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*****
"I am Marvin. Marvin Meyers," the boy replied, his flawless London accent ringing out like struck crystal, commanding the absolute silence of the surrounding executives. "Princess Diana graciously introduced me to your office. She had hoped that Mr. Grant Brook might take a moment to listen to my compositions. If you found them worthy, she believed you might assist me in producing an EP."
Grant Brook's face flushed a deep, ugly red.
Normally, Grant was a survivor. He was a coward, yes, but a highly rational one. The socially acceptable, career-saving move in this exact moment would be to offer a fake, apologetic smile, claim his secretary had mixed up the calendar, and promise to set up a meeting next week.
He opened his mouth to deliver that exact lie.
But as Marvin held his gaze, the Incubus reached into the invisible, pulsing currents of human emotion in him. Marvin didn't cast a blunt mind-control spell; he simply found the massive, festering reservoir of Grant's resentment, arrogance, and insecurity, and pulled. He stripped away the man's social filter, amplifying his toxic hubris to a deafening roar.
Instead of an apology, a surge of vile, uncontrollable arrogance welled up in Grant's chest, tearing through his vocal cords.
"Ha! Does Diana really look down on me that much?" Grant sneered, his voice echoing far too loudly across the polished marble floor. "Does she honestly think she can order a senior executive to make a pop record for a little kid like you? Heh. Do you know anything about the reality of the music industry? Do you think creating art is some kind of pathetic child's play? Haha!"
The circle of veteran music executives stared at Grant in absolute, paralyzed horror. The Decca executive's jaw literally dropped.
In stark contrast to Grant's sweating, red-faced outburst, Marvin stood in serene, devastating perfection. The boy didn't look humiliated; he looked down at the grown man with an expression of mild, clinical pity. The physical juxtaposition—the sweating, balding, frantic executive screaming at the impeccably dressed, impossibly handsome child—instantly turned the entire room against Grant. The surrounding billionaires and aristocrats felt a profound wave of disgust for the man's barbaric rudeness, and an immediate, overwhelming surge of protective goodwill toward the composed boy.
"Mr. Brook," Marvin said softly, his voice a cool, soothing balm that only highlighted Grant's hysteria. "Do you not think you are being a bit presumptuous?"
'Shut up!' Grant's internal monologue was screaming in absolute terror. 'Shut up! You are in public! You are at her gala! You cannot say these things out in the open!'
But it was entirely useless.
It was as if his brain had violently cleaved into two warring factions: "Reason" and "Madness."
And his vocal cords were no longer accepting commands from Reason. Driven by the suffocating weight of his amplified ego, the Madness seized the wheel. 'That's it,' the dark voice in his head roared. 'Say what's been bottled up! Don't hold back! Show them you aren't her lapdog!'
"Presumptuous?!" Grant barked, waving his glass of scotch, splashing amber liquid onto the floor. "Because I won't bow to a child? Do you actually consider yourself some kind of undiscovered musical genius? Are you the next Mozart? The next Beethoven?!"
Grant let out a cruel, barking laugh. "I don't know what bizarre relationship you have with Diana, but I am certainly not going to risk my multi-million-pound reputation to produce a vanity album for a little American brat just because she asked."
The Decca executive stepped forward, his face pale. 'Grant, for the love of God, stop talking.'
"Why should I?!" Grant shouted, entirely unhinged. "Diana is no longer a Royal Highness! She has absolutely no right to order me around like a servant!"
"So," Marvin noted, his voice dropping to a chilling, predatory whisper that somehow carried over the chaos. "That is why you coward away in your office and avoided us at the exact time we agreed to meet?"
"So what if it is?!" Grant spat, his chest heaving. "I don't answer to her anymore!"
"You could have simply refused." The voice cut through the heavy, suffocating tension of the circle like a blade of pure ice.
It wasn't Marvin.
Grant Brook froze, his blood instantly turning to liquid nitrogen. He slowly, agonizingly turned his head toward the edge of the circle.
The crowd of elites had parted like the Red Sea. Standing there, radiating an aura of absolute, freezing majesty, was Diana.
She was breathtaking. She wore a stunning, floor-length purple evening gown that was a masterclass in elegant defiance—tasteful enough for a royal charity event, yet tailored to flawlessly highlight her statuesque figure. Her long, iconic blonde hair was worn in an open, sweeping style, cascading over her bare shoulders.
She did not look like a tragic, weeping victim. She looked like a queen who had just caught a thief in her treasury.
"I never meant to order you, Grant," Diana said, her voice perfectly even, carrying a devastating, quiet disappointment. "I was simply discussing an opportunity with a man I mistakenly believed was a friend. If you did not want to take the meeting, you could have been a man and politely refused."
A massive, suffocating flicker of panic crossed Grant Brook's bloodshot eyes. 'Apologize,' Reason screamed from the prison of his mind. 'Drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness!'
But the Incubus magic, feeding on his terror and defensive pride, forced the Madness to double down.
"Diana, do you honestly think I didn't want to refuse?" Grant stammered, his face twisting into a hideous, defensive sneer. "You are no longer a Princess in the eyes of the Crown! Yes, the Queen allowed you to miraculously retain the title of 'Princess of Wales' for PR purposes, but everyone in this room knows you are entirely out in the cold! I just didn't want to officially offend the Queen by taking a meeting with her exiled daughter-in-law!"
A collective, horrified gasp echoed through the VIP section of the ballroom. Isabella Adjani covered her mouth in shock. The European banking heirs stared in absolute disbelief. To publicly insult the host of a charity gala was bad; to drag the Queen of England into a drunken, screaming meltdown was career suicide of the highest order.
'Damn it! What am I saying?!' Grant Brook's internal monologue wept, entirely trapped in the nightmare of his own making. 'Shut the hell up motherfucker!'
High above the ballroom floor, standing in the shadows of the velvet-roped mezzanine, Prince William gripped the mahogany railing so tightly his knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.
He had watched the entire exchange unfold with a sickening mixture of awe and fury.
'That absolute bastard,' William thought, his jaw locked in a rigid line of pure hatred. 'He actually dared to insult my mother to her face. I knew it. I knew he was a social-climbing snake the moment he stopped coming to Kensington Palace.'
William's blue eyes flashed with a dark, terrifying anger. But as he watched, a profound realization washed over him. Marvin hadn't thrown a single punch. He hadn't raised his voice. He had simply walked into the circle, stood there looking like an aristocratic angel, and allowed Grant Brook to completely and irreparably destroy his own life. Grant was committing social seppuku in front of the most powerful people in Europe.
Harry, standing beside his older brother, possessed none of William's restraint.
"That's it," Harry snarled, his face burning bright red. He grabbed the edge of the velvet rope, preparing to vault over it and charge down the stairs. "William, let go of me! I am going to go down there and punch his bloody teeth down his throat!"
"Not now, Harry!" William hissed, grabbing his brother by the collar of his suit jacket and hauling him back into the shadows of the alcove.
"He insulted Mum!" Harry yelled, struggling against his brother's grip.
"I know!" William snapped, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "But look at what is happening, you idiot! Look at the room!"
Harry stopped struggling, panting heavily, and looked down.
Grant Brook was entirely alone. The Decca executive and the concert promoter had physically backed away from him as if he were carrying a highly infectious disease. The paparazzi cameras at the edge of the ballroom were flashing in a blinding, relentless strobe effect, capturing the sweating, red-faced producer in the middle of his meltdown.
Security guards were already moving swiftly across the marble floor, their radios clicking.
"Marvin didn't just beat him up," William whispered, a profound, chilling respect dawning in his eyes as he looked at the American boy standing calmly beside his mother. "He annihilating him. Grant Brook will never work in the British music industry again."
Standing a few feet behind the princes, Amy adjusted her emerald gown, a small, fiercely proud smile touching her lips. Marvin had promised to manage the perimeter. He was doing exactly that. 'Just How was the question?'
"Mr. Grant Brook," Marvin's voice sliced through the heavy, suffocating silence of the Lancaster Ballroom. It was not the voice of an kid throwing a tantrum. It was a cold, perfectly modulated reprimand delivered with the terrifying authority of a seasoned aristocrat. "I believe you drastically overestimate your own value, while severely underestimating everyone else in this room. You have just publicly insulted Her Majesty the Queen, the Princess of Wales, and myself. Who do you think you are? Did you honestly believe we would retaliate against you for a simple scheduling refusal?"
Grant opened his mouth, his face a mottled, sweating mask of panic and rage, but before he could force a single word past his lips, a new presence completely dominated the circle.
"Heh. You simply felt that I was no longer useful to your ambitions, Grant," Diana continued, her voice echoing Marvin's icy composure. She stepped fully into the light of the crystal chandeliers, her purple evening gown flowing like liquid silk. "You decided that my requests had become a political burden. And that is fine. The industry is transactional."
She paused, her sea-blue eyes locking onto the trembling music producer with a gaze that held a decade of royal training. "But instead of being an honest man and simply declining the meeting, you chose to hide, lie, and then loudly slander me while drinking my champagne. It is the absolute worst choice you could have made. It is the act of a profound coward."
Diana lifted her chin, her posture radiating an untouchable, majestic grace. "From today onwards, you, Grant Brook, are no longer a friend of mine. Nor are you welcome in my circle," Diana spoke in a voice clear and loud enough that the surrounding ring of European executives, billionaires, and reporters heard every single, devastating syllable.
"Well said, Sister," Marvin's voice rang out, stepping seamlessly to her side, presenting a united front.
He then turned his deep, ocean-blue eyes back to the hyperventilating producer. "Mr. Brook. Since you clearly look down on my youth, and since you are so entirely convinced that I am incapable of producing music worthy of your precious 'genius,' how about we settle this like gentlemen? Let us make a wager."
'Reject him!' The desperate, screaming voice of "Reason" clawed at the inside of Grant's skull. 'Reject the kid, apologize to Diana, and walk out the doors right now! Haven't you embarrassed yourself enough for one lifetime?!'
But the rational mind was completely severed from the vocal cords. Marvin's Incubus magic was a subtle, invisible vice gripping Grant's darkest insecurities. The "Madness"—the bloated, fragile ego of a man terrified of losing his status—surged forward, utterly refusing to back down in front of the most powerful people in Europe.
"What wager?" Grant sneered, his lip curling arrogantly, though his hands shook so violently he had to set his scotch glass down on a passing waiter's tray.
"I am going to perform one of my compositions right now, on that stage," Marvin proposed, his voice smooth as velvet, commanding the absolute attention of the room. "If I fail to move this room—if my music is truly the 'child's play' you claim it to be—I will publicly apologize to you, admit my music is trash, and Ms. Diana will donate an additional one million pounds to this hospital charity on my behalf."
*****
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