Century City sits on the south side of Santa Monica Boulevard, west of downtown Los Angeles—one of the bright, buzzing centers of the City of Angels.
Here stand so famous landmarks: Century Plaza Towers, Fox Plaza, and the headquarters of 20th Century Fox.
Yes, the reason it's even called Century City is because the entire area originally belonged to Fox.
The only reason developers got their hands on it was Cleopatra.
That film's disastrous failure bled Fox so dry they had to sell off land to survive. Developers bought it, built Century City, and—by sheer dumb luck—Fox ended up making a fortune off it later.
Because Fox had only sold 81% of the land, the 19% they still owned turned into a gold mine. The rent alone brings in more money every year than most of their film investnts.
This, by the way, is why everyone in the industry loves to call Sony, Panasonic, and Edgar Bronfman Jr. idiots.
Those geniuses spent tens of billions buying Columbia and Universal.
Rupert Murdoch, anwhile, got Fox for just $575 million.
No comparison, no cody.
At the Fox Group's executive dining room, Bernard Eichinger and Gail Berman sat by the window.
After reminiscing a bit about their respective bosses' glorious pasts, Berman smiled and said, "Mr. Eichinger, if I were you, I'd embrace Fox without hesitation—because right now, we're your best option."
"The reason's simple: we're the only ones still interested in Resident Evil."
"And when I say 'only,' I don't just an ABC, CBS, and NBC have already rejected you. I an they won't change their minds anyti soon—because their eyes are glued to The Voice."
"The Voice has reshaped the entire industry. Everyone's throwing their resources into talent shows. But Fox won't—because we already have our own brand: Arican Idol."
Berman paused, lifted his coffee cup toward Eichinger, and took a sip with a calm, victorious smile that made Eichinger narrow his eyes.
He knew exactly what Berman was implying.
Everyone knew The Voice had cornered the talent show market, but every network would still rush to make their own version—not because they were stupid enough to challenge it, but because, in corporate dia, people don't get to choose their battles.
Take this example: if you're the president of CBS and the entire world knows talent shows are the new ratings goldmine, are you going to not make one? No chance.
If you don't follow the trend, you'll have to explain to the board why you didn't.
And if you tell them "The Voice already owns the market," they'll fire you—because clearly, you lack both confidence and initiative.
What's the board paying you millions for, then—moral support?
So, anyone competent enough to hold an executive title is now jumping into the talent show craze.
That ans none of them have the ti—or nerve—to focus on anything else.
Everyone knows competing with The Voice ans losing. The real trick now is how to lose gracefully: how to minimize losses, how to shift bla, how to make sure the board understands how "difficult" it all was (with lots of reports to show for it).
When a company's leadership is focused on self-preservation, how much energy do they really have for creativity?
Exactly.
But even if Eichinger knew Berman was right, he didn't want to admit it.
Admitting it ant conceding that he had no choice—and if he showed weakness now, he'd lose all leverage in this talk.
So—
"Mr. Berman, I can't fully agree," Eichinger said with a polite smile. "dia conglorates are huge, professional systems. Sure, The Voice will push them toward talent shows, but they won't abandon scripted series either. Variety shows drive traffic to dramas, after all—The Voice brought ABC plenty of new viewers for their series lineup."
"It's a symbiotic relationship."
"Oh—you're right," Berman said, smiling again. The grin looked like an admission but felt more like a man who'd already seen through his opponent.
Then—
"Mr. Eichinger—may I call you Bernard?"
"Of course, as long as I can call you Gail."
"Okay, Bernard. Since you understand television so well, that ans Constantin truly wants to invest in the dium, doesn't it?"
Eichinger's face twitched. He realized he'd fallen right into Berman's rhythm.
Before he could recover, Berman coughed lightly and went on, "Okay, Bernard. I ca here in good faith, so let's skip the fluff. How about a bet?"
Eichinger didn't want to bet. He wanted to get up and leave.
But it was too late—he was boxed in.
"Fine. What are we betting on, and how?" he asked through tight lips.
Berman leaned back, all smiles. "It's simple. If, by January 1st next year, NBC or CBS haven't announced plans for new talent shows—or even hinted at developing one—I lose. Otherwise, I win. And the wager…"
"…will be Resident Evil."
"If I win, Fox will give you $2 million upfront to produce a pilot. If the pilot hits a 2.0 rating or higher, we'll order a full season—12 episodes."
"Paynt will scale with ratings. A 2.0 gets $2 million per episode, 3.0 gets $3 million, 4.0 gets $4 million."
"If you win, Fox will skip the pilot and directly order the first season—sa pay scale—but even if ratings fall below 2.0, we'll still give you $2 million per episode."
"No pilot required."
"How about that?"
Eichinger's whole body trembled.
Because that offer—was generous.
Almost no one in TV gets a guaranteed floor paynt like that.
Only the people behind #1 hits do.
Two million an episode wasn't small change. With typical production costs, the studio would still net half a million profit per episode—around five million for a season.
Sure, sothing like Band of Brothers cost $125 million for ten episodes, but unless your na's Steven Spielberg, no one's funding a show like that.
Fox's offer was almost absurdly good.
For a mont, Eichinger felt like Michael Arndt—a man who suddenly realized the "secret alliance" wasn't so secret after all. Because if you knew the details, you knew what ga was being played.
And Eichinger knew the details.
He took a deep breath. "Then, Gail… what's the catch?"
Honestly, the offer had already tempted him. If he joined this "bet," he'd have sothing to bring back to his boss—a win.
But still—Fox never makes a move without a reason.
They weren't just after Resident Evil. They wanted to use him—to move against Warner, Disney, Barry yer, Bob Iger… and most importantly, Isabella Heywood.
So what was it they really wanted? Fantastic Four, perhaps?
His thoughts spun fast.
"Oh, Bernard," Berman said, laughing as he shrugged. "You're overthinking it. Fox just likes your Resident Evil idea. There's no 'catch.'"
"Anyway, that's enough for today. We'll talk again when the bet's settled. In the anti—do whatever you like."
Since Berman had ended the eting, Eichinger didn't linger.
After he left, Berman pulled out his phone and sent a single text to Rupert Murdoch.
Just a comma.
That was enough to make Murdoch smile. He set the phone down, satisfied.
Billions gone overnight? Then it's ti for soone else to rise.
Maybe that text marked the death of the "Anti-Voice Alliance." Whatever ca next—perhaps called Umbrella—would soon step into the light.
While Fox and Constantin were striking deals in secret, The Voice kept blazing like a little sun of its own.
On October 11, 2003, episode four of The Voice's first season aired.
Thanks to the buildup from the first three episodes—and the the of "growth"—the premiere drew 37 million viewers.
Though ratings dipped slightly later, once Bruno Mars made his debut performance—
Whoosh—
That dazzling, sultry show pushed ratings past a 4.0 share—
41.9 million viewers!
Yes, Arican audiences already knew who the contestants were each week. Walls don't hold gossip, especially around The Voice.
The 4.0 rating was thrilling enough. But the behind-the-scenes "growth" clip featuring Bruno alone hit a 3.0 share—making him the season's biggest breakout star.
Warner couldn't help regretting things.
"Isabella, let's make a deal—how about selling Bruno Mars's contract to us?"
During the filming of episode five, Barry yer himself showed up on set.
He treated the crew to dinner, then pulled Isabella aside, smiling like a kindly Buddha.
"Sure," she said, grinning.
"Really?" Barry's eyes lit up. They'd already calculated Bruno's potential—he could be a future superstar.
"Of course," Isabella said again, but this ti with a mischievous glint. "Ten billion."
"Give ten billion, and he's yours."
Barry stopped smiling.
Don't ask why—he just didn't feel like it anymore.
"Fine, no deal!" he huffed, waving a hand. "Not worth the headache!"
As he stomped off, the crew burst out laughing.
anwhile, Nathan Bailey, Barry's assistant, stayed behind. Isabella tilted her head. "Your boss left—why are you still here?"
"Oh, Isabella, I'm here to finish saying what he didn't," Bailey said.
"Which is?"
"AOL Ti Warner will officially change its na by the end of this month. AOL will beco history."
The room went quiet.
Well… that explained why Barry had wanted a private word with the Heywoods.
Vivian asked, "So your chairman is still Steve Case?"
"No," Bailey said. "It's Richard Parsons."
"The Rockefeller man?" Catherine cut in.
"Right. Steve Case will stay on as a board mber, but the new controlling executive will be Jeffrey Bewkes—Barry yer's forr deputy and a close friend of Parsons. With him in charge, Mr. yer won't need to join the board."
"Got it," Isabella said, flashing an okay sign.
Once AOL was gone, the Warner division would have the strongest voice within the company.
They might still not control Turner Broadcasting or AOL directly—but those divisions could no longer undermine them.
And since the new CEO had been Barry yer's right hand, Warner's next move was clear: as long as Steve Case and Ted Turner stayed, they'd be next on the chopping block.
Weeds don't get to grow roots.
On the surface, none of this seed to involve Isabella. She didn't hold Warner stock.
But in reality… well, that was another story.
"Nathan."
"Hm?"
"Call Princess."
"Princess… Your Highness?"
"Mhm. You may rise."
Isabella waved her hand dismissively, and Nathan Bailey's face turned dark.
After two seconds of silence, he could only nod helplessly, then stood and excused himself.
That pitiful look of his made Isabella burst out laughing, and on the way back, Vivian poked her forehead in exasperation.
"Isa— you— you— sigh—"
Ti rolled on.
October 18, 2003. The Voice Season 1, Episode 5 aired right on schedule.
Maybe it was because Bruno Mars had lived up to public expectations—
the average viewership for this episode stabilized directly at a 4 rating.
To the outside world, that was an explosive number— a reason for celebration.
But to Isabella...
"Stanley Gold will officially resign next month."
"Once he submits his resignation, Disney must hold a shareholders' eting within six months."
"At that point, every shareholder with voting rights will gather in Philadelphia."
"I can't guarantee I can kick Eisner out completely, but he definitely won't be able to hold onto the chairman's seat this ti."
"I swear."
The very next day after Episode 5 aired, Robert Iger t with Isabella.
His blunt tone made the girl feign innocence.
"Oh— Bob— I don't understand what you an—"
"I'm just a girl who's almost fourteen."
Iger's lips twitched. He nearly choked on his own irritation.
Rolling his eyes so hard it hurt, he stared at the nearly 5'4" "little girl" in front of him for a long mont before saying, "Thank you."
"Oh~ you're welco~"
This ti Isabella dropped the act, casually accepting his gratitude.
She understood perfectly what Robert Iger ant. Michael Eisner couldn't be kicked out overnight— he knew too many of Disney's secrets, and no one wanted to risk mutual destruction.
But as long as he lost the chairman's title, Disney would effectively be under Iger's control.
Simple enough to grasp, right?
Disney's dia division was already Iger's turf.
Pixar, Disney's own Jerusalem, was in his hands too.
Once shareholders publicly expressed no confidence in Eisner, the rest of Disney's core would follow Iger's lead completely.
And once that happened— aside from his boss Warren Buffett, his ally Roy Disney Jr., his strategic partner Steve Jobs, and Isabella Haywood— no one else could talk down to him.
Don't think that's a long list.
If ruling Disney only required winning over five people, that's practically a casual ga.
"Oh, right. There's one more thing I wanted to ask."
"What is it?"
"Does your little beaver have a na?"
"What little beaver?"
"Isa, there's no one else around right now."
"Okay, okay, I haven't nad her yet. Why?"
"Do you have any plans to develop it?"
"Why are you suddenly asking?"
"Because…"
Iger paused, locking eyes with Isabella. When he saw the teasing glint in her gaze, he just laughed, shook his head, and dropped the topic.
Then ti slipped forward again—
October 25, 2003. The Voice Season 1, Episode 6 premiered.
As the final elimination round, it opened with a bang— viewership shot up to 43.96 million.
And when fan-favorite "Thunder Sister," one of the season's Big Three, took the stage for her farewell performance, the number soared again— 45 million viewers.
The wild figure left everyone speechless.
And anwhile, Isabella was stepping off a car at Los Angeles International Airport.
"Hey— Isabella— long ti no see— missed you so much—!"
Before Isabella could even wave, Tom ca sprinting down the stairs, shouting before his feet hit the tarmac.
His yelling made everyone nearby look up, like a flock of startled hamsters.
Then ca the chorus:
"Oh— Isabella— thanks for inviting —!"
"Isabella! I love you so much— you literally saved my life! You know Goblet of Fire isn't shooting until next year, right? My mom was forcing to go back to school and now I don't have to—!"
"Oh no, Ron! Your mom's right behind you! You trying to get killed?"
"Hahaha— Isabella— I missed you so much~~~"
"Isabella, I read The New York Tis! They said you made history again? You're seriously the coolest!"
"Isabella—"
"Isabella—"
"Isabella—"
Even though The Voice was just an Arican talent show, this was the early 2000s— when Arica still fancied itself the center of the world, beacon of democracy and freedom and all that.
So once The Voice exploded in the U.S., every related topic went global overnight.
The public frenzy was insane— and Isabella got absolutely bombarded by her friends.
One night, she'd just logged into MSN, wanting to see if anyone in the group chat was talking about her.
Then— a tidal wave of ssages hit her.
Tom: 99 ssages, begging to know how to watch The Voice in the UK.
Neville: 99 ssages, just screaming about how aweso she was.
Ron, of course, was the most ridiculous— also 99 , with about 80% of them being cries for help.
One day: "You invited to Arica, right? I really don't want to study anymore."
The next: "You have to let co to the U.S. or I'll get yelled at again!"
The day after: "If you don't let co to Arica, you'll never see again— I'll die of sha from all these D-'s…"
When everyone in the group was losing their minds, Isabella figured she'd better save them from themselves.
So she sent out invitations.
Now that Azkaban had wrapped filming, the gang ca as a group.
She'd invited them ages ago— they just waited for Daniel to be free.
Smiling as she welcod everyone, Isabella felt like a hero returning from war.
Ah yes— look at , savior of fools and master of broomsticks.
While greeting everyone and helping them into the car, she hugged Ginny and laughed—
"Isabella, did you really not turn your little beaver into a toy?"
"All my friends want one!"
That caught everyone's attention.
Ron nodded furiously. "Yeah, yeah, Isabella! Do you know why I wanted to co to Arica? Because your little beaver is everywhere online! Like, super famous! I swear I see you a thousand tis an hour now!"
"It made so desperate to co here and see what The Voice is really like!"
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