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Inside the sprawling, meticulously manicured grounds of the Meyers family estate in San Marino, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the chaotic soundstages of Shepperton. It was quiet. It was ordered. And it was incredibly exclusive.
Marvin was entirely alone in the massive, mahogany-paneled home. He had given Amy a mandatory, fully paid day off. The lady had spent the entire flight across the Atlantic furiously drafting corporate memos, finalizing the Cheiron Studios escrow, and organizing the European banking contacts. She had earned her rest, currently sleeping off the brutal jet lag in the luxurious West Hollywood apartment Grant had secured for her.
Marvin, however, did not require sleep. He required momentum.
At exactly 10:00 AM, the heavy oak doors of the room opened. Mrs. Aranda escorted a sharp, deeply tanned man in his mid-forties into the room. He wore a flawless, slate-grey Brioni suit, his hair perfectly coiffed, radiating the aggressive, high-voltage energy of a man who manipulated Hollywood for a living.
This was Jeff Raymond, a Senior Partner at the Creative Artists Agency (CAA)—the most feared and powerful talent agency on the planet. They represented titans. They navigated boardrooms alongside men like Tom Cruise and Tom Hanks. And yet, as he stepped into the office, his practiced, predatory swagger momentarily faltered.
Standing by the window, bathed in the California sun, was his new client.
Marvin turned around. The eleven-year-old boy was dressed casually in a crisp white linen shirt and dark trousers, but his posture was absolute. His aura—a terrifying, magnetic blend of impossible handsomeness and, suffocating gravity—filled the room instantly. Jeff felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to straighten his tie.
"Hello, Marvin," Jeff said, stepping forward and offering a firm, highly calibrated handshake. "It is an absolute honor to serve you."
"Hello, Mr. Raymond," Marvin replied, his voice a smooth, resonant baritone that sent a momentary shiver of cognitive dissonance down the agent's spine.
"Please, just call me Jeff," the agent smiled, deploying his trademark, million-dollar Hollywood charm. "After all, given the preliminary papers your father and I signed, we are going to be working together for a very long time. We can afford to be a bit more casual about how we address each other."
Marvin looked at the outstretched hand, his deep, ocean-blue eyes analyzing the man in a fraction of a second. He took the hand. The grip was cold, firm, and entirely dominant.
"Okay, Jeff," Marvin said, turning smoothly toward the massive oak desk. "Let's get started."
Jeff blinked, his smile freezing in place. "Excuse me? Started with what?"
"Work," Marvin stated flatly, taking a seat in the high-backed leather executive chair.
"You mean... right now?" Jeff asked, slightly taken aback. Usually, first meetings with new clients—especially child actors—involved an hour of sycophantic small talk, flattering their egos, and discussing their dreams over expensive sparkling water.
"That's right," Marvin smiled. It was a beautiful, chilling expression. He reached into a leather messenger bag resting beside his chair and pulled out a thick, bound stack of pristine manuscripts. He slid them across the polished mahogany.
"Jeff, this is my new script," Marvin announced, his tone shifting into the undeniable cadence of a studio head. "I expect you to take this into the boardrooms and secure investment from a major film company. And, of course, the foundational terms are non-negotiable: I am the male lead, and the Zenith Trust will provide exactly half of the total production budget."
Jeff stared at the thick manuscript resting on the desk. He was a Senior Partner at CAA; he was handed dozens of vanity projects a week by delusional actors who thought they could write.
"May I take a look?" Jeff asked, masking his internal skepticism with professional courtesy. "Of course you may. That is exactly why you were hired," Marvin replied, leaning back and resting his fingertips together. "If you do not fundamentally understand the architecture of the stories I write, how can you possibly pitch them to the executives at Warner Brothers or Paramount?"
Jeff took a seat across from the boy, adjusted his suit jacket, and pulled the manuscript toward him. The title page was stark and minimalist.
The Sixth Sense.
Jeff turned to the first page. Instantly, his eyes widened.
This wasn't just a screenplay formatted in Courier font. Interleaved between the scenes were meticulously hand-drawn, highly professional storyboards. The camera angles, the lighting cues, the blocking—it was all mapped out with the agonizing, perfect precision of a veteran auteur.
Jeff began to read.
He intended to just skim the first ten pages to get a feel for the dialogue. But the Incubus had woven psychological hooks directly into the pacing of the text. Ten pages turned into twenty. The haunting dialogue of the troubled child psychologist, the terrifying, creeping dread of the boy who could see the dead, the flawless, suffocating build-up of tension—it was a masterclass in psychological horror.
The silence in the home office stretched for thirty excruciating minutes. Marvin sat perfectly still, casually reviewing a financial ledger, while one of the agent was entirely consumed by a stack of paper.
When Jeff finally reached the ending—the devastating, paradigm-shifting twist that would eventually become legendary in cinematic history—he physically gasped.
He slowly looked up. His eyes, usually guarded and cynical, were filled with raw, unadulterated astonishment.
"Marvin," Jeff breathed, setting the script down as if it were a live explosive. "This... this isn't just a 'good' script. This is a phenomenon waiting to happen. I won't just find a buyer for this. I will start a bidding war that will burn the studios to the ground."
"Excellent," Marvin purred, his blue eyes flashing. "But remember the parameters. The main character is mine. And I provide half the investment."
"Of course," Jeff nodded furiously, his brain operating at lightspeed. "If you are financing fifty percent, you aren't just the talent. You are the studio. You dictate the terms."
As Jeff looked at the eleven-year-old boy, the sheer, terrifying brilliance of his own employment contract suddenly snapped into crystal-clear focus.
When Grant Meyers had originally summoned Jeff to his Century City office to negotiate the representation deal, Jeff had been deeply insulted by the initial terms.
In Hollywood, standard agency commission was ten percent. If an agent booked a star on a twenty-million-dollar movie, the agent took two million. It was the golden rule.
But Grant Meyers had completely, utterly shattered that rule. The Meyers patriarch had flatly refused to give CAA ten percent of his son's gross earnings. Marvin wasn't just an actor taking a flat fee; he was a writer, a composer, a producer, and a massive equity investor. He took profit-sharing backend deals.
The intellectual properties Marvin was generating were poised to rake in hundreds of millions of dollars globally. Ten percent of Marvin's earnings would have effectively made Jeff Raymond a billionaire off the labor of a child. It was mathematically absurd, and the Zenith Trust had stonewalled it.
Instead, Grant had offered a fixed, escalating retainer contract for three years.
Year One: $300,000 base salary.
Year Two: $1,000,000.
Year Three: $1,500,000.
Initially, it felt like a massive blow to Jeff's ego. He was a shark. He didn't work for a flat salary. But as Jeff sat in the San Marino estate, looking at the flawless script for The Sixth Sense and realizing the boy was putting up half the budget, the true genius of the deal hit him.
Soft power.
A base salary of $300,000 from a single child actor was already staggering—it put Jeff securely in the top one percent of Hollywood agents, easily rivaling the liquid cash flow of his peers handling A-listers like Tom Cruise.
But the real money, the true power in Hollywood politics, wasn't the flat fee. It was the packaging.
If Marvin was writing brilliant, guaranteed blockbuster scripts and financing half the budget, Marvin was effectively a greenlighting entity. And as Marvin's exclusive agent, Jeff held the keys to the castle. Jeff could actively plant his other CAA clients into Marvin's movies. He could package CAA directors, CAA co-stars, and CAA cinematographers into The Sixth Sense.
He could use Marvin's money and Marvin's genius to elevate his entire agency roster, not to mention his own clients earning his standard ten percent off of every single adult star he attached to the boy's projects. Marvin would make Jeff Raymond the undisputed Kingmaker of Hollywood.
"I completely understand the parameters, Marvin," Jeff smiled, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt. "Consider the boardrooms conquered."
"Oh, by the way, Jeff," Marvin added, seamlessly shifting gears without breaking a sweat. "Random House called my Chief Operating Officer in London. They are highly interested in accelerating the publication of my second novel. I want you to handle the negotiations, draft the terms, and mail the preliminary contracts directly to Amy for her review."
Jeff immediately shifted from film agent to literary shark. "Understood. May I ask what your current baseline treatment is for the Kung Fu Panda publication?"
"Fifteen percent gross royalties," Marvin stated, his voice devoid of arrogance, simply stating a market fact.
Jeff's perfectly coiffed eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "Wow. Fifteen percent? That is astronomical for a debut. Alright, then that is our absolute floor for this new book. We push for eighteen."
Marvin smiled, a genuine, terrifyingly mature expression. "You understand me perfectly, Jeff."
Jeff tapped his fingers against the mahogany desk, his strategic mind whirring. He looked at the boy, deciding to prove his worth right out of the gate. He wasn't hired to be a sycophantic yes-man; he was hired to be a tactician. "Marvin, if I may offer a strategic pivot?" Jeff asked.
Marvin inclined his head gracefully. "Proceed."
"I actually think there is absolutely no need to rush the publication of your second novel," Jeff advised, leaning forward. "The sales for the Kung Fu Panda novelization are currently compounding. Especially this week. The European tabloids have been relentlessly connecting your jaw-dropping vocal performance at Princess Diana's Savoy Gala directly to your existing intellectual properties. You are dominating the news cycle."
Jeff pointed a finger at the calendar on the desk. "If we drop a new book now, it cannibalizes your own momentum. I believe the optimal time to formally publish your second novel would be in late June. We wait until The Parent Trap movie hits theaters and the Kung Fu Panda book reaches its absolute zenith of heavy, cross-platform promotion. We let the market starve for your next project, and then we feed them when they are absolutely ravenous."
Marvin sat silently for a long moment, his ancient, ocean-blue eyes searching the agent's face.
Then, the Incubus smiled. A brilliant, blinding expression of pure approval.
"Hmm," Marvin hummed, his resonant voice filling the room. "Jeff, I like your strategic vision. It is ruthless, and it is patient. Bring this exact timeline request to the Random House board as well. Tell them we delay until summer."
"Don't worry, Marvin, I will handle them," Jeff grinned, the adrenaline of the meeting fully taking over. "It's my job to fight for the absolute maximum leverage of my employer."
As Jeff Raymond gathered the priceless script and secured it in his leather briefcase, a profound sense of awe washed over him. He was entirely satisfied with his new client, and more importantly, Marvin was visibly satisfied with him.
This young prodigy has absolutely unlimited potential, Jeff thought to himself as he shook Marvin's hand one last time and walked out of the home office. And it is not just limited to the film and television industry. He has his hands in publishing, music, and corporate finance. 'He isn't just a client. He is going to become the single most important pillar of my entire career.'
*****
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