that morning, it now carried the faint creases of a long day that had refused to slow down and smell unique to her.
At not quite fourteen, he should have looked out of place among expensive cars, warehouse parties, and New York's nightlife.
Instead, he walked with quiet confidence, his eyes calmly taking in the street, the entrance, and the people moving around it, as though he had already pictured the entire evening in his head before leaving the hotel.
His phone vibrated against his hip. *I'm outside.*
Marvin lifted his head.
There she was.
Paris Hilton stood near the edge of the parking lot beneath the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp. A cigarette rested loosely between two elegant fingers, though she seemed more interested in holding it than actually smoking it.
She looked completely different from the woman he'd met only weeks earlier.
Gone was the flashy party-girl overly explicit wardrobe.
Instead, she wore a sleek, sleeveless blush-pink slip dress that skimmed her body with a subtle, liquid drape. The neckline plunged just enough to hint at elegance and allure, while the hem grazed mid-thigh, revealing a flash of toned leg with every step. Nude strappy Manolo Blahnik sandals elongated her silhouette, and her freshly highlighted blonde hair was pulled into a sleek, high ponytail secured with a velvet ribbon. A single strand of pearls rested delicately against her collarbone, adding a touch of classic sophistication to the overall effect.
It was such an unexpected look that, if someone had shown the outfit to the Paris of a month ago, she probably would have laughed and asked who it belonged to. Now, she wore it with effortless confidence, looking more like old-money Manhattan than the socialite who had recently been photographed dancing on nightclub tables.
The moment she spotted him, the cigarette slipped from her fingers and landed unnoticed on the pavement.
She never looked down.
Instead, she broke into a run, hurrying across the parking lot toward him with all the enthusiasm she could no longer keep contained. The delighted sound that escaped her was somewhere between a laugh and an excited cry, carrying equal parts relief and theatrical flair.
"Oh my God, baby!"
Before Marvin had even managed to shut the car door, Paris launched herself at him.
Her arms flew around his neck, hugging him so tightly she nearly knocked him back a step. She smelled of Chanel No. 5, hairspray, the vanilla body lotion she always wore, and a scent that belongs uniquely to her. Her cheek pressed against his in the thick July heat.
"Oh my God," she breathed, her voice dropping into that familiar breathy whisper. "I am, like, so happy you came."
She pulled back just enough to look at him, though she still refused to let go. "Seriously, I was totally freaking out."
Marvin smiled. "Were you?"
"Yes!" She nodded emphatically. "I kept thinking you were gonna call and be like..." She deepened her voice in a terrible imitation of him. "'Paris, this is ridiculous. I'm not coming to one of your crazy stupid parties.'"
She wrinkled her nose. "And then I'd have died. Literally."
Marvin laughed, his hands settling naturally at her waist to steady her on her heels. "You really think I'd do that?"
"I didn't think you would..." She bit her lip. "...I just got nervous."
For a brief moment, all the playful confidence disappeared. "I really wanted you here."
Marvin rested his forehead lightly against hers.
"So why wouldn't I come?"
He smiled. "You invited me."
"Besides..." He gave her an amused look. "It's not like showing up to one of Paris Hilton's parties is a crime or something."
Paris let out a relieved laugh.
"See?"
She squeezed him one more time.
"I knew you were gonna make me feel better."
She'd buried her face against his neck again before easing back just enough to look at her.
His eyes drifted down the quiet street. No photographers hiding behind parked cars. No flashes. No crowd waiting to turn the evening into tomorrow's gossip.
Just warm summer air and the distant sound of traffic. Marvin looked back at her with an amused smile.
"Maybe it is a crime."
Paris blinked. "What?"
He gestured toward the empty street. "Paris Hilton throwing a party...and there isn't a single paparazzo in sight."
He shook his head dramatically. "I'm starting to think you've broken the laws of nature."
Paris burst into laughter. "I know!"
She clapped once, clearly pleased with herself.
"It's, like, the first time ever. I told everyone this was private. Like... actually private. No photographers. No gossip people. No random magazine guys sneaking in."
She smiled proudly. "And it worked."
Then her expression softened. "...I wanted tonight to be different."
She glanced down before looking back up at him. "I didn't really want to share you yet."
The words came out quieter than she'd intended. She tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
"I kind of thought..." She laughed nervously.
"...maybe you'd rather not be seen with me."
"You know..." She gave a tiny shrug. "Because of... you know. Everything."
Marvin frowned gently. "Why would I care about that?"
Paris searched his face. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek.
****
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