Fox Broadcasting Company. Los Angeles.
The air conditioning hummed in the glass-walled conference room, but the executives at Fox were sweating.
Fox was a giant.
A monster. One of the "Big Four" TV networks.
They usually looked down on the little guys. But today? The little guy was punching them in the face.
"Incredible," a senior executive muttered, tossing a report onto the mahogany table. "UPN. The network we used to laugh at. The network that survives on SpongeBob reruns."
He stood up and paced to the window, looking out at the Hollywood hills.
'How did we miss this?' he thought, his stomach churning. 'A talent show? It's so simple, it's stupid. But a million-dollar prize? That's not stupid. That's genius. That's a magnet.'
"It's the prize money," another executive said, loosening his tie. "A million dollars changes lives. Everyone is talking about it. My wife, my kids, even my gardener."
The room fell silent. The heavy silence of people who realized they had been asleep at the wheel.
In Hollywood, if you can't beat them, you copy them.
It was the oldest rule in the book. Braveheart won big? Suddenly everyone made sword-fighting movies like Gladiator and Troy. X-Men made money? Suddenly everyone wanted superheroes.
"Sir," a young assistant piped up, his voice trembling slightly. "Should... should we launch our own talent show? We have the money. We can do it bigger."
The senior executive stopped pacing. He looked at the assistant with tired eyes.
"It's too late," he said, shaking his head. "UPN has the momentum. If we try to copy them now, we look like desperate losers."
'Zane Blackwood,' the executive thought, clenching his jaw. 'You beat us to the punch. I hope you fail. I really, really hope you fail.'
"Let's wait," he said aloud, though his voice lacked confidence. "Maybe America's Got Talent will be a disaster. We can only hope."
The BBC. London, England.
Across the ocean, the mood was even worse.
Klaus Tang, the head of Variety Shows at the BBC, was turning a majestic shade of purple.
"Damn Zane Blackwood!" Klaus roared, kicking a trash can across his office. "Damn that traitor Cindy! And damn ITV!"
Clang! The metal can hit the wall, spilling paper everywhere.
Klaus was furious. Why? Because ITV—the BBC's biggest rival—was launching the UK version of the show. And it was going to be huge.
Earlier that morning, Klaus's boss had screamed at him for an hour.
'I had it,' Klaus thought, sinking into his leather chair, burying his face in his hands. 'Zane offered the show to me first. And I laughed at him. I tried to rip him off. I thought I was the king, and now... I look like the court jester.'
His assistant, Lawrence, poured a glass of water. "Boss, relax. Why worry?"
Lawrence leaned in, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Look at them. They are making a lot of noise, sure. But selecting random people off the street? It's ridiculous. It's going to be a freak show."
"You think?" Klaus looked up, desperate for reassurance.
"I know it," Lawrence lied smoothly. "The chances of failure are huge. When they crash and burn, we will be the ones laughing."
Klaus took a sip of water. He wanted to believe it.
'Please let it fail,' Klaus prayed silently. 'If this show becomes a hit, my career is over.'
Los Angeles. Zane's Office.
While his enemies panicked, Zane Blackwood was calm. He was playing chess while everyone else was playing checkers.
He sat at his desk, staring at three photos lined up on the wood.
The show needed judges.
"Tom Cruise... Tom Hanks... Julia Roberts..." Zane murmured the names of A-list stars. Then he looked at the price tags next to their names. "$20 million. $25 million."
'Too expensive,' Zane thought, shaking his head. 'And honestly? Boring. I don't need movie stars who are afraid to look bad. I need personalities. I need spice.'
He swept the imaginary A-listers aside and looked at the real candidates.
Piers Morgan: A British newspaper editor. Mean, sharp-tongued, and honest.
David Hasselhoff: The star of Baywatch. Loved by Americans, a little goofy, but a true TV icon.
Sharon Osbourne: The wife of rock star Ozzy Osbourne. Tough, motherly, and unpredictable.
"The Mean One, The Star, and The Mom," Zane grinned. "Perfect chemistry."
And the best part? He could get all three of them for $7 million.
"David," Zane called out to his lawyer, David. "Sign them up."
David nodded. "Consider it done, Boss."
Zane leaned back, interlacing his fingers behind his head. The judges were set. They were solid. They were affordable.
But the show still lacked something.
'The judges are the steak,' Zane mused, staring at the ceiling. 'But I need the sizzle. I need a Host. Someone with energy. Someone the whole world loves. Someone who can take this show from "good" to "legendary."'
He didn't want a boring TV presenter in a suit. He wanted a superstar.
Zane picked up a pen and wrote a single name on a notepad. He circled it three times.
Will Smith.
Zane thought, a confident smile spreading across his face. 'Let's see if he wants to make some history.'
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