"Hm?"
"You two are back already?"
"I thought you'd talk for hours."
It was 11 p.m.
Isabella and her mother, Vivian, had just returned to their dorm at Leavesden.
The moment they walked in, Catherine's voice drifted over.
Right now, Catherine was in pajamas, leaning on the couch and watching TV.
London was in its long-day-short-night season—daylight by five, sunset around nine. Even the most disciplined person's schedule would get wrecked by that.
Not to mention the HP film crew's insane timetable.
One day they might start shooting at 9 a.m.; the next, at 9 p.m.
Since Goblet of Fire had real large-scale night scenes, once those sets were built, there was no greenscreen workaround.
As a result, everyone's sleep schedule was chaos.
And since Catherine lived with Isabella, she couldn't escape the same fate. Sleeping when tired, waking up whenever—it had become her routine. Besides, she wasn't even in school anymore, so she was completely off the rails.
Yep—Catherine had finished her GCSEs last year.
Now, even if she didn't attend school, the law couldn't touch Vivian.
As for further education?
Vivian hoped she'd go to Oxford or Cambridge someday, but there was no rush. Plenty of time once she turned eighteen.
"Because the conversation fell apart."
As Vivian slipped off her shoes, she explained, "Your sister hadn't even gotten to talk about the animation yet, and she just flat-out said she wouldn't share the copyright with Disney."
"Huh? You actually told him that right away?" Catherine stared at Isabella.
She knew her sister was planning to make an animated series.
In fact, she knew about Hannah Montana, Nashville, and the untitled Beaver Project too.
She'd helped write scripts before—picked it up working on The Voice. So when Isabella got an idea, she'd drag Catherine into it as her "typing slave," forcing her to churn out outlines nonstop.
"Of course I did. You have to set boundaries first, then talk business. Otherwise it's just a waste of time," Isabella said, slipping on her slippers. "Bob said Disney might not be able to take on outsourced animation anyway, so there's no deal for now."
"If he could get Disney to take outside contracts, he'd own Disney already. Why would he need you?"
Vivian smirked. "Isabella, I agree that you shouldn't give up copyright, but your conversation with him was kind of pointless. You know Disney doesn't do outsourcing."
Since Isabella had already mapped out her entertainment career, she was determined to expand her IPs.
The moment she got The Devil Wears Prada rights, she started planning an animated project.
And there was no way she'd accept Disney's Pixar-style deal—shared copyrights.
Simple reason:
The Beaver IP was her own creation.
Disney hadn't contributed a thing to it.
And let's be real—the cartoon beaver only blew up thanks to The Voice, which was her show. If it had aired on NBC instead of ABC, it still would've succeeded.
So Isabella would have to be brain-dead to give half her profits to Disney.
To put it bluntly—
If J.K. Rowling came to her saying, "I'd like a stake," Isabella would actually consider it.
Because the beaver did originate from Harry Potter.
Its initial popularity came from Harry Potter.
If Rowling claimed some credit, Isabella would happily call her a co-founder and give her a share, because the beaver and Harry Potter were inseparable. That's just the truth.
But Disney? No way.
Of course, Bob Iger couldn't accept that.
Like Vivian said, Iger's whole motive for courting the Beaver IP was to copy Jeffrey Katzenberg—to "make Disney great again" and regain control of the studio.
Which meant there was only one possible deal structure:
Reverse the old Pixar arrangement.
Back then, Disney paid, Pixar worked, and they shared rights.
Now, Isabella would bring the IP, Disney would work, and they'd share rights.
And that was unacceptable.
"Isabella, I'm on your side about the copyright thing," Catherine said. "But Mom's right—Disney would never take outside work. Saying that to Bob kind of puts him in a bind."
"What, you want me to lie to him first and then hit him with a surprise later?"
Isabella sighed. She knew blunt honesty could sting, but what choice did she have?
At least she'd been respectful about it.
She'd only been so direct because she saw Bob Iger as an ally.
And he hadn't gotten angry.
Before that copyright bit, they'd discussed Fox, and once Iger understood her true intentions, he realized she did want cooperation—just not at her own expense.
Because bleeding herself dry was never an option.
Every part of her reasoning had its logic.
"Still…" Catherine tried to continue.
"Let's not," Isabella cut her off. "We'll never talk our way to agreement on this. I'm gonna shower. If you're still awake after, we'll go over the project."
Catherine sighed. "And if I'm asleep?"
"You can sleep." Isabella, already halfway into her room, turned back with a grin.
"But I can also drag you out of bed to re-sleep."
Catherine rolled her eyes.
Truth be told, Isabella did want to keep working with Disney. Because the more Bob Iger needed her, the more she could leverage that to gain influence inside Disney.
But she wasn't about to cling to one tree.
If Iger couldn't give her what she wanted, she'd still move forward on her own.
As for her earlier claim that she "had no production team"—that was a lie.
She could find one anytime.
BBC and DreamWorks, for instance.
The former was her British partner—The Voice UK was already in prep for Q4 release—and they had top-tier TV production teams. Hiring one was a single phone call.
DreamWorks? Spielberg's people were everywhere. Also one phone call away.
So, the whole "Disney outsourcing" thing had just been to calm Bob down.
Animation was even simpler.
Disney wasn't the only game in town.
Britain had Aardman Animations, masters of stop-motion—the geniuses behind Chicken Run.
Later they'd make Wallace and Gromit and Shaun the Sheep.
They were famous, sure, but not exactly rich. Studios without mega-IP barely scraped by.
Which meant Isabella could buy them outright with pocket change.
Or, if she wanted to take it easy, she could just collaborate with ILM or even Pixar.
Yeah—ILM made animations too. The Star Wars ones were in-house.
Pixar officially didn't take outside work… but it depended who was asking.
If some random person called, Jobs would tell them to get lost.
If Spielberg called saying "take this project or Disney dies," Pixar would crawl to his feet.
Game over.
Everything was simple when you had leverage. Isabella would just move at her own pace.
After showering and drying her hair, she found Catherine still on the couch, half-dozing.
So she dragged her sister back into her room.
They flipped through Hannah Montana and Nashville first.
Even though Isabella had watched both in her past life, she barely remembered the details.
She just had a general direction for the story; professional screenwriters would handle the rest—characters, market fit, scriptwriting.
Catherine's job was to supervise, make sure the final work stayed true to Isabella's vision.
She wasn't actually going to exploit her sister.
Compared to the live-action shows, the Untitled Beaver Animation was already more concrete.
The main cast had been decided—three leads:
Beaver: smart, diligent, adorable. Groundhog: hot-tempered, talkative, loud. Capybara: laid-back counterpart to the Groundhog, motto: "Living's fine, dying's fine too."
The story went like this—
In a parallel universe where humans and animals coexist, in the English countryside, there lives a food-loving beaver whose lifelong dream is to become a world-class chef.
She wants to win the legendary World Chef Championship, held annually since the Middle Ages.
But no matter how hard she studies, she never passes the preliminaries.
She begins to doubt her talent.
Just as she's about to give up, her friend Groundhog points out something strange—after researching past tournaments, he discovers that almost no British chefs ever make the top 100, and only three have ever won—and none with British cuisine.
A near-zero chance of winning and the total absence of "British food" from champions makes Groundhog suspect the issue isn't her skill—it's that British food just… sucks.
To test that theory, Little Beaver and his friends travel to London, where the newest British-born champion runs a restaurant called Hell's Kitchen.
Yes, Gordon Ramsay is British.
They visit while the "Chef from Hell" himself is still there—and discover not a single British dish on the menu.
After tasting the food, Little Beaver is stunned. Everything he'd eaten before was garbage!
His confidence reignited, he asks Ramsay to take him as his apprentice. But he refuses—too busy, no time for students.
Disappointed, he notices a photo on the wall: Ramsay and his mentor, a still-living French master chef.
And so…
The adventure begins!
Little Beaver and his friends left the British Isles to travel to France and learn the art of cooking.
When they arrived, they discovered that Ramsay's master was already very old and too tired to take on apprentices. Although his grandson loved cooking and had inherited his skills, the boy's talent was limited—he probably would never reach the level of a culinary god.
Worse still, the French chef's son didn't want his own son to become a cook like his grandfather.
He thought cooking was a lowly profession, and that only financiers—like himself—were truly successful people. So he decided to shut down all the restaurants under his father's name and drag his son into the world of finance.
Never mind that everything he had, including his financial startup money, came from his father's career as a legendary chef.
The son resisted, the old man was heartbroken, and amid all that family drama, our cooking-loving Little Beaver naturally sided with the grandson, joining him to stop the father's wicked plans.
In the process, Little Beaver's natural talent flourished—he learned countless secret techniques. In the end, the chef's grandson managed to save his grandfather's restaurant, and Little Beaver went on to win the World Master Chef Championship.
Yep, it's a story in the same spirit as Ratatouille.
Isabella's inspiration for it came from one simple truth: British food is, frankly, awful. So when she decided to make an animated film, the idea of "dissing British cuisine" just popped into her head.
Since Ratatouille had been a massive success, she figured her own idea might have a shot too. Of course, the script would need some polishing—but that was the easy part. The real challenge would be making the film itself fun.
Unlike live-action movies, animated films live or die by how entertaining they are.
That's what Chris Columbus told Isabella when he heard she was doing animation.
He said, "Animation feels artificial from the start. Normal people don't watch it for deep meaning. As long as the values are solid, the script's fine."
"And what really decides success is whether it's fun. The simplest test: do the scenes make people laugh? If they do, then the film will succeed."
"Also, the comedic rhythm in animation has to move faster than the tension in a live-action movie."
"Because animated movies only last about 90 minutes—you can't follow the traditional 'eight-sequence structure.'"
Columbus had never made an animated movie himself, but it didn't matter. The creative principles were the same.
So, following his advice, Catherine drew up a ton of funny concept sketches.
For example, when Little Beaver wanted to visit Hell's Kitchen in London, his friend Capybara refused to move. So the Groundhog dressed up like a sumo wrestler and tried to push him from behind. After exhausting himself, the Groundhog collapsed in defeat while Capybara stood completely still.
Or when they were flying to France, they got so excited they forgot to bring Capybara to the airport. Only after takeoff did they realize he wasn't there.
They assumed he'd gone home—but then Capybara suddenly flew past their plane on the back of a pelican!
When they finally landed, he was already waiting at the French airport. Turns out, after missing the flight, he tried to swim across the Channel, ran into a pelican that tried to eat him, and ended up riding it across instead.
"Oh, Keisha, your ideas are brilliant!"
Isabella was thrilled by her sister's creativity.
"Especially that scene where the chef's son sends goons to wreck the restaurant, and the Groundhog boldly says he can handle them—only to get thrown back into the kitchen a second later! Then he uses Capybara as a shield and ambushes them—ha! It's hilarious!"
"Hahaha, I know, right? I had so much fun drawing it!" Catherine said, slapping the table.
"Don't even know why, it just feels good to draw this stuff."
Isabella worked on these ideas whenever she wasn't busy filming Goblet of Fire.
Harry Potter was her foundation, after all. She knew her priorities.
Her days were packed: filming by day, developing new projects by night.
Blink once—another day gone.
Blink twice—a week gone.
Blink a few more times—July 28 arrived, and Queen Bee hit theaters.
Despite tough competition—The Bourne Supremacy opening on the 23rd and Denzel Washington's The Manchurian Candidate on the 30th—Queen Bee still grabbed plenty of box-office attention.
Opening day: $12.43 million, #1 at the box office.
Day two: $8.97 million, still #1.
By the weekend: $15.69 million, ranked #2.
Not because The Manchurian Candidate surged—it flopped immediately—but because The Village by M. Night Shyamalan debuted and stole the top spot.
Still, Queen Bee held strong, raking in $24.97 million over the next two days for a five-day total of $62.06 million—an excellent start.
"Oh, your third hundred-million-dollar film has arrived," Isabella said on August 2, smiling at Margot Robbie.
"Only because Isa~ picks projects like a genius," Margot grinned.
Since Isabella had promised Paramount to attend the Queen Bee premiere, she'd flown to the U.S., and Margot had tagged along for the return flight to England.
Margot's reasoning: promotion could wait, but serving the "princess" couldn't—she still needed her next project.
Isabella laughed herself silly at that.
Now, Isabella raised her chin and teased, "Well, since you know I like flattery, keep it coming—maybe I'll hand you a big project next."
"Come on, Isa, I'm just telling the truth!" Margot said in mock protest.
Isabella just laughed.
With August came The Voice Season 2.
Even without Isabella's involvement, the premiere drew 39.5 million viewers—astonishing numbers.
And three new stars emerged: Colbie Caillat, Carly Jepsen, and Rihanna.
Colbie—of "Try."
Carly—the "Good Time" girl.
Rihanna—well, you know.
They all came with interesting backstories.
Carly was Canadian, so technically ineligible for The Voice, but her talent was undeniable—so they made an exception.
Same with Rihanna, who was from a Caribbean island nation. Her manager, Evan Rogers, was a powerful figure who had worked with Christina Aguilera and American Idol's Kelly Clarkson.
He secretly entered Rihanna into The Voice to gain exposure before signing her officially.
But things didn't go as planned.
Jay-Z, who was supposed to co-manage her, freaked out when he found out she'd joined The Voice—he didn't want to anger Disney or Warner.
In the end, Warner paid $1 million to buy Rihanna's contract from Rogers—then sold it to Isabella through The Voice's official deal terms.
Warner didn't even pay the full million upfront—they stretched it over a hundred years, $10,000 a year.
Why would Rogers agree? Because he didn't really have a choice.
If you mess with the big studios, they'll make sure you regret it.
By the time The Voice Season 2 wrapped, it had hit 50 million viewers for the finale—still massive, even if not as crazy as Season 1.
Meanwhile, in the wider world:
September brought the Emmys—The Voice won Best Variety Show and Best Competition Program; "Party in the U.S.A." won Best Theme Song and Best Music.
October: Paramount officially partnered with DreamWorks, valuing it at $1.6 billion.
November: Pixar's The Incredibles opened strong with $70.46 million but couldn't match Prisoner of Azkaban's $1.3 billion record.
Then, in December 2004, with the world buzzing from politics (Bush's re-election) and entertainment, something smaller but significant happened—
On Wednesday, December 1st, Ted Turner and Steve Case met with Carl Icahn.