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******
Marvin smirked, his unnervingly handsome features radiating a dark, unapologetic arrogance. "I am not a day trader, Amy. I am an investor. And now, you manage an investor."
He crossed his arms, looking completely relaxed in the face of her shock. "Let's see exactly how well you adapt to a shifting system. If you swim, I will promote you, expand your capital, and fund your acting ambitions. If you sink... oh well. I suppose I'll have to ask my mother to find someone else." He shrugged carelessly, the threat veiled in velvet, before continuing, "Now, as I was saying regarding the currency markets..."
Amy sat perfectly still on the luxurious couch.
She had a sinking, terrifying, yet entirely thrilling feeling that she was not working for a child at all. She was working for a ruthless, brilliant corporate manager trapped in an eleven-year-old's body. Or, she realized with a sudden spike of intuition, maybe Marvin was just actively taking revenge on her for interrupting his intense, creative brainstorming session with Elaine and Natasha? She would probably never know for sure. He was a master of psychological warfare.
With a long, resigned sigh that carried the weight of her entire Midwestern upbringing, Amy Adams took out a fresh piece of paper from her notepad, clicked her ballpoint pen, and looked the prodigy dead in the eye.
"Can you repeat exactly what books and what brokerage steps you'll need?" Amy asked, her voice steady and entirely determined. "So I can note it all down perfectly."
Marvin's smile widened into something genuinely warm, his Incubus core humming with approval at her unbreakable resolve.
"Certainly, Amy," Marvin said. "Let's begin with the mechanics of a call option..."
---
The final days of the London shoot moved with a blistering, almost feverish momentum.
Under the massive tungsten lights of Shepperton Studios, Marvin wasn't just hitting his marks; he was ascending. With every passing setup, his performance as the aristocratic Baker James seemed to gain a terrifying, microscopic precision. The layers of vulnerability, rigid boarding-school posture, and quiet desperation he brought to the camera were so profoundly authentic that even a veteran like Natasha occasionally found herself momentarily knocked out of her own rhythm.
During a particularly grueling emotional sequence in the drawing room, Natasha actually dropped a line, her eyes widening as she stared at the eleven-year-old boy. She had to hold up a hand, asking for a reset. "I'm so sorry, Nancy," she breathed, genuinely flustered. "He just... he gave me a look that completely broke my heart. I lost my footing."
Sitting in the video village, Nancy was secretly, ecstatically delighted. She watched the playback monitors with the greedy satisfaction of a gold prospector who had just struck the motherlode. This film was going to be a classic.
It was going to cement her directorial career, and it was going to launch her nephew into the absolute stratosphere.
Three days later, the First Assistant Director called the final "Cut!" on the British soundstages. The crew erupted into applause, popping cheap champagne in paper cups. All the London interiors were officially in the can.
The remaining schedule required them to fly back to Los Angeles to seamlessly stitch the Californian exterior shots together.
But before they could cross the Atlantic, Marvin had a deal to make.
The next morning, Nancy and Marvin stepped out of a chauffeured town car in front of a sleek, glass-fronted building in Soho. This was the headquarters of EMI Records, and the operational base of Grant Brook—the senior music producer highly recommended by Diana herself.
Marvin was dressed in a sharp, tailored navy blazer, looking every inch the young prodigy, while Nancy wore a formidable Armani power suit. They walked into the expansive lobby with the confidence of Hollywood royalty expecting a red carpet.
They did not get one.
"I'm terribly sorry, Ms. Meyers," the polished, nervously sweating receptionist said from behind the marble desk. "Mr. Brook is not in the building today. He had an urgent personal matter and had to step out to visit a friend in the country."
Nancy's formidable brow furrowed. "We confirmed this appointment with his executive assistant yesterday afternoon. He knew we were flying back to America."
"I... I deeply apologize for the inconvenience," the receptionist stammered, avoiding Nancy's piercing glare. "His schedule simply shifted."
Marvin didn't say a word. He placed a gentle hand on his aunt's arm, silently halting the explosion that was undoubtedly building in her chest. "Thank you for your time Ms.," Marvin said to the receptionist, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of anger. "Have a pleasant afternoon."
He led a seething Nancy back out through the revolving glass doors and into the damp London air.
"Unbelievable!" Nancy hissed the moment the heavy doors shut behind them. "Who does he think he is? We are handing him a guaranteed goldmine on a silver platter! He ghosts us to go visit a friend?"
"He didn't go visit a friend, Aunt Nancy," Marvin said, his ocean-blue eyes narrowing as he watched the London traffic blur past. He possessed an ancient, cynical understanding of how human power structures operated. "We confirmed the appointment. He knew exactly who was coming. It is entirely too coincidental."
"This man doesn't seem to want to see us at all," Marvin said, a dark, calculating frown touching his lips.
"No way," Nancy exclaimed in genuine surprise, stopping on the pavement. "We were directly introduced by Diana! She personally made the phone call for us. A recommendation from the Princess of Wales is a golden ticket in this country!"
"Perhaps it is because we were introduced by Sister Diana," Marvin's face darkened, the pieces rapidly falling into place.
Nancy, who had navigated the treacherous, backstabbing politics of Hollywood studio executives for decades, instantly caught his drift. Her eyes widened. "You mean... this snub isn't directed at us at all. It's directed at Diana."
"Exactly," Marvin nodded.
"Is it Prince Charles?" Nancy whispered, looking around as if the paparazzi were hiding in the bushes. "Or Camilla's social circle? Are they putting pressure on the establishment to freeze her out?"
"Who knows the exact mechanics of the British aristocracy?" Marvin sighed, opening the door to their waiting town car. "It could be direct pressure from Buckingham Palace, or it could simply be cowardly corporate executives distancing themselves from a woman who just dragged the monarchy through a highly publicized, scandalous divorce. Either way, Grant Brook decided that taking a meeting set up by the 'rebel princess' was too politically radioactive for his career."
Nancy slid into the leather backseat, her face flushed with indignation. "But what about your music releases, Marvin? If EMI won't touch it..."
"Aunt Nancy, please," Marvin chuckled, a sound entirely devoid of anxiety. "There's an ancient saying: 'Good wine needs no bush.' As long as my compositions are brilliant—and they are—why should I be afraid of not finding a distributor? Grant Brook is merely a producer with a rolodex. We are not some starving, desperate garage band begging for a handout."
He leaned back against the headrest, his confidence radiating through the car. "We are sitting on a billion-dollar inheritance. If EMI is too cowardly to take our calls, we will simply pivot. Any of the other major labels in Los Angeles or New York will welcome us with open arms and a blank check. Let Grant Brook play royal politics. We deal in capital."
Nancy looked at her nephew, the anger slowly draining from her face, replaced by a fierce, undeniable pride. "Yes. How could I forget my little shark is a terrifying genius? Let's go back to the hotel. He'll regret this."
Back at the Dorchester, Nancy's anger flared up again. The more she thought about the sheer disrespect of the snub, the more it stung. On a sudden, fiercely protective whim, she marched toward the suite door.
"I'm going upstairs," Nancy declared, grabbing her keycard. "I'm going to tell Diana exactly what her 'reliable contact' just did."
Marvin moved with startling speed, stepping in front of the door. "Aunt Nancy, stop. There is absolutely no need for that."
"He insulted us, Marvin!"
"He insulted her," Marvin corrected gently. "If you go up there and complain, you are only going to shatter the peace she is currently enjoying. You will remind her that her own country's establishment is actively turning their backs on her. It would only make things incredibly painful and difficult for Sister Diana. Let it go."
Before Nancy could argue, a soft, polite knock echoed on the wood right behind Marvin's back.
Marvin opened the door. Standing in the hallway was Diana herself, accompanied by her loyal maid, Mary. The former Princess of Wales looked radiant in a tailored, pale-pink Chanel suit, completely oblivious to the corporate treachery that had just occurred across town.
"Diana! What a wonderful surprise. Please, come in," Nancy pivoted instantly, forcing a bright, welcoming smile onto her face.
"I cannot stay long, Nancy, I have a fitting,"
Diana smiled warmly, stepping into the foyer.
"But I wanted to catch you before you flew back to America. I am hosting a major charity gala Evening for the North African hospital initiative. I would be absolutely thrilled if the two of you would attend as my personal guests."
Nancy's heart melted all over again. "We would be honored, Diana."
"Oh, wonderful!" Diana beamed. "And Marvin, you probably haven't had the chance to go see Grant Brook yet, have you? I actually called his office this morning to check in, and he mentioned he hadn't seen you. I've invited him to the gala as well, so I can formally introduce you two there!"
Marvin and Nancy exchanged a lightning-fast, highly communicative glance.
Brook had lied to Diana, too. He hadn't had the courage to tell the Princess of Wales that he was dodging her calls, making the situation infinitely more cowardly and hostile.
Without missing a beat, Marvin stepped forward, offering his most charming, aristocratic smile. "It is an absolute honor to accept your invitation, Sister. Aunt Nancy and I will definitely be there." He paused, tilting his head with polite curiosity. "If it isn't too much of an imposition, may I request an additional plus-one? I would like my secretary to accompany us and handle my scheduling."
"Your assistant? Of course, Marvin," Diana laughed, completely charmed by the eleven-year-old requesting staff access to a royal charity event. "The more the merrier."
After Diana swept out of the room to attend her fitting, the heavy mahogany door clicked shut.
Nancy turned slowly, looking intently at her nephew. Her eyes narrowed. "You requested a plus-one for Amy. You accepted an invitation to a room where the man who just ghosted us is going to be drinking champagne."
"I did," Marvin nodded innocently.
"You're not planning to cause a massive scene and ruin Diana's charity event, are you?" Nancy asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
Marvin raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his ocean-blue eyes gleaming with dark, predatory mischief. "Aunt Nancy. Am I that kind of person?"
Nancy sighed, rubbing her temples. "It looks like I need to call the airline. We are postponing our return to Los Angeles for a few days."
Thirty minutes later, Marvin walked into the ad-hoc production office set up in the adjoining suite.
Amy Adams was sitting at a glass desk, surrounded by massive stacks of financial textbooks, highlighted stock market printouts, and the daily shooting schedules. She was wearing a practical, oversized maroon sweater, her hair pulled up in a messy, focused bun. She was currently arguing with a grip over the radio about the wrap-party catering.
"Amy," Marvin said, stepping into the room.
Amy immediately muted the radio. "Yes, Boss? Did the EMI meeting run long? I didn't see you come back in."
"The meeting was entirely fictional," Marvin said casually, leaning against the edge of her desk. "However, our schedule for evening has drastically changed. We are attending a black-tie charity gala hosted by the Princess of Wales. You are accompanying me as my assistant."
Amy blinked. She looked at him, then down at her clipboard, then back up at him.
"A gala."
"Yes."
"Hosted by Princess Diana."
"Correct."
*****
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