Date: May 1986
The Workshop smelled of sawdust and ink, but the air around Julian had shifted. Where once his companies had been dismissed as fledgling projects, now they were regarded with wary respect. Respect, however, came at a price.
It started with a knock on the office door. A man in his forties, wearing a union badge on his lapel, introduced himself without waiting for invitation. "Name's Frank O'Donnell. Represent the local carpenters' guild. Heard you've been hiring plenty of our boys."
Carl stiffened at the man's tone, but Julian remained calm. "We hire talent," he said evenly. "Guild or not, we pay fair."
Frank leaned on the desk. "Fair by your standards, maybe. But once you're signing with Orion and expanding, you're no longer just a workshop. You're a studio. Studios work union. Non-negotiable."
Julian studied him with the quiet intensity that made even seasoned men uncomfortable. In his mind, the Mind Internet flickered to life. Frozen archive: countless cases of studios crushed by strikes, productions stalled, reputations ruined by labor disputes. Disney in the 40s. Broadway lockouts. Hollywood directors forced to shut sets for weeks. Current feed: chatter in trade papers about union tensions across the city.
He spoke at last. "We will meet fair terms. But we won't be extorted. Bring me a proposal that respects both labor and sustainability. We are not the majors—you know that. If you bleed us dry now, you kill jobs for everyone."
Frank smirked. "You've got a silver tongue, kid. But you'll learn—every studio plays by our rules sooner or later." He left without shaking hands.
Carl muttered under his breath. "Parasites."
Julian shook his head. "No. Power groups. Parasites take without giving. Unions protect, but they also suffocate if not balanced. We will balance."
He opened his ledger and wrote a line: Negotiate with power, never against it.
---
The second wave came not from labor but from pens sharper than knives. The New York Times published a review of Shadow Alley three months after release, calling it "a clumsy attempt at noir, salvaged only by a sense of raw energy." Smaller critics piled on, each eager to cut down the young studio that dared to look legitimate.
Mira slammed the paper onto Julian's desk. "They're targeting us. It's fashionable to sneer at anything that smells ambitious."
Julian scanned the column, then folded it neatly. "Good. Let them sneer. Criticism builds prestige as surely as praise. Only the ignored are truly dead."
He leaned back, recalling frozen archive lessons: Orson Welles destroyed by critics, then revived by later acclaim; Miramax weaponizing controversy to generate headlines. "We will not beg for their approval. We will create a body of work that drowns them in inevitability."
Mira's lips curved faintly. "You make even insults sound like leverage."
---
But the third wave was the most dangerous: rivals.
An unsigned note arrived at Vanderford Publishing, slipped under the door: Stay in your lane, Vanderford. Independent film is crowded enough. We don't need another shark.
Marcus traced the handwriting, unimpressed. "Petty intimidation. Some indie outfit scared of losing scraps."
Julian disagreed. "Not petty. Predictable. Success attracts sabotage."
That night, he combed the frozen archive for patterns of sabotage—competitors bribing inspectors to shut down productions, whisper campaigns planting fake scandals, sudden lawsuits over contracts. He knew they would come. The key was anticipation.
He called Sophia the next morning. "I want airtight contracts on every front—labor, actors, distributors. Assume someone will sue us in bad faith within the year."
Sophia arched an eyebrow. "Paranoia or preparation?"
"Both," Julian answered.
---
The pressures weighed on Demi too. As her profile grew—first as an actress, then as "the girl tied to Julian Vanderford"—paparazzi began circling. She vented one evening in the Workshop loft, tossing her coat onto a chair. "They don't care about my acting, Jules. They just want to know if I'm your mistress or your partner."
Julian closed his ledger, walked over, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then we define the narrative. You are both. An artist and a partner. They will mock, they will pry, but they will not define you. We will."
Her expression softened, though her voice was sharp. "Easy for you to say. You thrive on being mysterious. I'm the one who has to smile through interviews."
Julian's hand lingered, steady. "Then we play the game differently. You'll choose roles that prove your talent. I'll shield you with contracts and strategy. Together, we'll outlast the gossip."
Demi searched his face for a long moment, then kissed him fiercely, as though sealing a pact.
---
By the end of May, Julian felt the weight of credibility in every direction. The subsidiaries were no longer invisible. They were targets. Unions wanted in. Critics wanted blood. Rivals wanted him gone. Even allies demanded more of him.
And yet, as he stood at the window watching the city burn orange in the evening light, he felt no fear. This was the cost of legitimacy, and he had already paid worse prices in his past life.
He opened his ledger and wrote: Credibility attracts predators. Build teeth, not just roots.
The chapter closed on him turning the page, already sketching plans for the battles to come.
The morning after Frank O'Donnell's visit, Julian summoned Marcus, Sophia, and Carl to his office. The union question could not be left hanging.
"We're not fighting them," Julian said flatly. "We're negotiating. Unions can cripple us if we resist, but if we show good faith and set boundaries now, they'll protect us later."
Carl scowled. "Protect us? They'll bleed us."
"Not if they feel invested," Julian countered. He tapped the ledger. "We tie wages to profit margins. We guarantee safe conditions and training. In return, we demand flexibility and no wildcat strikes. A partnership, not a hostage situation."
Sophia leaned back, impressed despite herself. "You're suggesting codifying labor peace before we even have large-scale productions."
"Exactly," Julian said. "In the frozen archive, I saw what happens otherwise—productions collapsing under strikes, millions wasted, reputations ruined. We'll pay a little more now to avoid paying everything later."
Marcus adjusted his glasses. "So… sustainability instead of confrontation."
Julian's pen scratched across the page: Rule: Balance labor. Buy peace early.
---
While Sophia drafted proposals for the guild, a very different sound echoed downstairs: saxophones, upright bass, and the steady pulse of drums. Raga Records' quartet had finished their first sessions, and now the engineers were cutting master tapes.
Julian slipped quietly into the studio, arms folded. The music filled the padded room, smoky and alive, more honest than the plastic hits dominating radio. When the take ended, the saxophonist looked up, sweat gleaming. "That's the one," he said hoarsely.
Julian nodded once. "Good. Package it. Release it locally first—clubs, indie stations, cultural journals."
Within a month, the debut single—City Shadows—was pressed in small batches. It wasn't mainstream pop, but it found a pulse in late-night radio and small jazz bars. A downtown cultural magazine called it "a raw, unpretentious record from an unlikely new label."
Mira brought the clipping to Julian with a grin. "They're calling us authentic."
"Authentic sells long after fashionable dies," Julian replied. "Good. Let them write more."
Word spread among musicians. A folk singer from Brooklyn wrote in asking for a meeting. A garage rock band begged Sophia to review their demo. Even a young pop vocalist whispered about leaving her exploitative contract to join Raga. The label was earning a reputation: the house that paid fairly.
---
Late one evening, Julian sat with the Mind Internet humming at the back of his mind. He pulled search queries from the frozen archive:
"Music catalog undervaluation 1980s."
"Artists selling rights cheaply."
"Long-term value of masters."
Dozens of case studies unfurled. Labels selling entire catalogs to cover debts. Rock legends who signed away rights for pennies. Jazz archives languishing in warehouses.
He wrote carefully in his notebook:
Acquire undervalued catalogs.
Focus on jazz, classical, early rock.
Preserve masters; future demand will soar.
Never sell rights outright—license only.
He underlined the page and added a rule: Stories outlive singers. Own the story, not the face.
---
Meanwhile, Demi faced her own battles. She had been called in for an audition at a mid-tier studio—a gritty drama that promised visibility but reeked of exploitation. She came to Julian with the script, frowning.
"They want me topless in three scenes," she said, voice tight. "They say it's 'artistic necessity.'"
Julian leafed through the script, expression cold. In the frozen archive he remembered dozens of actresses chewed up by the 80s and 90s machine, their early roles weaponized against them forever.
"Refuse it," he said flatly. "You don't need visibility bought with humiliation. Lotus will give you roles that showcase your craft, not your body."
Demi exhaled, torn between relief and frustration. "But what if it hurts my career? What if I'm seen as 'difficult'?"
Julian met her gaze, steel in his voice. "Then let them call you difficult. Better to be difficult and respected than easy and discarded. You're not here to be another pretty face chewed up by the system. You're here to build a career that endures. And I'll make sure of it."
For a moment she was silent, then she laughed softly. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is," Julian said. "You just need someone ruthless enough to enforce it."
She leaned forward, kissed him with slow determination, and whispered against his lips, "Then be ruthless, Jules. I'll follow your lead."
---
By month's end, the empire felt stretched but alive. Lotus Films was deep in pre-production, negotiating with Orion under tighter contracts. Vanderford Publishing was printing essays reprinted overseas. Raga Records had its first small hit and a reputation that pulled artists toward it.
But Julian knew credibility was a double-edged sword. The unions circled, critics sharpened pens, rivals tested boundaries. And yet, each threat felt like confirmation. They would not bother with him if he were irrelevant.
He closed his ledger that night with one last line: Credibility is currency. Spend it wisely, invest it relentlessly.
The Workshop exhaled around him, alive with music, ink, and construction. Each branch grew in its own way, feeding the same root. And Julian knew—every note, every essay, every scene filmed was more than content. They were building blocks of sovereignty.
The negotiation table smelled of coffee and paper, and the union's representatives smelled like someone who had spent years learning how to make employers uncomfortable in perfectly polite ways. The room at Vanderford Workshop was small for a meeting of consequence, chosen deliberately—no grand boardroom to flatter either side, no gilded power to hide behind.
Julian sat at one end, Marcus on his left, Sophia on his right. Across from them, Frank O'Donnell had brought two colleagues: a steward from the carpenters' guild and a woman from the local performers' union. They had been watching the Workshop's growth with cautious interest; now they came to ensure the new company lived up to its talk of fairness.
Frank opened the session. "We want wages that reflect your growth, not wages based on your startup narrative. We want clear retirement contributions, medical benefits, and binding grievance procedures. And when the productions grow, we want a path to proportional compensation for long hours and overtime."
Sophia passed a folder across the table. "We anticipated many of your concerns. Here is a draft we'd like you to review: a labor compact tailored to our scale. It guarantees living wages for full-time staff, a training fund administered by a joint committee, and a clear arbitration process. We propose premium overtime rates but suggest a flexible scheduling model for productions with bottlenecked hours—voluntary overtime, paid at agreed premiums and with minimum advance notice."
Frank flipped through, scowling at the word "flexible." "Voluntary is often voluntary in name only. On a set, pressure builds. We need hard limits."
Julian leaned forward. "Then we make the limits legal. No unpaid mandatory overtime. We will define reasonable hours and exceptions with a jointly agreed emergency clause that requires a two-thirds committee vote to invoke. If invoked, premiums apply and a clear restoration plan must be filed within seventy-two hours."
Tracks of unease shifted to careful calculation across Frank's face. He liked the specificity—precision cut away a lot of bluff. "And the trust you promised—employee shares? How will that vest? We've seen companies promise and later wall off value."
Marcus supplied the answer. "Shares vest over a four-year schedule with cliff protection at one year. If someone leaves unfairly, the reissuance clause returns shares to the trust; if someone is bought out, the trust gets priority. We also limit external transfer: shares cannot be sold on the open market and are subject to first-refusal by the holding."
Frank's eyes narrowed. "Sounds tidy. What about the apprentices? They're vulnerable—no credit, no savings. Will you lock investment into their training?"
Julian nodded. "A percentage of each subsidiary's annual surplus goes into a training endowment. Apprentices eligible after one year will receive accelerated vesting credits proportionate to completed apprenticeship milestones. We're creating upward mobility, not a revolving door."
The room threaded through objections and counters for hours. Frank's team, careful and experienced with labor's hard edge, pressed for protections; Sophia cut them down to mechanisms Julian could live with. Each hard-line demand was answered with a legal solution and a moral argument: stability buys jobs; predictability buys trust. When at last both sides sat back, hands rubbed and sleeves adjusted, there was a quiet agreement in the air—hard-won, but stable.
They signed the compact with little ceremony. Cameras would later catch a polite handshake for the local paper, but the real victory was procedural: clauses recorded, dispute panels constituted, an independent auditor assigned to the trust. The union left with a cautious nod; Vanderford retained room to breathe. It was neither capitulation nor victory, but it was survivable—and that, to Julian, meant strategic.
After the meeting, as the crowd dispersed, Frank lingered near Carl's workbench. "Kid," he said gruffly, "you did what we don't get from many bosses. Don't make promises you can't keep." He grinned faintly, the kind of smile men reserve for people who might be worth watching. "Call me before you try to cut corners."
Julian's reply was simple. "I will. We'll keep the house together."
With the labor question settled—tentatively, but legally—Julian pivoted to the music side of the empire. Raga Records had a name that now traveled through small clubs and late-night radio shows. The jazz quartet's City Shadows sold a modest but reliable run of vinyl and cassette; it created foot traffic and conversation, and small stores in Greenwich Village wanted more product. Julian realized the label needed a distribution backbone that matched Lotus Films' slow, credible path: not a rush to national chains, but a controlled expansion that avoided predatory middlemen.
He called Marcus and Sophia into the studio the next morning and sketched a precise plan.
"First," Marcus said after a quick number-check, "we don't have capital to build a full distribution network. But we can create a hybrid: a Vanderford distribution desk that handles direct shipments, regional promotion coordination, and cassette/LP pressing coordination—basically an operations cell that plugs into existing independent supply chains."
Sophia added, "We'll use contract logistics rather than ownership—relationships with pressing plants, couriers, and indie distributors. Build control without owning racks in the majors. Create a code of terms for partners: clean reporting, predictable lead times, and a revenue-share that favors the label until we scale."
Julian's Mind Internet hummed in the background as he thought through the sequence. He had seen majors crush small labels when they surrendered distribution control. He indexed the frozen archive for small labels that had negotiated poor distribution terms and for those rare ones that had built cooperative regional networks. Lessons aggregated into rules: own the reporting, own the masters, and control the first-mile logistics.
"Step two," he said, "is to create Vanderford Distribution Desk—VDD—as a subsidiary service arm. It won't be a distributor in the theater sense; it will book product to indie racks, coordinate regional radio pushes, manage pressings, and execute targeted marketing—college towns, jazz circuits, public radio affiliates. We'll invoice stores directly and control P&L for each title."
Marcus sketched projections: short-term deficits for inventory and marketing, but break-even in nine months with conservative growth. The math was tight but plausible. Julian liked the cadence: deliberate investments that cultivated demand rather than bought audiences.
Sophia cautioned on contracts. "We need template agreements ensuring masters remain with the artist or the label as per deal—no one signs away rights just to get a pressing. And our distributor partners must accept quarterly reconciliations and audit rights. Literal transparency."
Julian nodded. "We'll offer regional exclusives to small stores—limited pressing runs that create scarcity and buzz, build goodwill among tastemakers. Combine that with the Journal's reviews and Raga-backed events at venues we can influence." He turned to Mira. "Design limited-release covers. Make them tangible. Make them art."
Mira's eyes gleamed. "I can design a series. Hand-numbered sleeves for the first run. It'll feel like ownership for buyers."
They set the plan in motion. Contracts were drafted; a pressing plant in New Jersey was booked for the next month; a list of independent radio stations and college DJs was prepared for outreach. Marcus negotiated payment windows that staggered cash flow to avoid a large initial outlay. Sophia tied audit clauses to all distribution partners. Julian wrote the final line in his notebook and underlined it twice: Control reporting. Control masters. Create scarcity, then scale.
The days that followed moved faster. The first batch of LP sleeves arrived, Mira's designs catching light in the office while the printing press still smelled of ink. Marcus arranged shipments to a handful of handpicked stores. Raga promoted a release night at a small, reputable club; the venue filled. Reviewers who had once ignored Lotus's films now noticed the small, consistent ecosystem Vanderford was building—a film here, a music release there, essays that framed both.
It was still small—still vulnerable—but it had structure and intent. The compact with the unions reduced the chance of sudden stoppages. The Vanderford Distribution Desk gave Raga control of first-mile distribution without the need to buy racks in a hundred stores or to accept exploitative national terms. Julian had created a micro-architecture of logistics and law that could be scaled when the money and credibility allowed it.
That night he walked home with Demi, their conversation easy. "You did well today," she said, fingers warm in his. "You made people believe you were serious."
He looked at her, then at the city. "Belief is a fragile currency," he said. "We have to honor it, not squander it. Every promise must be earned."
Demi nodded. "Then let's earn it."
He squeezed her hand, thinking of the long game: union clauses, trust mechanics, audited reporting, regional vinyl runs—small arcs that together kept the tree growing without toppling it. The price of credibility was heavy, but it bought something more valuable than headlines: time. With time, Julian knew, empires settled into permanence. And permanence, in his ledger and in his mind, would be the weapon he wielded to bend entire industries—and nations—toward the future he had memorized.