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******
Frank paused, letting the sheer magnitude of the math settle between them.
"We are in the late 90s, Marvin. One hundred and five million worldwide for a live-action family film, helmed by a first-time director, carrying an unknown child lead? On the budget of 15 million. That is a seismic anomaly." Frank shook his head in disbelief. "That would not be a small thing. You would be entering the elite tier of bankable leading men."
"It is a highly acceptable baseline," Marvin replied smoothly, his ocean-blue eyes completely devoid of childlike excitement. "But the theatrical run is only one pillar of the architecture. Tell me, Uncle Frank... what is the chatter regarding the album? It has been four days."
Frank smiled, pulling a folded piece of paper from his jacket—a printout he had bribed a contact at Columbia Records to fax him earlier that morning.
"I was hoping you'd ask," Frank grinned. "The lead single, I Need Your Happiness, officially entered the Billboard Hot 100 at number thirty-one on this week's chart."
Marvin's perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch.
"For a purely vocal and instrumental debut," Frank emphasized, tapping the paper, "with absolutely zero prior radio presence, and an artist identity that was under a strict corporate embargo until six days ago? Mottola's team called it an aggressively strong entry. Their internal benchmark for a debut single in this bizarre, classical-pop crossover category was breaking the top fifty. You cleared it with miles to spare."
"And the album itself? Marvin 1?"
"First-week projections are still actively forming," Frank explained, shifting into full industry analysis mode. "Four days simply isn't enough time for a complete SoundScan count to finalize across the Midwest and Southern territories. But the pre-orders were massively strong, and the first two days of physical CD sales at retail giants like Tower Records and Sam Goody were tracking 40% above Columbia's highest predictive model." He paused. "They will have a much clearer, finalized picture by Monday morning when the weekend receipts clear."
Marvin considered this, his mind rapidly mapping the global territories. "What about Europe?"
"The UK is moving much faster than the US, which Tommy expected," Frank read it.
"Vocal arrangements without heavy, synthesized instrumentation travel incredibly well over there. The physical CD-single market is still robust in Britain in a way it isn't quite here anymore. Early chart tracking has the lead single securely entering the top forty on the UK Official Singles Chart. Final position confirms Sunday."
Frank looked down at his notes. "France and Germany both have early, organic radio pick-up. Small, independent stations and specialist programming, but it is entirely organic. Columbia hasn't paid a single dime in payola for it yet."
"And Asia?" Marvin pressed, his voice a smooth, demanding purr. He had explicitly designed his multi-platform assault to conquer the East before the impending financial crisis.
"The first shipment sold through completely in two days in Tokyo. The Japanese distributor has already panic-reordered," Frank said, shaking his head.
The faintest trace of something crossed Marvin's flawless expression—it wasn't quite human satisfaction, but something significantly quieter, darker, and infinitely more precise than that. It was the thrill of the hunt executing perfectly.
"Columbia's international division flagged it immediately," Frank noted. "They used the exact same retail relationships and supply chains they built for the Kung Fu Panda translations. It's the exact same audience, just a different product. The synergy is terrifying. The sales are looking historically good."
Frank lowered the paper, folding it back into his pocket. He looked at his impossibly handsome, impeccably dressed eleven-year-old nephew standing bathed in the California sun.
"Four days," Frank whispered, genuine, unadulterated awe in his voice. "You built a global reach in four days."
"Four days," Marvin agreed softly, a devastating, ancient smirk finally curving his lips. "It is a promising start. But we have only just begun to play the game."
Frank let out a bark of disbelieving laughter, shaking his head. "That's fantastic. My little nephew isn't just a genius. He's a monster."
Frank chuckled, swirling the last few drops of his iced drink. The sheer, terrifying magnitude of his nephew's success was still settling into his playboy brain..
"By the way," Frank said, his tone shifting from corporate awe to a more familiar, pleading uncle. "Could you possibly spare an album for me? Preferably signed, as a highly exclusive souvenir? I know it sounds ridiculous that I haven't bought one yet, but I have been entirely consumed with keeping Kris happy and flying across the Pacific."
Frank paused, pointing a finger at his own temple. "And you're probably wondering why a supposedly clueless playboy like me has Columbia Records' internal tracking numbers practically memorized. The old man—your grandfather in Montana—demanded a full, comprehensive audit of your recent success. I've been secretly compiling the data for him two days. He wanted to see exactly how his favorite grandson is currently dominating the globe. But don't worry. Once this wedding chaos settles down, your loyal uncle promises to buy a hundred physical copies just to boost your SoundScan numbers."
Marvin smiled, a slow, knowing expression. He appreciated the unspoken loyalty of the Heath family patriarch keeping a watchful, protective eye on his work from afar.
"Consider it done, Uncle Frank," Marvin replied smoothly. "I will have Amy pull a pristine vinyl pressing from the internal for you."
"Perfect. Oh, and one more thing," Frank added, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. "Your Kung Fu Panda book. You know, Kris didn't come to America entirely alone. She brought her little sister along for the trip. The kid is absolutely obsessed with your novel. She's read it three times. Could you possibly sign a copy for her if she comes to the estate tomorrow?"
Marvin raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "You failed to mention an additional guest for the dinner. My mother despises unexpected logistical variables."
"What? Didn't I mention the sister?" Frank groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I must have completely forgotten in the panic of the announcement. I'll tell Linda later, once she's calmed down a bit and had a glass of wine."
Frank stepped closer, his playboy instincts suddenly overriding his panic. A wicked, conspiratorial grin spread across his handsome face.
"Kris's little sister came to Los Angeles with her, and Marvin, let me tell you..." Frank lowered his voice, acting like a seasoned wingman. "Even though she is only fourteen years old, she is already growing into an stunning young woman. Her name is Miranda. Miranda Kerr."
Marvin's breath stopped for a microscopic fraction of a second. The name echoed in the sprawling archives of his soul transmigrated memory.
"She actually started modeling at the exact same age you are now—eleven," Frank continued, entirely oblivious to the sudden, dark shift in his nephew's aura. "And this year, she just won the massive Australian National Model Search competition to be the cover girl for Dolly magazine. She is a legitimate, rising star back in Sydney."
Frank nudged Marvin playfully with his elbow. "How about it, kid? Do you want your favorite uncle to play matchmaker for the two of you tomorrow night? I'm telling you, she is incredibly beautiful!"
Marvin slowly brought a hand up, gently stroking his chin. His ocean-blue eyes darkened, the pupils dilating slightly as the Incubus within him fully awakened to the scent of a new, highly coveted girl.
Miranda Kerr? The gears of his mind spun with terrifying speed. The Australian supermodel? The future runway icon? One of the most famous, beautiful women of the 21st century? It had to be her. The timeline, the geography, the Dolly magazine competition—the historical data matched flawlessly.
To the rest of the world, she was currently just a fourteen-year-old girl from Sydney visiting her older sister. But to the soul who had lived the future, she was an unpolished diamond of incalculable aesthetic value. She was a future queen of fashion, practically being hand-delivered to his front door by his clueless uncle.
Marvin lowered his hand, a smooth, devastatingly charming, and entirely predatory smile curving his perfect lips.
"There is absolutely no need to play matchmaker, Uncle Frank," Marvin purred, his voice vibrating with a dark, melodic anticipation. "But you can inform my mother that I am suddenly looking forward to tomorrow's family dinner with renewed, profound enthusiasm."
---
The Ritz-Carlton Hotel, Los Angeles.
High above the sprawling, smog-choked grid of the city, Frank had secured a sprawling, multi-room luxury penthouse suite for his future bride. It was a staggering monument to elite wealth, bathed in the warm, golden light of the California afternoon.
"Oh my god. Kris, you have to come look at this!"
Fourteen-year-old Miranda Kerr was practically vibrating with youthful, uncontainable adrenaline. With her strikingly pretty face, and a figure that was already blooming with the undeniable, statuesque proportions that had just won her a national modeling contract, she was excitedly touring every single square inch of the opulent suite.
She sprinted into the master bathroom, her voice echoing off the floor-to-ceiling Italian marble.
"Wow! This bathroom is bigger than our entire apartment in Sydney!" Miranda gasped, running her fingers over the gleaming fixtures. "Kris, seriously, are these faucets made of solid gold?"
Before her older sister could answer, Miranda was already darting out of the bathroom and sliding open the heavy glass doors to the terrace. The warm Pacific breeze caught her rich, brown hair. "My goodness, the view from this balcony is absolutely stunning! You can see the Hollywood sign!"
She ducked back inside, her bright eyes scanning a vanity table. "Sister, come and see! There are unopened, full-sized Lancôme cosmetics just sitting here in a basket. Can we take them with us when we leave, or will they charge Frank's credit card?"
Sitting on a plush, crushed-velvet sofa in the center of the living room, Kris Kerr didn't bother to answer. She was gripping a throw pillow tightly against her chest, her knuckles entirely white.
Kris was twenty-four, deeply in love, and currently paralyzed by a terrifying wave of high-society anxiety. She was agonizing over the impending, formal dinner with Frank's formidable older sister.
From everything Frank had inadvertently let slip over the past six months, Kris knew that Linda Meyers was the undisputed, terrifying matriarch of the family. She was a woman born into vast, generational land-wealth who had married into a billion-dollar capitalist empire. Frank deeply, fundamentally respected his sister's opinion. If Linda objected to a middle-class Australian graphic designer marrying the heir to the Heath fortune... Kris wasn't entirely sure their love could survive the fallout.
Kris shook her head, burying her face in her hands, desperately trying to stop the spiraling thoughts.
To be completely honest, before boarding the first-class flight to America, she had never truly comprehended the sheer, suffocating scale of her boyfriend's wealth. The private jets, the armed security details, this penthouse suite that likely cost thousands of dollars a night—it was an entirely different universe. Fortunately, Frank's parents in Montana had been surprisingly grounded, rugged people who didn't seem to care much about her lack of aristocratic background. She could only pray that his Los Angeles sister shared that same Western pragmatism.
"Sister, stop worrying. You're going to give yourself wrinkles," a cheerful voice chirped.
Miranda suddenly bounded over, practically throwing herself over the back of the velvet sofa to wrap her arms securely around Kris's neck in a warm, fiercely loyal hug.
"Frank is going to handle everything," Miranda comforted her, resting her chin on top of Kris's head. "Didn't he say that his sister is a deeply kind person underneath all the fancy clothes? How could someone who raised a genius kid oppose true love? This isn't the 1800s. They don't do arranged marriages anymore even if she had an arranged marriage!"
Kris let out a shaky sigh, reaching up to pat her younger sister's arm.
Looking at them together, the genetic jackpot of their lineage was glaringly obvious. The two sisters possessed faces that looked as if they had been struck from the exact same, flawless mold. Because of their unique blend of Scottish, French, and Irish heritage, they completely bypassed the typical, pale-skinned blonde stereotype of Australian beauties.
Instead, they shared rich, cascading brown hair and a healthy, sun-kissed, natural radiance. They both possessed wide, expressive eyes, perfectly round noses, and deep, incredibly charming dimples that appeared whenever they smiled.
However, Kris's face was slightly more elongated and mature, giving her a distinctly sexy, alluring, and sophisticated edge. Miranda, on the other hand, was still firmly in the twilight of her girlhood. Her features were rounder, exuding a breathtaking, doll-like cuteness. Yet, her body was already in an aggressive development phase. Blessed with the family's hallmark long legs and a naturally athletic, full figure, Miranda exuded a unique sense of vibrant agility and strength. It was undeniable to anyone with eyes that once Miranda fully transitioned into womanhood, she would be an absolute, global stunner.
Kris felt her racing heartbeat finally begin to slow, comforted by her sister's relentless optimism.
Suddenly remembering a crucial detail from Frank's frantic briefing before he left for San Marino, Kris let out a soft, genuine laugh.
"By the way, Miranda," Kris said, turning her head to look at the fourteen-year-old. "You might want to make sure you pack your favorite book for the dinner tomorrow night."
Miranda blinked, confused. "Why?"
"Because Frank just told me that his eleven-year-old nephew—the one we are meeting tomorrow—is the actual author of Kung Fu Panda."
Miranda's jaw dropped. The playful, bouncy energy instantly vanished, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock. "What? The kid who wrote it is Frank's nephew?"
*****
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