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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. Against a being like Marvin, a single, focused glance and a warm smile were enough to make her blush and forget her lines.
Especially current Paris—a girl whose psychological foundation rested on the premise that the world was unsafe—the raw safety radiating from his aura became an irresistible narcotic.
She built her 'dumb blonde' archetype to lower the world's expectations and protect her fragile core. But beneath that calculated media persona, she was just a girl who wanted a bodyguard.
"Okay, Paris," Marvin said softly. He adjusted his strategy to catch her as she fell. "So, what kind of compensation do you need?" If she was vulnerable to the charm, he might as well make the most of it!
He rested his chin on one hand and offered her a slow, charming smile.
Paris flushed. She originally planned to demand a starring script tailored for her, using his Oscar-winning prestige to legitimize her as an actress. Fame was the shield she wanted.
But looking at him now, feeling the protection radiating across the table, her priorities shifted. A script could offer her fame, but the boy sitting in front of her could offer her in light of the burning star.
Paris blinked, and she gripped the stem of her wine glass to steady her trembling hands. This time, her voice softened further. She adopted a delicate, pleading tone. "Marvin… I want you to be my boyfriend. Just for me."
The corners of Marvin's mouth quirked up. The request caught him off guard for a microsecond before its audacious absurdity became clear.
Yet, looking at her, Marvin couldn't deny the raw aesthetic appeal. Paris Hilton possessed the exact look the media had always obsessed over—tall, platinum blonde, built like a living, Barbie doll. Her long legs seemed endless, her hips flared just right, and those famous perky tits sat high and proud on her chest, practically begging to be groped.
Paris had that signature bombshell look the tabloids and public love to talk—tall, blonde, fake-tanned perfection, almost like a living, breathing Barbie doll designed for sin. It wasn't Marvin's invention; it was exactly how the world saw her: the ultimate blonde heiress fantasy, all long hair, pouty lips, and a body sculpted for teasing which she did plenty.
It wasn't something Marvin came up with; it was how the public and media saw her. Before she turned thirty, that polished, doll-like image had already become part of her identity.
Marvin smiled. It was a simple request, born from a traumatized need for exclusivity. She believed that if she didn't own him, he wouldn't protect her.
He kept his chin resting on his hand. His grin widened into something dangerous. "That is a simple request," he said. "But aren't you worried the tabloids will say you're an old cow eating young grass?"
Paris's smug expression returned immediately.
"Please. Why would I care what some pathetic reporters think?" she shot back, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Then the meaning of the remark finally registered. She froze.
Her eyes narrowed. "Wait a second..." Paris pointed at him. "Did you just call me an old cow?"
The outrage in her voice was immediate. "Excuse me? I'm eighteen!" Her jaw dropped.
"Oh my God, you did. You totally did."
Marvin chuckled and waved a hand to dismiss her sudden indignation. "It's just an old saying. Don't overthink the translation."
Paris seemed satisfied. She adjusted the hem of her pink dress, and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, trying to appear casual. The effort failed when she looked up at him and asked, a little more softly than intended, "So... are you actually serious about being my boyfriend?"
Marvin shrugged, his tone nonchalant. He picked up his fork as the waiter set their plates down. "I don't mind. I enjoy your company. As long as you are okay with the fact that I currently have many other girlfriends."
Her nose scrunched in immediate disgust. The fantasy she'd built in her head cracked apart. She dropped her fork onto the plate with a sharp clatter. "Other girlfriends?" she repeated incredulously. "Oh my God, are you serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Marvin asked, looking for untroubled expressions of pure innocence.
Paris stared at him. For a moment, she was ready to explode. Any other boy would've immediately started apologizing or backtracking. Marvin didn't.
He simply sat there, completely relaxed, as though the conversation wasn't going disastrously wrong.
The realization stopped her in her tracks.
He wasn't intimidated. More annoyingly, he didn't seem worried about losing her.
She found herself staring into his unbothered handsome face again. The sharp words caught in her throat. The anger died down, smothered by the realization that he didn't care if she threw a tantrum. He wouldn't bend. Instead of screaming, she forced a tight smile to negotiate.
Paris took a slow breath and forced herself to calm down. "Okay," she said, folding her arms across her chest.
"Okay. Fine." The smile she produced was strained. "I don't really care about whatever happened before me."
She absolutely cared. "But if we're doing this, then obviously you have to stop seeing them."
Paris looked at him as though the answer should be self-evident. "I mean, come on. That's just how boyfriends and girlfriends work. So you have to break up with them right now. Today."
Marvin cut a piece of his grilled salmon. He chewed it, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. His expression turned deadly serious. The warm, inviting charm vanished, replaced by cold, immovable stone.
"Paris," Marvin said. His quiet voice echoed with finality. "That is not going to happen. Let me clarify the dynamic of this table. You only have two choices today: you accept the reality and become one of my girls, or you change your request for compensation."
Paris's composure cracked. The Hilton confidence and entitlement flared as she instinctively tried to seize control of the conversation again. "Oh my God, are you serious right now?" she shot back. "You want me—Paris Hilton—to be one of a bunch of girls?" She stared at him in disbelief before pointing at herself. "Hello? Do you even know who I am? I don't do second place. I don't do background. People notice me the second I walk into a room."
Marvin's face hardened. He leaned forward, and the easy warmth vanished from his expression. "Of course I know who you are," he said evenly. "The real question is whether you know who I am. I'm not one of those guys who follows you around hoping you'll notice him. I don't care about the Hilton name, and I don't care about your family's hotels. I've made my own money even without my family, and I don't need anything from you."
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, stripping away the advantage she was used to having.
"You were the one who walked up to my table at the auction," Marvin continued. "You were the one who agreed to the arrangement. So if you want to be with me, these are the terms. If you don't like them, you're free to walk away. Nobody's stopping you."
The defiant spark in Paris's eyes faltered. She wasn't used to hearing that. Most boys either tried to impress her or gave in the moment she pushed back. Marvin did neither. She realized, with a thrill, that she couldn't manipulate him. He was a wall that refused to move, which meant he was a wall strong enough to hide behind. For the first time all afternoon, she felt completely out of her depth.
"Look," Marvin said, his tone softening slightly. "I'm not forcing you into anything. If being part of my circle isn't something you want, then we can discuss a different kind of compensation for dropping the paddle."
Paris blinked.
"Like what?"
"For example, I could write a screenplay for you."
Her irritation vanished instantly.
"A screenplay?" she repeated. "Wait, seriously?"
The prospect hit her harder than any argument could. Hollywood. Magazine covers. Premieres. Fame.
Paris blinked, her anger derailed by the sudden pivot. Fame. The flashbulb armor. "You would write a script for me? A real one? Not just some throwaway idea you sketched on a napkin?"
She leaned in, her brown eyes wide and hungry. "Not to fool me? It has to be something huge. Like The Parent Trap, or a hit script like The Sixth Sense!"
"I'd give it my best effort," Marvin replied. "But nobody can promise a hit. If that were possible, studios wouldn't lose hundreds of millions on films every year."
Paris barely seemed to hear the warning.
"So you're saying I'd get my own movie?"
"Potentially."
A grin spread across her face.
"Okay. Wow. That's actually a really good deal."
"Then it's settled."
"Yeah," Paris said quickly. "Definitely settled."
Yet as the excitement faded, a small flicker of regret surfaced in the back of her mind. She looked across the table at him, at the confidence, the certainty, and the effortless way he refused to be pushed around. Maybe walking away from the original offer hadn't been the obvious choice she had thought it was.
'God, he's ridiculously handsome,' she thought. And somehow he never lets anyone tell him what to do.
She lost in his face in the afternoon light, feeling the lingering ghost of the safety he had projected. 'Perhaps being one of his girlfriends wouldn't have been so bad after all,' she thought. 'He is so handsome… and so dominating.'
When their meal ended and the waiter cleared the plates, Paris immediately leaned forward again, her earlier frustration completely forgotten. The bubbly, energetic side of her personality returned in full force though the baby voice remained absent.
"Okay, so now what?" she asked brightly. "We can't just end the day here. We should totally do something fun. We could go shopping on Rodeo, or..." A wicked smile spread across her face. "You could come upstairs. I have a suite here, and there are a bunch of things I want to show you."
Marvin slowly raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass.
"Your suite?"
"Yeah."
"Paris, I'm thirteen."
"So?"
He set down his drink.
"Do you have any idea how that sounds when you say it out loud?"
Paris blinked. "What?"
"You just invited a thirteen-year-old boy to your room."
Marvin shook his head solemnly.
"This is exactly how people end up on television specials. That is predator behavior. You hunt in flocks."
Paris nearly fell out of her chair.
"Oh my God!" she groaned, covering her face with both hands. "That is not what I meant!"
Several nearby diners glanced over.
"I was talking about my collection!"
Marvin looked unconvinced.
"My collection!" Paris repeated. "I have vintage Transformers, Barbie collectibles, limited-edition Disney stuff, designer dolls, all kinds of things. I thought you'd think it was cool!"
"Transformers?" Marvin asked following the script.
Paris nodded vigorously. "Like, a complete set. Mint condition. Still in the original packaging."
Now she had his attention. "I thought boys liked that stuff. And honestly," she added quickly, "the day's been fun, okay? I don't want it ending after lunch."
Marvin raised an eyebrow.
"Don't make that face. You're actually interesting to talk to. Do you know how rare that is around here?"
Marvin studied her for a moment while she waited anxiously for a verdict.
Finally, he nodded.
"Well, you probably should've led with the Transformers."
Paris immediately brightened.
"So you'll come?"
"I suppose I should verify these extraordinary claims."
"Yes!"
She clapped her hands together, the embarrassment disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.
'Yes! It worked.'
A triumphant grin tugged at her lips.
'Now I just have to get him upstairs before he changes his mind.'
The thought sent another rush of excitement through her. "I knew you'd say yes."
Marvin adjusted his jacket. "That's because you never stop talking until people agree with you."
Paris pointed at him. "See? You're already figuring me out."
"Let's hurry up and finish your drink! You're going to love it!"
….
…
..
.
As they headed toward the elevators, Paris practically bounced with excitement, her perky tits jiggling noticeably under her tight pink dress. The prospect of showing off her most prized collection clearly thrilled her.
'Oh my God, yes. He's actually coming.'
A victorious, predatory smile spread across her glossy lips. 'Good. Now I get to show him my *real* toys… the real fun.'
She glanced at Marvin from the corner of her eye, biting her lower lip.
'Toys are no fun, obviously… but having the hottest young stud in Los Angeles all to myself in my suite for the afternoon is definitely where the real fun's going to happen.'
****
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