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*****
Marvin lay casually across his bed, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. He busied himself on the phone.
"Congratulations, Marvin!" Scarlett's voice crackled through the speaker. It brimmed with a breathless excitement cutting straight through the static. "The second-youngest Oscar nominee for Best Supporting Actor in the history of the Academy! Wow. You're only thirteen years old, Marvin. If you win this, no one will ever break that record. I'm pretty sure you aren't just breaking records anymore; you force them to invent entirely new categories just to contain you."
Marvin smiled. The Incubus soul within him purred in satisfaction at the unadulterated adoration in her tone. "Thank you, Scarlett," Marvin replied. His velvet voice hummed low and soothing, effortlessly crossing the distance between them. "But honestly, I just did my job. The script demanded a ghost, and I simply gave them one. The Academy just reacts to gravity."
He smoothly shifted the focus away from his own monument of success, turning the spotlight entirely onto her. "But enough about my golden statues. How does LA treat you, Scarlett? Have you secured any new projects since *The Horse Whisperer* wrapped?"
A pause lingered on the line. The bright excitement in her voice evaporated, replaced by a frustrated sigh.
"No," Scarlett groaned. The frustration of a teenager navigating the Hollywood machine bled into her tone. "It's a complete disaster, Marvin."
"Talk to me," he asked gently. He shifted onto his side, giving her his attention.
"I've... I've just been growing way too fast recently," Scarlett confessed. Her raspy voice dropped into a self-conscious register. "And it ruins so many casting opportunities for me. The studios don't know what to do with me. I'm fourteen, but casting directors look at me like I'm a twenty-something trapped in a teenager's casting call. My chest is getting bigger and bigger, Marvin. It reaches the point where I don't fit into the standard, innocent child-star wardrobes anymore. It genuinely affects my center of balance when I walk, and it makes every audition incredibly awkward. The directors stare, the producers whisper..."
She took a shaky breath. "I seriously consider consulting a doctor to get reduction surgery. Just to make them smaller. To make me fit back into the mold they want."
*"No!"*
The response tore from Marvin's throat with a sudden loud sound.
He threw the heavy comforter off his legs and jumped out of the bed. His bare feet hit the floor with a sharp *thud*. The magic of the Incubus flared within his chest. A possessive, territorial heat rushed through his veins at the mere thought of her altering her physical form especially those he didn't want that to happen in his world.
Scarlett actually laughed on the other end of the line—a surprised, slightly breathless sound. "Marvin, my god, why do you feel so nervous? You yelled so loud the phone actually buzzed. It's just a cosmetic procedure. It's not like *you're* the one getting the surgery."
"Scarlett, listen to me," Marvin said. His voice dropped into an almost Shakespearean register of romantic words. He paced toward the glass window, looking out at the glittering lights of Los Angeles. "I feel nervous because I am terrified you will foolishly ruin a divine gift. You talk about taking a scalpel to God's perfect masterpiece. A masterpiece older women in this miserable, plastic city literally spend hundreds of thousands of dollars and risk their lives on operating tables trying to replicate."
"God's perfect masterpiece?" Scarlett teased. Her voice softened, clearly flattered but pretending not to understand the depth of his compliment. "Do you talk about my acting, Marvin, or do you talk about my boobs?"
"I talk about every single inch of you, Scarlett," Marvin admitted without a single second of hesitation. His words dripped with an intoxicating sincerity. "Yes, I love them. Just like I love your brilliant mind, your husky voice, and your ambition. Doing any kind of surgical alteration to shrink yourself down to fit the pathetic, narrow-minded expectations of a lazy casting director... it becomes a crime against art. To me, it would feel exactly like watching someone kill a beautiful part of you I deeply love."
The romantic weight of his declaration hung in the silence of the phone line. He didn't speak to her like a fellow child star; he spoke to her like a seasoned lover worshipping his muse.
"Marvin..." Scarlett whispered, her breath hitching audibly.
"You are not meant to squeeze into the mold of a perpetual, innocent child star, Scarlett," Marvin continued. His Incubus charm wrapped around her across the miles like a warm, velvet blanket. "You transition into a woman. A breathtaking leading lady. The world simply remains too incredibly slow and stupid to catch up to you yet. Do not punish yourself for their lack of vision."
"But Marvin, I almost lost my chance at a major indie role just last week because of them," Scarlett argued, though her voice lost its defensive edge, turning soft and sad.
"The director said I looked 'too mature, too distracting' for the lens. And the worst part is, I haven't grown a single inch taller in six months. I'm stuck at this height, but my body keeps developing into these curves. I feel completely out of proportion. I feel like I'm losing my career before it even truly begins."
Her exceptional acting skills couldn't hide the genuine, aching vulnerability in her words. She stood as a girl trapped in the awkward chrysalis of adolescence, terrified her window of opportunity slammed shut.
Marvin didn't call her out on her tears. Instead, he smiled—a confident protective smile she couldn't see, but could feel radiating through the phone.
"Scarlett. Breathe," Marvin commanded softly. "Listen to the sound of my voice."
He waited until he heard her take a slow, shaky breath on the other end of the line. "As long as you promise me, right here and now, that you will not let a surgeon's knife anywhere near your beautiful body," Marvin said, his tone shifting from romantic to authority, "as long as you promise not to hurt your 'babies'... I will personally fix this for you."
"Fix it?" she sniffled lightly. "How?"
"I will write you a script," Marvin declared, the weight of his success and his Oscar-nominated genius backing the promise. "I will write a masterpiece tailored to your exact voice, your exact body, and your exact, beautiful soul. A film not trying to hide your maturity, but celebrating the complex transition you undergo. I will write a role demanding a woman, not a child. Consider it a thank-you gift for remaining exactly as you are."
"Really?" Scarlett's voice instantly lit up, the sadness burning away, replaced by a soaring, dizzying excitement. "You would do that for me, Marvin? With your schedule? With the work you already hold?"
"For you, Scarlett?" Marvin murmured, tracing a finger against the cold glass of his bedroom window. "I would rewrite the stars if you asked me to. A script serves as the least I can do to ensure the world sees the brilliant woman I see."
"Oh, my god. You're amazing, Marvin," Scarlett gushed, the unfiltered emotion completely overwhelming her defenses. The relief of being seen, validated, and protected by the most powerful boy in Hollywood melted her heart. "I love you. I honestly love you so incredibly much!"
"I love you too, Scarlett," Marvin replied, his voice a low, vibrating promise in the dark.
….
…
..
.
---
They had not seen each other in five months and three weeks.
To a teenager, nearly half a year of physical separation felt like a death sentence to a burgeoning romance. But Marvin and Beyoncé were not ordinary teenagers, and their connection was not built on the fragile, fleeting foundations of high school proximity. It forged in the fire of shared, midnight phone calls, and a lust demon's gravitational pull.
Marvin returned from his tour of Asia, and the months between October and February proved a whirlwind of organized chaos. Uncle Frank's wedding, the promotional tour for *The Sixth Sense*, the global launch of the *Harry Potter* novel, and than the early work on *Let The Right One In* filled his schedule.
Through it all, his music didn't just dominate the culture; it dictated it.
When *Unstoppable* dropped in late November, it delivered a massive sonic whiplash to the global audience. It was a complete, unapologetic departure from the sweeping, orchestral classical ballads that had defined his early reign. Instead, the world was hit with a heavy, thumping, electropop-infused empowerment anthem. It entered the Billboard Hot 100 at number three on anticipation alone, seized the number one spot by its second week, and anchored itself there, for five consecutive weeks.
The track was pure kinetic energy. The motivational lyrics about inner strength and unbreakable resilience, woven together with Marvin's soaring, gravity-defying vocal range, created an inescapable phenomenon. But it wasn't just the production; it was the subtle, magic bleeding through his voice.
When Marvin sang the bridge—declaring himself a *"Porsche with no brakes"*—the Incubus aura laced into the frequencies didn't just make listeners feel inspired. It injected them with a phantom adrenaline, an intoxicating, invincible high that rewired their immediate desires.
And in the corporate boardrooms of Stuttgart, Germany, the executives at Porsche AG watched their quarterly graphs break usual sales.
Within days of the song's release, the luxury automotive market experienced a shift. Dealerships across the globe were suddenly flooded. The demographic of buyers fractured and expanded, pulling in not just traditional high-net-worth enthusiasts, but a wave of young, newly minted millionaires, heirs from rich families, athletes, and everyday consumers stretching their credit to the limit. They didn't just want a sports car; they wanted the physical manifestation of the invincibility Marvin was selling. The crest of the Stuttgart horse was suddenly the most coveted symbol on earth.
Porsche instantly recognized the architect of their windfall. Following frantic internal debates, they dispatched their highest-level fixers to contact Jeff.
They arrived at the negotiating table desperate to lock the prodigy down. Their proposal was unprecedented: they wanted to secure a global spokesperson contract, to be officially activated the moment Marvin turned sixteen. In the interim, they offered a blank-check collaboration clause. They were prepared to fully fund the automotive logistics for any movie or music video he ever stepped foot in, completely free of charge, simply for the privilege of letting the Porsche logo bask in his halo.
Marvin read the multi-million dollar proposal and flatly declined the title.
He knew the true value of his brand; tying himself exclusively to one corporate entity as a "spokesperson" was beneath him, and it would restrict his future leverage. However, he was far too pragmatic to leave millions of dollars of production assets on the table. Music videos required extravagant fleets, and renting exotic cars always affects budget sheets.
With a few conversations with Max and Jeff, Marvin struck down the personal exclusivity clauses and drafted a counter-maneuver.
He passed the blueprint to his legal team with a singular directive: restructure the deal from a personal endorsement into a corporate pipeline for Max Martin and the newly forming MV studio infrastructure.
The ink on the final contracts had not yet dried, and Porsche's corporate lawyers were still sweating through a frantic back-and-forth over screen-time metrics and liability clauses. But the endgame was already set in stone. Once the signatures were finally locked in, Marvin was poised to secure a limitless, free supply of world-class supercars for his production company's future visual spectacles. It was a brilliant pivot in the making—a calculated move to extract maximum utility from an automotive titan, all while ensuring his own sled image remained entirely untouchable.
Meanwhile, *'My Heart Will Go On'* officially crossed the Diamond certification threshold in December—ten million units sold in the United States alone, flanked by platinum certifications in forty-three different countries. James Cameron's *Titanic* crossed 1.9 billion dollars worldwide. Marvin's December prediction of 1.6 billion suddenly became the most cited example of industry prophecy in the entertainment press while everyone forgot how viciously they mocked those numbers.
And then, the Grammy nominations arrived in January.
Four nominations for the 41st Annual Grammy Awards on February 24th. *Record of the Year* *Song of the Year* *Best Male Pop Vocal Performance* *Best Song Written for a Motion Picture or Television* Despite the blinding flashbulbs and the boardroom wars, Marvin's focus never strayed from the girls.
He sent Beyoncé her combined Christmas and New Year's gift in late December. It represented the curated gift of someone knowing her intimately well—someone knowing exactly what she would receive with genuine pleasure rather than polite, manufactured gratitude. He sent a vintage vinyl collection of the greatest female R&B and soul vocalists: Aretha Franklin, Etta James, Diana Ross. It provided the foundational music she casually, passionately mentioned in a late-night phone call back in October.
Tucked inside the crate of records sat a letter. Handwritten. Three full pages. It proved the kind of letter containing raw, real things rather than performed teenage sentimentality.
She called him the day after Christmas. The call lasted two hours, filled with laughter, and a breathless, humming silence communicating more than words ever could.
In return, she sent him a New Year's gift to his estate on January 2nd. It was a beautiful book on classical musical theory she hunted down in an obscure Houston bookstore.
****
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