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****
That did not mean the donation lacked purpose.
Marvin understood exactly what the headlines would say the following morning. Every newspaper would remind readers that, despite being only thirteen years old, he was already contributing to charitable causes. Every article would reinforce the image of a young prodigy whose success was accompanied by generosity and social responsibility. The publicity value was obvious, and he had recognized it the moment the idea occurred to him.
Still, unlike the reporters who would spend days analyzing his motives, Marvin had not donated the manuscript solely for the attention. The charitable image was a welcome bonus, a calculated benefit he fully intended to receive, but it had never been the center of his thoughts that evening. His attention had been occupied elsewhere—on the woman standing beside him. The donation served two purposes at once, and Marvin saw absolutely no reason not to enjoy both.
Jim lifted one of the pages toward the nearest camera.
The image appeared on the giant projection screens.
"Look at this!"
He stared at the handwriting.
Carrey held the page up. "Look at this beautiful cursive script! Even without the story of the boy wizard, this is a masterpiece of calligraphy!"
The camera zoomed in.
"It looks beautiful." Jim squinted.
"My handwriting looks like a squirrel had a nervous breakdown on a legal pad."
The room dissolved into laughter.
He lowered the page and flashed his trademark grin. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen."
He raised the manuscript. "Let's find out how much money a boy wizard can raise for charity tonight."
The ballroom exploded into applause.
The neat, elegant handwriting on the screens drew a collective murmur of appreciation. The ink flowed across the paper without a single crossed-out line or hesitation. The flawless pages mirrored a printed document.
A few rows away, Steve Jobs adjusted his round glasses. He studied the projected image, then shifted his focus to Marvin.
He gave a small, imperceptible nod.
'There's discipline here. Not the loud kind—the kind that shows up in every detail. The kind most people lack the patience for.'
His gaze sharpened.
'He cares about how it feels, not how it works. Rare. Most people ship. Very few refine.'
Jobs leaned back, his expression calm but certain. 'If more people worked like this, the world wouldn't be filled with so much mediocre stuff.'
"Only one of these exists in the world." Carrey slipped back into his comedic rhythm. "I don't have to tell you how many records this book broke, or how many it will break by next Tuesday! I bid fifty bucks right now for the paper!"
The audience roared with laughter.
Carrey leaned into the microphone. "Alright, let's start the real bidding. Starting bid: One hundred thousand dollars!"
Paddles went up across the room. The executives and producers fought to secure a piece of literary history.
"One hundred and fifty!"
"Two hundred!"
"Three hundred thousand!"
The numbers climbed until a calm, clear voice cut through the noise.
"Five hundred thousand."
A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom.
Conversations died mid-sentence.
Heads turned in unison toward the source of the dramatic jump.
Marvin glanced to his right.
Diana calmly lowered her paddle.
The corners of her lips curved upward ever so slightly, as though she hadn't just doubled the room's expectations.
Marvin leaned closer.
"Sister," he murmured. "You could have simply told me you wanted the manuscript. I would have had it beautifully bound and delivered to your door."
Diana's eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Oh, Marvin."
The fond exasperation in her voice was unmistakable. "Where would the fun be in that?"
She glanced around the room at the stunned faces and struggling bidders.
A mischievous smile appeared. "Besides, I rather enjoy watching all these very important people look completely horrified."
Marvin laughed.
That earned an even brighter smile from her.
"And it's for charity," Diana added softly. "If we're fortunate enough to be sitting in a room like this, then surely we can afford to be generous when it matters."
There was no performance in her voice. No grandstanding. Just the simple sincerity that made people trust her.
She looked back toward the stage.
"If a larger bid encourages others to give a little more than they intended, then that's a wonderful thing."
Her gaze drifted briefly to the manuscript displayed beneath the lights. "And if it helps children at the same time, all the better."
Marvin studied her for a moment.
Even after all these years, she still possessed that rare ability to make generosity sound effortless.
"You're dangerous, Sister."
Diana laughed softly. "That's not usually what people say about me."
"It should be." Marvin nodded toward the room. "You just terrified half of Hollywood into surrendering."
That earned a brighter laugh. "I hardly think I've done anything so dramatic."
"Sister, you raised the bid to half a million dollars without blinking."
Diana tilted her head innocently. "It was for a good cause."
"That somehow makes it more frightening."
Her smile widened.
The auctioneer looked around the ballroom, waiting for another paddle.
None came.
A moment earlier, the room had been alive with competitive energy. Studio executives, producers, and wealthy collectors had eagerly battled for the manuscript.
Now?
Silence.
Several guests exchanged amused glances.
Others suddenly found their drinks extraordinarily interesting.
Few people possessed any desire to engage in a very public bidding war against Diana Spencer.
Not because they couldn't afford it.
Because they didn't particularly want to be remembered as the person who tried to outbid one of the most beloved women on the planet during a charity fundraiser.
Diana slowly realized what had happened. "Oh dear."
Marvin immediately noticed the expression. "You see it too?"
A faint blush touched her cheeks. "I think they might be letting me win."
"Might?" Diana covered a laugh with her hand.
Jim glanced around the room.
"Five hundred thousand dollars going once..."
A new voice cut through the silence.
"Six hundred thousand."
Heads turned.
A young blonde woman sat three tables away. She appeared no older than eighteen. She held her paddle high, dressed in a glittering silver slip dress and a smirk of smug defiance. The crowd shifted their attention to her.
"It's Paris Hilton," a studio executive whispered.
The young heiress locked eyes with Marvin to make her bid. She ignored the manuscript on the stage. She aimed to make a statement and capture the attention of the boy beside the former princess.
The silver slip dress caught the chandelier light, throwing fractured reflections across the pristine tablecloth. Paris Hilton kept her posture razor-straight. To the hundreds of executives and socialites whispering in the ballroom, she was exactly what she projected: the vapid, eighteen-year-old hotel heiress, coasting on a limitless trust fund and a blank, pretty stare.
'Let them think it. It was safer that way.'
Her manicured fingers gripped the wooden auction paddle tight enough to turn her knuckles white. It had only been a few months since Utah. Since the Provo Canyon School. Sometimes, when Marvin's music faded and the rooms got too quiet, she could still hear the heavy deadbolt sliding shut. She could still feel the hands of the strangers who had dragged her from her bed in the middle of the night, while her parents looked the other way and signed the checks.
The lesson she had learned in solitary confinement was brutal but clear: the dark wasn't safe. The only way to survive was to stand in the center of the brightest light possible. If the cameras were always flashing, no one could ever lock her away again. Fame wasn't just a vanity project.
And tonight, she had tracked down the brightest star. The moment she spotted him and Diana on an entertainment news segment covering the 20th Century Fox studio charity gala, she hurried straight here.
She hadn't come to the Twentieth Century Fox gala for a charity, and she certainly wasn't looking at Marvin Meyers with the starry-eyed crush of a teenager. She had watched his rise. She had seen the way he effortlessly bent the world to his will. If she could align her chaotic, rising name with his undeniable star, the troubled teen industry and her controlling family could never touch her again.
The dynamic in the room shifted. The crowd sensed the brewing conflict. Diana carried the weight of old money. Born into a wealthy aristocratic family, her ancestors traced back to the Hanover Dynasty. Her family owned forests, castles, and hunting grounds.
Paris represented a different kind of royalty as the great-granddaughter of Conrad Hilton. Her family controlled luxury real estate across the globe. Paris lived in permanent luxury suites decorated in pink. Her allowance rivaled the salaries of some of the directors in the room. She was spoiled, bold, and unafraid of a fight.
Diana remained unfazed. She raised her paddle slightly. "Seven hundred thousand."
The ballroom buzzed with excitement.
What had begun as a charity auction was rapidly turning into a spectacle. On one side sat Diana Spencer, perhaps the most beloved woman in the world. On the other sat an heiress to one of America's most famous fortunes.
Paris Hilton tilted her chin upward. "Seven hundred and fifty thousand."
Her voice carried easily across the room. The smirk never left her face.
Several guests laughed.
She clearly enjoyed the attention.
Diana reached for her paddle.
Marvin gently placed a hand over hers. "Hold on, Sister."
He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Immediately, hundreds of eyes followed him. The room fell into a hush as hundreds of eyes tracked his movement. He strode toward Paris's table. His steps exuded an unhurried composure. The Incubus aura flared. The subtle frequency commanded the attention of the room and stripped away the illusion of his teenage years.
Even Jim Carrey paused his commentary.
Marvin crossed the ballroom at an unhurried pace before stopping beside Paris's table.
As he closed the distance, the air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Paris felt a sudden, inexplicable prickle at the base of her neck. Every survival instinct she had honed in that cage screamed at her to brace herself. He wasn't like the leering studio heads or the eager, predictable trust-fund lust filled boys she usually manipulated.
He stopped beside her table, resting one hand lightly on the back of an empty chair.
The ambient noise of the gala faded into a dull hum. And then, something strange happened.
Her chest, which had been tight with hyper-vigilant anxiety all evening, suddenly didn't feel so tight. The frantic, rabbit-fast beating of her heart slowed to a steady rhythm in his presence.
Paris raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his approach.
She leaned back, crossing one long, tanned leg over the other. She forced the practiced, breathy tilt into her voice, slipping behind the 'dumb blonde' mask. "Should I be worried?"
"A little," Marvin replied.
The tables around them chuckled, assuming it was just a bit of Hollywood crowd work. But Marvin wasn't smiling for the audience. His eyes—a startling, bottomless blue—locked onto hers. They didn't linger on the plunging neckline of the silver dress or the famous blonde hair. He looked right through the glossy, manufactured shell, straight down to the exhausted girl gripping the paddle like a weapon.
Paris laughed too.
Marvin rested a hand lightly against the back of an empty chair. "Miss Hilton, I have a serious concern."
"Oh, really?" She twirled the paddle, refusing to break character.
"Yes." His expression remained perfectly solemn.
"If this keeps going, people are going to start believing you actually want the manuscript."
A ripple of laughter spread through the room.
Paris placed a hand delicately against her collarbone. "Are you saying I don't?"
"I'm saying you seem to be having entirely too much fun."
"Maybe I am." The smirk on her lips widened.
Marvin nodded. "Exactly my point."
The audience chuckled.
Paris crossed one leg over the other. "So what's your solution, Mr. Meyers?"
Marvin gestured toward the stage. "The purpose of this auction is supposedly charity."
"Supposedly?"
"Hollywood is involved. One can never be completely sure."
The surrounding tables burst into laughter.
Even Paris giggled.
Marvin continued. "So I'd like to propose an alternative."
Paris twirled her paddle between her fingers.
"I'm listening."
"If you genuinely want the manuscript, Diana and I will continue bidding."
He paused.
"But if you're mostly enjoying the attention..." A knowing smile spread across Paris's face.
The room laughed.
She wasn't exactly hiding it. "...then perhaps I can offer something more interesting."
Now the entire ballroom was listening.
"And what would that be?" she asked, her pulse spiking.
Marvin straightened and deliberately raised his voice just enough for nearby guests to hear. "Withdraw your bid."
She let out a soft, genuine laugh. "That's your arrangement?"
"That's only the first half."
The smile on her face widened. "Go on."
Marvin gestured toward the manuscript. "Diana gets the book."
Then he pointed toward himself.
****
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