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She closed the notebook and capped her pen. "Seven hundred and fifty thousand copies," she said, and shook her head. "In seven months."
"The ceiling sits much higher than that," he said.
"How much higher?"
He picked up his glass of milk. He took a sip and considered the board.
"When Naruto launches," he said, and set the glass down, "we will find out."
He turned his chair and looked out the window.
The Connecticut winter raged outside. Snow painted the estate grounds in stark white and gray. The cold landscape stood in sharp contrast to the rapid expansion of the empire he directed across the globe.
The magazine stood as a reality. The global infrastructure taking shape around it held no precedent in the publishing industry. The teams in Tokyo, London, and Los Angeles executed a synchronized disruption.
He finished the milk.
More work remained for the day. Scripts needed outlines, casting calls required reviews, and stock positions demanded monitoring. The work never ended.
He turned his attention back to the desk, ready for the next move.
---
The following afternoon, the California sun beat down on the pavement outside the Beverly Hills Hilton. Marvin exited the Maybach.
Gordon fell in behind him and handed the keys to a wide-eyed valet. Marvin walked through the gilded lobby toward the private dining terrace to fulfill his promised arrangement. He moved with unhurried grace.
Paris Hilton already occupied the best table on the terrace.
True to form, she dressed for the occasion like a photographed runway show. She wore a diamond-studded, low-cut pink slip dress paired with beige round-toed leather boots. A matching pink bow held back her platinum curls. A customized pink Louis Vuitton bag rested on the table in front of her, a loud declaration of her family's status.
To the waiters and the wealthy patrons, she looked exactly like the vapid heiress the tabloids portrayed.
But the pink dress, the diamonds, and the excessive branding formed a psychological armor. Her own parents had allowed strangers to drag her out of bed in the middle of the night to lock her in solitary confinement. Paris learned a permanent lesson in the dark: if people looked closely, they found flaws, and they punished them.
So, she blinded them with diamonds. She deafened them with a fake, high-pitched baby voice. She built a plastic cage of her own making so no adult could force her into a real one again.
Despite her polished appearance, her opening line carried the brash entitlement of someone testing the perimeter to see if it held.
"Marvin Meyers," Paris declared as he approached the table. She stood up but didn't offer a polite greeting. "You cost me a valuable collection last night. I wanted that book. You owe me compensation for the public embarrassment."
Her tone dripped with manufactured attitude. She waited for him to react like every other man in Los Angeles—either intimidated by the Hilton name, or eager to placate her to get closer to her fortune.
Marvin didn't flinch. He gave her customized Louis Vuitton bag a passing, unimpressed glance. His demeanor remained calm, unbothered by her theatrics. He pulled out the chair opposite her.
"Sit down," Marvin said.
His quiet voice carried a resonant authority that brooked no argument.
Paris froze. She paused halfway through a practiced eye-roll. The command stopped her cold.
Her bruised psychology reacted. When older men gave her flat, uncompromising orders, it usually meant a door locked behind her. Her hyper-vigilant survival instincts flared. But as the panic rose in her chest, the intoxicating aura of the Incubus washed over the table. The aura intercepted her mind. It bypassed her fear and triggered a narcotic sense of safety. He didn't speak to her like a warden. He spoke to her like a god who possessed enough power to crush anyone who tried to touch her again.
A mix of anger, residual fear, and sudden intrigue flickered across her contoured face.
She opened her mouth to argue and deploy the baby voice, but the terrifying gravity in his nebula-blue eyes pinned her to the cushion.
She settled back into her chair. She grabbed her pink bag and dropped it onto the floor next to her boots with an indignant huff. Her plastic armor cracked a fraction.
"Fine," Paris snapped, her voice dripping with bratty frustration. She deliberately crossed her arms under her chest, shoving her full developing, perky tits upward and outward in a calculated move. The motion made her round, mounds strain obscenely against the thin fabric of her pink dress, creating a deep, mouthwatering cleavage valley that jiggled enticingly with every annoyed breath. Her nipples poked visibly through the material as she pushed her chest forward. Weaponized sexuality served as her secondary defense mechanism—if she could make a man throb and lose his mind staring at her, she controlled the whole board. "Now can we talk?"
The heiress knew exactly what she was doing, using her body to distract and dominate.
Marvin ignored the display. He took his time. He reached across the table, picked up the leather-bound menu, and handed it to her.
"Order whatever you like," he said. His steady voice and eyes lacked the hunger she usually elicited.
Paris, caught off guard by the tonal shift and his immunity to her body, took the menu. She looked down at the listed entrees, but the words blurred. It took her brain ten seconds to process the dynamic of the interaction.
She lowered the menu. "Wait," she said. Her brow furrowed, and she glared at him across the table. The baby voice slipped. "Why am I listening to you?"
Marvin leaned back in his chair. A knowing smirk played on his lips. The Incubus charm hummed, filling the sunlit space between them.
"Because you want to," Marvin replied softly.
Paris stared at him. The arrogant retort died on her tongue. The defensive anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, confusing heat that had nothing to do with the California sun. Her cheeks flushed a deep pink under her light makeup.
For the first time in her pampered life, she found herself uncertain of what script to follow.
She looked at the boy across from her. He didn't fawn over her family's wealth. He didn't stare at her cleavage. He showed zero reaction to her attitude. Instead, he challenged her dominance—in a way she couldn't ignore, couldn't buy, and couldn't flirt her way out of.
He offered her the one thing the Hilton fortune failed to buy her: a genuine nature.
She picked the menu back up. A small smile touched the corner of her mouth. The game changed, and for the first time since Utah, she wanted to play.
"Order first," Marvin said. He rested his elegant hands on the table. "I prefer not to deal with work on an empty stomach."
"Hmph!" Paris huffed, though the venom was gone. She tossed the menu onto the table with a flick of her wrist and snapped her fingers to summon the nearest waiter.
The waiter hurried over with a notepad ready.
Paris rattled off her order—a customized salad with the dressing on the side and a rare cut of steak. Her tone carried the rapid confidence of someone who knew the menu by heart. This was her grandfather's hotel. She expected perfection as a baseline.
When she finished, Marvin added his own order. He requested a cut of grilled salmon and a hamburger with a glass of grape juice.
The waiter filled their water glasses and vanished. Marvin picked up his juice. He swirled the dark liquid and watched the sunlight catch the glass before lifting his gaze to meet Paris across the table.
The air shifted around him. The intoxicating aura of the Incubus bled into his posture. His voice turned warm, his smile disarming.
"Miss Hilton, thank you for your support during the auction yesterday," Marvin began. "You played your part perfectly. So, tell me, what kind of compensation do you have in mind for your trouble?"
Paris opened her mouth to deliver a pre-planned retort—a demand for an introduction to a director, or an invitation to an exclusive Hollywood party—but her defenses faltered. For a brief moment, her calculating mind went blank.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the terrace canopy and caught the violet-amber flecks hidden in his blue eyes. She knew handsome men—billionaires, models, European aristocrats who stayed at her hotels—but none of them carried this much magnetism. It wasn't just his symmetrical features; it was the intense, omniscient calm behind his gaze. He looked at her like he knew exactly what happened in the dark, and he wasn't afraid of it.
At this distance, the finer details of his face became impossible to ignore.
Her thoughts scattered in a dozen directions. 'Oh my God... he's ridiculously handsome. Like, seriously unfairly handsome.' She tried to remind herself that he was younger than her.
The reminder didn't help. 'Why am I suddenly nervous? And why is my heart doing that weird thing?' Paris kept her smile perfectly intact, refusing to let anyone notice the effect he was having on her.
'This is insane. He's younger than me. This is not supposed to work the other way around.' Yet every time those impossible eyes met hers, her confidence slipped a little. 'Okay... that's actually dangerous. He's not supposed to be the one making me flustered.'
She maintained her trademark smile, but inwardly she was far less composed.
"Miss Hilton?" Marvin's voice cut through her reverie, smooth and steady. "What kind of compensation would you like?"
She remained lost. When he saw that she remained silent, staring at him, he asked again, his tone gentler, and leaned forward a fraction of an inch.
This time Paris snapped out of her daze. The brash heiress persona, the acoustic shield of the "dumb blonde," shattered. An unexpectedly soft, raspy, and vulnerable demeanor replaced it.
She picked up her wine glass, her manicured fingers trembling slightly, and took a quick sip to compose her racing heart.
She set the glass down. "Don't call me Miss Hilton," she said softly. The high-pitched baby voice vanished to reveal her natural, deeper normal. "Just call me Paris."
Marvin watched her. 'Why is she suddenly acting so soft and demure?'
Then he realized the mechanism at work. It was his own charms.
As his body matured and the mana pool within his soul expanded with the adoration of millions of fans, the shattered soul within him continued its slow recovery. Every fragment that grew brought subtle changes. His senses sharpened. His instincts became more refined. Even his awareness of the emotions surrounding him grew increasingly acute.
The natural, magnetic presence he exuded involuntarily was growing stronger. It was no longer merely physical attractiveness. It was something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of his being. People found it easier to focus on him. Their attention lingered longer than it should. Conversations naturally gravitated toward him, and even crowded rooms seemed to unconsciously acknowledge his presence.
The restoration of his soul affected his body as well. His movements became smoother and more fluid. His voice carried a subtle resonance that made others instinctively listen. His eyes appeared more vivid, his expressions more compelling, and even minor gestures conveyed a surprising amount of confidence and authority.
In the past, influencing others required deliberate effort. He had to carefully choose his words, read reactions, and guide conversations with patience and precision. Now, much of that work occurred naturally. People seemed more receptive before he had even spoken. Tension eased in his presence, emotional barriers weakened, and anxieties that would normally dominate a person's thoughts became easier to set aside.
It was not mind control. It was not hypnosis. It was simply the inevitable consequence of a soul that had once stood at a far greater level slowly reclaiming what it had lost. Every increase in mana strengthened that effect, making his presence feel less like that of an ordinary person and more like that of someone whom others found difficult to ignore.
He understood the mechanism at play. His own charms stopped her PTSD.
The natural, magnetic charm that he exuded involuntarily was growing stronger. Add to that his physical body maturing, the effect on the opposite gender amplified.
In the past, when he wanted to seduce girls, he had to actively employ words, body language, aura, and carefully constructed psychological traps. But now? Especially when facing a young girl like Paris—a girl who lacked genuine life experience or hardship—the raw power of his aura was enough.
Paris Hilton had embraced the 'dumb blonde' archetype early on. She was sly and cunning, deliberately giving the public the misleading impression of being foolish to lower their guard while she built her brand. But beneath that calculated media persona, she was still just turned 18 a couple months earlier, the girl who views the world entirely through the lens of superficial beauty and status.
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