Chapter 61: Mariah's Invitation
William lifted his head again, easing back into the chair. There was something steady in his gaze now—an awareness that seemed to stretch beyond the room.
"Miss Voss, I've always believed one thing: history never stands still. There are no eternal laws in this world."
His long fingers tapped lightly against his knee.
"Yes, I am challenging a mature commercial system. But remember—every meaningful transformation requires someone to take the first step. Even if that step risks landing on empty air."
He paused, the corner of his mouth curving faintly, as though he were looking past the camera—past the interview itself—into Hollywood's unwritten future.
"And I'm not alone. Beneath the surface of this industry, there are others who want to break the chains, who believe cinema should return to directors rather than remain in the grip of producers.
I'm simply the one who opened the window first—so people can see the storm gathering outside."
He held Voss's gaze, voice firm and unwavering.
"So whether Before I Go to Sleep becomes a 'box office triumph' or a so-called 'commercial disappointment,' it will still represent something necessary for a Hollywood that's grown complacent.
The question isn't the cost of failure.
It's the arrival of a new era."
Even after everything he'd said earlier, Voss felt the impact again. Young men publicly challenging Hollywood's order were rare.
But instinct kept her grounded. She wasn't here for ideology—she was here for headlines.
Controversy. Debate. Exposure.
She could already see it: once this aired, both her name and William's would dominate the front page of The Hollywood Reporter.
Her instincts for news value had never failed her.
The segment on "director-centered filmmaking" wrapped up, and the interview drew to a close.
Voss stood and shook his hand, her eyes sharp with professional calculation.
"William, thank you for the explosive material. If my instincts are right, you're not just going to succeed—you're going to stir the entire industry."
William laughed, confident and unforced.
"Let's hope that day comes sooner rather than later."
---
After parting with Voss, William headed toward the parking structure, Galina close behind him.
In the shadowed openness of the underground lot, a familiar silhouette stood out against the dim concrete.
Mariah hadn't left.
She leaned casually against her black Bentley, arms folded, as if she had been waiting for some time.
"Mariah? You're still here?" William asked, surprised.
The future diva held a cigarette between her fingers. Smoke curled upward, framing eyes that carried a trace of mock reproach.
She tilted her head, voice soft but edged.
"Darling… did you forget something? You promised me a gift."
William smacked his forehead theatrically.
"My terrible memory. I nearly forgot."
He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a neatly folded stack of papers.
He handed them to her.
The original manuscript of "All I Want for Christmas Is You."
Mariah glanced down at the thin sheets, lips parting slightly in skepticism.
"That's it?"
But the moment her fingers brushed the page—and her eyes traced the opening bars on the staff—her languid expression froze.
The casual boredom vanished.
Her pupils sharpened.
She began humming under her breath almost instinctively:
"I don't want a lot for Christmas…"
The melody caught instantly. Bright. Infectious. Effortlessly joyful.
By the second line, her posture had changed completely.
She wasn't leaning anymore.
She was standing upright—alert.
The rhythm pulsed naturally in her chest, as if it had always belonged there.
Her gaze snapped back up to William.
"…You wrote this?"
There was no teasing in her tone now. No diva posture. Just raw recognition.
William gave a small shrug. "Think of it as an early Christmas present."
Mariah looked down at the sheet again, scanning the hook, the chord progression, the structure of the chorus.
The genius of it wasn't complexity.
It was inevitability.
The kind of melody that didn't ask permission to exist.
It simply was.
Her voice, low and almost reverent now:
"This… this will never die."
William didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
As a top-tier diva, musical notes seemed alive in Mariah's eyes. Almost unconsciously, she lowered her voice and again started humming along with the score.
In the stillness of the parking garage, that unmistakably bright melody flowed through the air.
William stood quietly beside her, listening.
The pitch. The phrasing. The effortless handling of the melisma.
It was nearly identical to the version that, in his memory, would dominate global charts for decades.
He couldn't help but marvel inwardly—no wonder she's Mariah. Some people were simply born with music poured into them by God Himself.
A few minutes later, Mariah slowly lifted her head from the sheet music. Her eyes were filled with disbelief and suspicion.
"William. Be honest. Where did you get this song?"
The feeling was unsettling.
She had never heard it before—of that she was certain. And yet, staring at the lyrics and melody, she felt an inexplicable familiarity.
As if the tune had always existed somewhere deep within her soul—waiting for the right moment to break free.
And somehow, William had captured it perfectly.
"I wrote it," he replied calmly. "So? Does the gift suit you?"
His expression didn't flicker. He accepted the miracle as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Mariah studied him like he was some rare, dangerous creature.
"You wrote the lyrics and composed it? On your own?"
William shrugged, a faintly mysterious smile playing on his lips.
"Who else could understand your voice that well?"
She inhaled sharply. Her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly.
Could this man truly see into her heart?
Or was there something deeper—some strange resonance between them that defied logic?
Mariah was a devout Christian. She believed in divine timing, in inspiration that descended like revelation.
At this moment, the manuscript in her hands no longer felt like mere craftsmanship.
It felt like a message delivered through him.
Her gaze burned with an intensity that bordered on fanaticism—so fierce it sent a chill down William's spine.
"Fine," she declared after a deep breath. "For the sake of this gift, I'll overlook your earlier arrogance."
Then her tone shifted—firm, commanding.
"But now you're coming with me. Immediately."
Before he could respond, the diva shed every trace of restraint. Her slender yet surprisingly strong fingers clamped around his wrist like steel, and she practically dragged him toward her black Bentley.
Nearby, Galina stiffened instantly, her body coiled and ready to strike.
William stopped her with a single look.
He gave a subtle shake of his head and allowed himself to be ushered into the car.
Once settled into the plush leather seat, he rolled down the window.
"Don't worry," he told Galina. "Just follow us."
Only then did she ease her stance, giving a silent nod.
---
"Your bodyguard's interesting," Mariah remarked as she gripped the steering wheel with practiced ease, glancing through the rearview mirror at the car tailing them.
"She's not just decoration."
Mariah didn't know anything about combat, but the predatory edge Galina had displayed moments ago had left an impression.
"I don't keep ornaments around me," William replied, reclining into the soft leather.
His tone was casual—but firm.
"If I only wanted something pleasing to look at, Hollywood has no shortage of those. There's no reason for me to keep a bodyguard who might bite."
Mariah laughed, amusement dancing in her voice.
"Oh? So you're saying the women around you are all… practical assets?"
She shot him a sideways glance, playful but probing.
William smiled faintly.
"I'm saying I prefer people who are useful."
Mariah's laughter deepened, though something thoughtful flickered behind her eyes.
Useful.
The word lingered between them.
And in her lap, resting like a sacred script, was a song that would one day become immortal.