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From the microscopic arrangement of DNA to the cosmic spiral of the Milky Way, from the arrangement of petals on a rose to the curve of a nautilus seashell, the universe is built on the foundation of.
Centuries ago, brilliant minds had discovered that the ideal human body is a living monument to this exact equation. The human forearm, measured from the elbow to the fingertips with the wrist acting as the dividing fulcrum, must maintain a golden ratio of approximately 1 : 1.618. If the bone structure exceeds or falls below this precise mathematical ratio, the limb will subconsciously appear disproportionate or clumsy to the naked eye.
Furthermore, the human hand contains phalanges—three distinct bones in each finger—that perfectly decrease in length according to the Fibonacci sequence, which directly approximates the Golden Ratio. Even the cartilage of the human ear is "designed" to form a perfectly proportioned logarithmic spiral.
By observing the exact mathematical distances between the eyes, the width of the lips relative to the nose, and the angle of the jawline, it is an undeniable biological reality that humans who adhere closely to \phi are universally deemed to possess "beautiful facial features." Even in the far future, or in ancient realms of magic and deities, these perfect dimensional proportions remain the absolute, standard template for divine aesthetics.
Because an Incubus's very survival depends on their ability to seduce, captivate, and magnetically draw the desires of mortals, Marvin was obsessively controlling his body to grow strictly according to \phi.
He wanted both "terrifying intellectual skills" and "devastating, outstanding handsomeness." If forced to choose at gunpoint, he would definitely prioritize the latter. It was the ultimate weapon.
And right now, that physical perfection was radiating off him in waves, making the angry fourteen-year-old prince instinctively hesitate as he stepped into Marvin's personal space.
William's eyes dropped from Marvin's flawless face down to his right hand.
Resting on Marvin's index finger was a heavy, antique silver signet ring. It bore a deeply engraved, highly specific family crest.
"I asked you a question," William demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper so the surrounding billionaires wouldn't hear. "That is a Spencer family crest. That ring belongs to my mother's private collection. Why are you wearing it?"
Earlier that afternoon, during their joyous tea in the Presidential Suite, Diana had playfully slipped the antique ring onto Marvin's hand, officially dubbing him an "honorary Spencer" as a continuation of their running joke about him being the boys' new uncle. Marvin had worn it to the gala as a silent tribute to their newfound alliance.
Before Marvin could open his mouth to deliver a devastatingly witty reply, a flash of emerald silk caught his peripheral vision.
"Tell me quickly," William's tone grew increasingly tight, the polished veneer of his royal training slipping to reveal a genuinely angry fourteen-year-old boy. "Where did you get that ring?"
Before Marvin could respond, Harry stepped around his older brother. The twelve-year-old prince's eyes zeroed in on the heavy, antique silver band resting effortlessly on the middle finger of Marvin's left hand. It was adorned with a flawless, square-cut emerald surrounded by intricate, centuries-old filigree.
"Wait a minute," Harry exclaimed, his face flushing with immediate recognition and outrage. "Isn't that Mum's ring? The Spencer emerald? Why the bloody hell are you wearing it?"
Marvin didn't hide his hand. He didn't flinch. He simply raised his left hand, the emerald catching the golden light of the Savoy's massive chandeliers, and casually examined it.
"You mean this?" Marvin asked, his flawless Received Pronunciation dripping with an aristocratic ease that rivaled their own. "Your mother gave it to me this afternoon over tea."
"You're talking absolute nonsense. You clearly stole it," William snapped, his fists clenching at his sides.
William knew, of course, that the impeccably dressed American boy couldn't have actually stolen the ring. If he were a thief, he wouldn't be standing in the VIP mezzanine of a charity gala, openly flaunting the stolen jewelry directly in front of the original owner's children.
The anger radiating from the future King of England wasn't about the monetary value of the emerald. It was about something far deeper, far more fragile. William had asked his mother for that specific ring several times over the past year—a tangible piece of her heritage he wanted to hold onto while the Palace aggressively tried to erase her from the royal narrative. Diana had gently refused, saying it was too ostentatious for a boy his age to wear at Eton.
Yet, here she was, bestowing a treasured family heirloom upon a random, incredibly handsome American boy who was ostensibly the same age as him. To a teenager already traumatized by his parents' brutal, public divorce, it felt as though his mother's fiercely guarded affection had been usurped by a stranger.
"Steal?" Marvin chuckled softly. The sound was rich, resonant, and entirely devoid of defense.
'Ah,' the Incubus thought, 'observing the boys' spiked adrenaline. I've run into a pair of wounded cubs guarding their mother's territory.'
Suddenly, the mild amusement vanished from Marvin's face. His expression hardened into something carved from marble. The air pressure in the alcove seemed to shift, growing heavy and dense as he allowed a fraction of his Incubus aura to bleed into the physical space.
The sheer, overwhelming perfection of his features—the piercing ocean-blue eyes, the sharp jawline, the flawless symmetry—acted as a psychological paralyzer.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" Marvin asked seriously, his voice dropping to a frequency that demanded absolute submission.
Before William and Harry could process the sudden, terrifying weight of the boy's presence, the heavy aura vanished. Marvin smiled—a bright, cheeky, and devastatingly charming grin.
"I'm your Uncle Marvin!"
Harry's face turned bright red. "You're talking absolute rubbish! You're the exact same age as us! You are not our uncle!" the younger prince exploded from the side, practically vibrating with rage.
"I am talking about formal seniority, Harry," Marvin corrected smoothly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his velvet trousers.
William frowned deeply, his blue eyes turning icy as he stared Marvin down. "You're lying. You can't be our uncle. I know every single member of our extended family. The Spencers, the Windsors, the Mountbattens. Harry and I do not have an uncle as young as you."
"Yes, we definitely don't have an uncle as young as you," Harry chimed in, backing his brother up, ready for a fight.
"I never claimed I was related to you by blood. That would be a biological nightmare for everyone involved," Marvin said, his eyes dancing with amusement. "I am your mother's newly adopted godbrother. Your honorary god-uncle. Isn't that right?"
"You're completely mad!" Harry shouted, abandoning protocol entirely. "Mum would never accept some arrogant American kid as her little brother!"
"William, he's taking the mickey out of us. Let's just beat him up and take the ring back!" Harry surged forward, his fists raised, fully intending to tackle the boy in the velvet tuxedo right there on the Persian rug.
Amy, who had been keeping an eye on the whole situation, had to step in to protect her boss, William shot his arm out, grabbing his younger brother by the lapel of his suit and violently jerking him back.
"Harry, shut up!" William hissed, his voice tight with panic. He looked nervously down over the balcony at the hundreds of reporters, billionaires, and aristocrats milling about the ballroom below. "This is Mum's charity gala. We cannot make a massive scene out of this. Not now. Not when the Palace is already looking for any excuse to humiliate her in the press. We have to behave."
Amy watched the exchange from a few feet away, her heart aching slightly for the boys.
Harry's temper was volatile and raw, but William was already suffocating under the heavy, invisible crown. Even though William was clearly burning with jealousy and wanted to wipe the smug smile off Marvin's face just as badly as Harry did, the way he forced his voice down showed that he fundamentally understood the stakes. He was protecting his mother.
After wrestling his brother back into submission, William straightened his jacket. He looked at Marvin with a cold, composed, and distinctly royal glare.
"Listen to me, you rude, arrogant little... Mr. Marvin," William said, his voice trembling slightly with the effort to remain polite. "Please remember your place. You are not our uncle. Even if our mother finds you charming and calls you her brother as a joke, you are not family. Also, that ring belongs to my family's estate. Give it back to me. Now."
Marvin tilted his head slightly. He didn't look insulted. He looked genuinely entertained.
"How about this, gentlemen," Marvin proposed, taking a step forward. He bypassed their royal titles entirely, treating them as equals in a schoolyard negotiation. "Let's make a wager. A gentleman's bet. If I win, you will both formally address me as 'Uncle Marvin' for the remainder of the evening, and you will introduce me as such to anyone who asks."
He held up his left hand, the emerald flashing. "If I lose, I will take this ring off right now, place it in your hand, and you can tell your mother I lost it in a game of chance. Are you in?"
Harry's eyes lit up with competitive fire. "William, let's take the bet! We can beat him!"
William, however, remained cautious. He had been raised in a court of vipers; he knew a trap when he saw one. He looked Marvin up and down, searching for the catch.
"Tell me exactly what you want to bet on first," William demanded, crossing his arms. "I'm not agreeing to a footrace or a math equation."
"Oh, nothing so pedestrian," Marvin smiled, his deep blue eyes gleaming with dark, predatory mischief.
He didn't suggest something barbaric or physical. He wasn't going to make a man bark like a dog or crawl on the floor. That was a cheap, thuggish display fit for a back-alley brawl, not the Savoy Hotel. In the razor-sharp world of high society, physical violence was entirely uncouth. True power in this ecosystem was the ability to completely and utterly destroy a person's social standing, forcing them to humiliate themselves by their own volition.
Marvin stepped up to the mahogany railing and looked down into the glittering sea of the Lancaster Ballroom.
"Do you see that man over there?" Marvin asked, pointing discreetly toward the open bar.
William and Harry stepped up to the railing, following his gaze. Amy stepped up beside them.
Standing near an ice sculpture of a swan was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, sweating profusely in his tuxedo. He was desperately trying to corner a wealthy French film director, laughing entirely too loudly while holding a glass of scotch.
"That is Grant Brook," Marvin stated, his voice turning cold. "A senior music producer. And a spectacular coward."
"I know him," William frowned. "He used to come to Kensington Palace for tea with Mum before the divorce."
"Precisely," Marvin said. "He owes his entire career to your mother. Yet, when she asked him to take a meeting with me today, he hid in his office and refused to take her calls, because he is terrified of your father's new social circle. He is currently standing in your mother's ballroom, drinking her free champagne, while actively betraying her."
Harry's face darkened with instant, protective fury. "That absolute rat."
"I completely agree," Marvin nodded. "So, here is the wager. I bet that within the next ten minutes, I can make Grant Brook cross this ballroom, publicly humiliate himself, grovel for an introduction he currently thinks he's too good for, and then flee this hotel in absolute, career-ending social disgrace."
Marvin turned his head, looking at the two stunned princes. His Incubus aura flared, cold and absolute.
"And I will do it entirely from this balcony," Marvin finished. "Without a single drop of spilled champagne. Without raising my voice. Without ever touching him. If he does not run out of those doors with his tail between his legs, the emerald is yours."
*****
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