Simon could faintly hear the sounds from the TV and roughly gauge which part of the American Idol episode was airing. However, he didn't follow Jerry Hall's gaze toward the screen. Instead, he enjoyed the pleasant scent of the woman beside him and said, "Those iPlayers are sponsored by Tinkerbell. At cost price, 5,000 iPlayers only amount to a little over a million dollars. If spending that much can get a show with 30 million viewers, I think any major network would be willing to keep doing it."
Jerry Hall, now well-versed in the TV industry, quickly understood.
Indeed, it made sense.
A TV show with 30 million viewers could command about $500,000 for a 30-second ad slot at current network rates. A one-hour reality show typically runs for 43 minutes, leaving 17 minutes for ads—totaling $17 million per episode. For a 23-episode season, that's $390 million in ad revenue alone.
By comparison, Jerry Hall's Fashion Workshop, for which she was both producer and host, didn't even make 10% of that, pulling in less than $39 million per season.
That was the gap.
Thinking about it, Jerry Hall curiously asked, "The production cost for this reality show must be really high, right?"
Simon smiled and shook his head. "That's a trade secret."
Jerry Hall rolled her eyes at him again.
It wasn't actually much of a secret.
Simon just didn't feel like explaining the intricacies to her. American Idol's first season didn't have a fixed budget because two production plans were set up.
During the planning stage, to mitigate risks, the show had two possible production routes: a contingency plan in case of failure or mediocre response, and an expansion plan for when the show became a hit.
Simon never assumed he would be 100% successful. While he put in maximum effort for American Idol, he also prepared for the worst.
The reality was that American Idol had a high production cost compared to other TV shows of the time.
According to the contingency plan, each episode of American Idol would cost $7 million to produce. In contrast, ER, a long-running series that had recently premiered, also had high production costs but still came in lower at $6.5 million per episode. While ER drew around 20 million viewers, it had long-term syndication value, meaning it would generate revenue for years to come. Reality shows, however, are time-sensitive, with low rewatch value.
Thus, even if American Idol averaged 10 million viewers per episode, which would justify renewals for other shows, the reality show would need to be canceled.
Per the contingency plan, if the premiere didn't draw at least 15 million viewers, American Idol would only run for one season with a total of 18 episodes—8 before the New Year and 10 after—before concluding with no follow-up seasons.
With 18 episodes at $7 million each, the total production cost would amount to $126 million.
If the premiere drew over 15 million viewers, the second, expansion plan would kick in. Starting from the second week, two episodes would air each week, expanding the first season to 32 episodes. Since the show was filmed as it aired, footage shot each week would be split into two episodes, naturally reducing the cost. The per-episode budget would drop to about $5 million.
At 32 episodes and $5 million each, the total production cost would rise to $160 million.
These details couldn't be explained easily in a few sentences.
Now that the premiere had reached 30 million viewers, it was clear that the second, 32-episode expansion plan would be implemented.
Whether it was $126 million or $160 million, these figures were explosive for a TV show in that era. When Daenerys Entertainment produced Survivor, it had a shoestring budget of $5 million for the entire first season, which was the epitome of cost-cutting. Yet that seemed like a lifetime ago—back when a $25 million movie like Rain Man was considered a big production.
It had only been seven years.
But it felt like two different eras.
Hollywood in the 1990s was like the explosive growth period of China's film and television industry after 2010 that Simon remembered—capital flooded in, actor salaries soared, and production costs skyrocketed. It wasn't until the internet bubble burst in 2000 that Hollywood returned to rationality.
After chatting with Jerry Hall for a while in the corner, Simon spent another half hour mingling at the cocktail party before leaving early.
He stayed the night at Hall's Greenwich apartment.
He woke up at six the next morning.
Exhausted from the previous night, the woman stayed in bed, while Simon, after freshening up and dressing, left the master bedroom. The spacious flat was quiet, but he saw that people were already busy in the living area. In addition to Jerry Hall's personal maid and bodyguard, there were two other female attendants from the Westeros household, who greeted Simon and explained that Ms. Davis had sent them over.
The other household staff had been temporarily dismissed.
Simon didn't think the housekeeper, Davis, had acted on her own accord. It was likely at the suggestion of "A-girl" (a reference to a key assistant), but he didn't dwell on it.
The apartment had a gym, but Simon didn't plan to work out this morning.
He sat by the window in the living room, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee, while enjoying the autumn scenery of Manhattan.
Seeing autumn in the city can be difficult, depending on the area.
The streets outside Hall's apartment were lined with two rows of plane trees. At the end of September, the leaves had turned shades of red and yellow, and from the sixth floor, it looked like a beautiful ribbon weaving through Greenwich Village's old, historic buildings. The view had a nostalgic feel, evoking thoughts of time passing.
As a result, Simon lost interest in his newspaper.
He called over one of the female attendants and asked a few questions. She quickly returned with an iPlayer and quietly offered to download any songs Simon wanted to hear. She leaned in close while speaking, her youthful fragrance faintly wafting toward him. Simon smiled and gestured toward the floor. The attendant, quick-witted, knelt beside the coffee table and quietly refilled his coffee, then pretended to straighten the scattered newspapers.
Simon put on the iPlayer's headphones, scrolled through the playlist, and found a song: Young and Beautiful. He set it to repeat.
Some classics are perfect for moments like these—on repeat.
An autumn morning, the dappled streets framed by plane trees, coffee, music, and the scent of a woman.
But it seems that fate always interrupts moments of perfection. After the song looped two or three times, another slender figure appeared at the end of the hallway. It was an 11- or 12-year-old girl with red hair, pale skin, and large eyes. She wore a cropped tank top and shorts, revealing two long, slender legs inherited from her mother.
Seeing Simon, the girl showed no surprise. She quietly tiptoed over, playfully took one of Simon's earbuds, and placed it in her own ear. Leaning against the back of Simon's chair, she listened for a moment before teasing, "Simon, you must be really vain, listening to your own song."
Simon only realized the girl was approaching when she took the earbud, but he didn't react. Hearing her comment, he chuckled, "Your father sings his own songs all the time. What does that make him?"
"My dad..." The girl began to retort, but then got stuck, eventually conceding, "You're both narcissists."
The girl shifted to Simon's side of the couch near the window, crouched by the armrest, and shot a glance at the maid kneeling by the coffee table. These weren't her family's maids, but the girl was clever enough to understand their status. For some reason, she felt a subtle sense of rivalry and, feigning dissatisfaction, said to Simon, "You were really rude last night, making my mom so loud."
Simon had just taken a sip of coffee and nearly spit it out. He quickly composed himself, avoiding a choking fit.
The maid beside the coffee table lowered her head slightly, likely stifling laughter.
Once he regained his composure, Simon gestured to the maid. "Go prepare breakfast. And make enough for one more."
The girl immediately piped up, "We're a family of four."
The maid glanced at Simon, saw that he wasn't responding, and ignored the girl's comment, leaving the room.
Seeing that neither of them paid her any mind, the girl puffed her cheeks and then plopped down cross-legged on the single-seater across the table, completely disregarding any sense of decorum.
Simon wasn't in the mood to engage with the girl, so he put his earbud back in, enjoying his coffee, music, and the view outside.
The girl, staring at Simon for a moment, finally broke the silence again. "My name is Elizabeth, but you can call me Liz."
Simon casually acknowledged, "Mm-hmm."
The girl hesitated, then raised her voice a little. "I said, my name is Elizabeth Jagger."
"Mm-hmm."
"Simon, you're being really cold."
"Mm-hmm."
"Girls won't like you if you're like this."
"Mm-hmm."
"I'm going to tell all my friends that Simon Westeros is actually an arrogant, cold, and, oh, a perverted jerk."
"Mm-hmm."
"And don't think my mom likes you. It
's just because you're rich."
"Mm-hmm."
"Simon, I've got my eye on a Hermès bag. Will you buy it for me?"
"Mm... no."
"So stingy." The girl pouted, seeing that Simon had finally responded with more than just a grunt. But she wasn't giving up. "You're my mom's lover, so technically, you're my stepfather. You should buy it for me."
"That's something you should ask your real father for."
"My dad's even stingier," the girl complained, then widened her eyes in mock realization. "Wait, do you want me to call you 'Dad' before you'll buy it for me?"
"Exactly."
"Dad."
"Deal."
The girl tried to suppress her excitement, then quickly added, "Dad, can I borrow your private jet this weekend? I want to take some friends to Miami for surfing lessons. Cynthia's always bragging about her surfing skills. Oh, and we'll need an instructor. Make sure he's handsome—half as handsome as you will do."
"…"
"Daaaad."
"Alright, but your mom has to agree first."
"She'll definitely agree."
The girl bounced up from the couch with a wide grin, padded barefoot across the coffee table, and gave Simon a big kiss on the cheek before skipping off, saying she needed to catch up on sleep.
Seriously.
Where's your dignity, girl?
It's too obvious.
Simon leaned back on the sofa, pondering for a moment before deciding that if his future son tried to be this coquettish, he'd give him a spanking.
But daughters?
Well.
They should be spoiled.
That being said, Seattle probably wouldn't be this clingy with him. As for little Snow, given how his assistant was raising him, he'd likely turn out to be a proper gentleman.
Which was just fine.
In the end, Simon had breakfast alone.
Leaving Jerry Hall's apartment, it was only just past 7 a.m.
It was Wednesday.
After announcing the approval of the merger yesterday, today's schedule was just as packed.
Simon arrived early at Daenerys Television headquarters, also located in Greenwich.
Sitting in his office, without having seen the updated ratings in the morning papers, "A-girl" soon brought in a more detailed report on last night's American Idol premiere.
After starting with 34.7 million viewers, American Idol's audience didn't drop. In fact, it continued to rise, peaking at 41.9 million. The two-hour, two-episode premiere ended with an average viewership of 37.2 million. Among the key 18-to-49-year-old demographic that advertisers value most, the rating hit an impressive 20.7, capturing over one-fifth of the market share.
Due to the rise of cable TV, broadcast networks' market share had dropped from over 90% in the 1980s to around 60% now. This decline was one of the main reasons why traditional networks were being sold. With American Idol, Daenerys and ABC had snatched away one-fifth of the total market, demonstrating the immense strength of this reality show.
As a joint flagship project of Daenerys and Metropolitan ABC for the fall season, American Idol's ad slots weren't sold as a package but through individual bids for each episode.
The first two-episode premiere, lacking solid benchmarks, had sold 30-second ads for $300,000 each.
This price was on par with Survivor, which also garnered over 30 million viewers when it debuted. However, times had changed. Since 1988, production costs in the entertainment industry had surged, and so had ad rates. A $300,000 ad slot was only justified for a show with about 20 million viewers.
Those who bought ads for last night's premiere had gotten a great deal.
Now, with an average viewership of 37.2 million, the price for a 30-second ad on American Idol could exceed $500,000 starting next week. By the semi-finals or finals, when everyone's eyes were on the show, ad prices could soar to $1 million per slot.
The network estimated that for the full 32-episode season, 30-second ads would average around $600,000, meaning a total ad revenue of $650 million.
And that was just for commercials.
There were also product placements, like the Tinkerbell sponsorship.
Plus, merchandise.
The post-season tour featuring contestants.
While reality shows don't typically have syndication value, it couldn't be ruled out.
And international sales.
In Simon's memory, FOX had paid $75 million for the U.S. rights to American Idol from its UK producers. This time, selling the show's rights to other countries might not fetch $75 million, but $7.5 million wasn't out of reach. Selling the format to countries like the UK, France, Germany, Japan, Italy, Spain, Australia, and more would add up.
All these factors combined could easily match the ad revenue.
Compared to many TV dramas that had budgets under $50 million, American Idol, which had an estimated budget exceeding $100 million, had initially seemed like a massive risk. That's why a contingency plan was in place. Now, with an estimated $650 million in ad revenue alone, no one could claim that the show's huge budget was reckless spending.
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