Date: July 1986
The Brooklyn warehouse was finally quiet. The cameras had been packed away, the sets dismantled, and the actors released. Carl stayed late, supervising apprentices as they bundled leftover props into storage, but Julian's mind had already shifted to what came next: distribution, leverage, and survival.
Lotus's second film, tentatively titled Concrete Veins, was in post-production. Editing reels stacked like bricks in the Workshop's new cutting room. But Julian knew a film wasn't a film until it reached screens. Orion had been cooperative, even cautious, but their tone was changing. Success turned allies into negotiators.
The call came one muggy evening. Marcus answered first, passing the receiver to Julian after a few polite exchanges. The voice on the other end belonged to an Orion executive, smooth but sharp.
"Mr. Vanderford, Shadow Alley was profitable. Barely, but profitable. That makes you interesting. The second picture? We'd like to expand its release—but our marketing contribution will be capped unless you agree to more favorable terms."
Julian leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed. In his mind, the Mind Internet stirred, pulling frozen reports of Orion's later troubles—overexpansion, poor deal structures, costly failures in the early '90s. He knew this company's arc as clearly as he knew the shape of the ledger on his desk.
"What terms?" Julian asked, voice calm.
"Distribution fee increase. And we'd like a slice of television rights for overseas syndication. Standard procedure."
Julian smiled faintly, though the executive could not see it. "Standard procedure is for those who need you. We don't need you. We partner because it is efficient. Not because we lack options."
The executive bristled. "Careful, boy. Theaters talk to us before they talk to you."
Julian's reply was smooth steel. "True. But theaters also talk to profit. And I can show them profit."
He hung up before the conversation could sour further, leaving Marcus blinking. "You cut him off."
Julian wrote in his ledger: Rule: Never negotiate hungry. Walk away before they believe you starve.
---
While Orion flexed, Raga Records tightened its grip on credibility. The jazz quartet played a release show in a smoky club downtown. The room was packed beyond fire code, sweat beading on the walls. Mira had designed limited posters, hand-numbered, sold at the door for a few dollars each. They sold out in minutes.
Julian stood at the back with Sophia and Marcus, watching the crowd sway. The saxophonist blew a solo that cut through the air like a blade, and the audience roared.
"This," Sophia whispered, "is how you build a cult following."
Julian nodded. "A cult that pays."
The next morning, sales orders doubled. A small distributor in Chicago called, begging for stock. The Vanderford Distribution Desk was swamped, but Marcus had anticipated the surge. Extra inventory, neatly boxed, shipped that same day.
Julian opened the frozen archive again that night, searching for "indie labels scaling in the '80s." He saw the rise and fall of SST Records, the underground explosion in Seattle, the collapse of labels who overcommitted. He highlighted lessons:
Never sign more than three acts at once.
Pay artists enough to keep them loyal, not rich.
Own the masters. Always.
He underlined them twice in his ledger.
---
Meanwhile, Mira brought news from Publishing. The Journal's latest issue had been picked up for reprint in a German cultural magazine. "They like our blend," she said. "It's academic enough for professors but readable enough for general audiences. They called it 'serious but approachable.'"
Julian approved with a nod. "Keep it steady. We're not chasing circulation. We're building weight."
---
But shadows thickened. That same week, a rival indie studio—smaller than Lotus, but vicious—began whispering to local papers. Anonymous quotes accused Julian of exploiting apprentices, of promising shares he wouldn't deliver, of manipulating Demi's career for publicity.
Sophia slammed a clipping onto Julian's desk. "They're planting stories. Cowards won't even put their name on them."
Julian scanned the article, his expression unreadable. "Good. They waste ink on lies, not proof. That means they have nothing real."
Marcus frowned. "But perception sticks. If unions read this—"
Julian cut him off. "Then we counter with visibility. Release the compact publicly. Show the terms. Transparency is our shield."
That evening, Vanderford Holding issued a press statement: detailed clauses of the labor compact, signed copies, public commitments to wages, training, and profit-sharing. Where rivals had whispered, Julian shouted with receipts.
The next morning, the smear lost air. Even critics who disliked him admitted the compact was unusually fair. The rival studio faded back into its shadows.
Julian wrote in his ledger: Lies starve in light. Show your contracts. Show your math.
---
By July's end, Vanderford Holding had something it hadn't had before: reputation not just as ambitious, but as disciplined. Rivals hated him, critics mocked him, unions tested him—but none could say he was sloppy.
And for Julian, that was victory enough.
Orion's call was only the beginning. By mid-July, they insisted Julian fly out to Los Angeles for a face-to-face. He arrived with Marcus and Sophia in tow, Demi trailing half a step behind more as confidante than colleague. The lobby of Orion's headquarters reeked of old money and cautious arrogance—polished marble, posters of their modest successes plastered along the walls.
The negotiation table was long, unnecessarily so, with Orion executives spread out as if distance itself were leverage. Their lead negotiator, a man named Carter, smiled in that thin, sharp way of someone convinced the boy opposite him would break under pressure.
"Mr. Vanderford," Carter said smoothly, "we see potential in Concrete Veins. But let's be realistic. Distribution is expensive, and your film is risky. We'll expand your release to the West Coast, but only if you agree to adjust terms."
Sophia's voice was flat, unblinking. "What terms?"
"A ten percent increase in distribution fees. And television rights for domestic syndication. Standard."
Marcus scribbled numbers on his pad, sliding them across to Julian. At those rates, Orion's share would eat a third of net profit. Julian barely glanced at the sheet. The Mind Internet hummed with case studies: small studios destroyed by bad distribution deals, Orion itself bankrupting within a decade, their catalog sold off for scraps.
He leaned forward, voice cool. "Gentlemen, you misunderstand. You think you're offering us expansion. But expansion without profit is cancer. We are not interested."
Carter's smile flickered. "You can't play hardball. You're small. You need us."
Julian held his gaze. "No. You need credibility. And Shadow Alley gave you it. Your books are thin—I've read the filings. You need to prove you can deliver hits, even small ones. We gave you one. Now you want to overcharge for the second? Decline. We'll take East Coast only. Limited run. Scarcity builds demand."
The room stiffened. Carter tried again. "Don't be foolish, boy. You'll lose millions."
Julian stood, Marcus and Sophia following. "Better to lose millions by design than billions by ignorance. When you're ready to negotiate as partners, call us. Otherwise, East Coast it is."
They left the executives silent in their own polished room. Demi grinned as they stepped into sunlight. "You just told Hollywood to go to hell."
Julian's ledger note that night was simple: Never buy scale with sovereignty. Scarcity is leverage.
---
While Orion simmered, Raga Records added a new branch to its roster. A folk duo from Brooklyn—two sisters with harmonies sharp as glass and lyrics dripping with anger—signed a contract Sophia had written personally. Their demands were modest: fair pay, creative control, no buyout of masters. Julian offered them more than that: a profit-share clause that would scale with sales.
"We're not looking to get rich," one sister admitted nervously in the Workshop office. "We just don't want to get robbed."
Julian's response was measured, almost gentle. "Then you've come to the right house. Here, the artists eat first."
The signing made small waves. Word spread further: Vanderford wasn't just a jazz label. It was the rare label you could trust. College radios picked up the folk duo's demo. By the time their first cassette shipped, Mira's limited sleeve design had already become a collector's item among local fans.
Julian watched with quiet satisfaction. Jazz, folk—two branches. Soon, rock would join them. And when the catalog acquisitions matured, Raga would not just be a label. It would be an archive of value no rival could replicate.
Ledger note: Build catalog + cultivate artists. Archive is fortress.
---
Demi, meanwhile, was offered a new script through Orion's connections: a supporting role in a glossy thriller, the kind designed to put a pretty face on posters and little else. She read it, unimpressed, then passed it to Julian.
"They want me as the screaming girlfriend," she muttered. "Three scenes. No arc. No point."
Julian scanned the contract. "Billing below the title. No profit points. No veto rights." He looked up at her, expression unreadable. "Decline."
Demi blinked. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Julian said. "Your career is not built on scraps. You will not become decoration. Lotus will give you meaningful roles. If outsiders want you, they meet our terms—profit points, creative input, billing respect. Otherwise, no."
Sophia smirked. "You're setting Hollywood on fire before you've even built a fireplace."
Julian's reply was calm. "Better to set the rules early than fight chains later."
---
By month's end, Vanderford Holding had drawn lines in the sand. Orion simmered, indie bands whispered, and critics sharpened knives—but the empire's rhythm didn't falter. Each refusal, each negotiation, each compact only deepened its credibility.
Julian ended July with one final ledger note: Power is not in growth. Power is in refusing bad deals.
The standoff with Orion didn't last long. Two weeks after Julian's blunt refusal, Carter called again, his tone clipped but softer.
"Mr. Vanderford," he began, "our board has reconsidered. We can offer expanded release into Chicago and Los Angeles. Distribution fees remain at original contract levels. Television rights remain with you. But we'll need confirmation that marketing costs are shared proportionally."
Julian sat in silence for a long beat, letting the tension stretch across the line. Marcus, listening in, raised an eyebrow. Sophia mouthed: They blinked.
Finally, Julian replied, voice even. "Proportional marketing costs, capped and documented. East and West Coast release. All rights remain ours. Agreed."
Carter exhaled. "Fine. Send the papers."
Julian hung up, expression unreadable. Only after the silence settled did he write in his ledger: Hold your ground. They return to the table on your terms.
---
At Raga Records, the folk sisters' first cassette—Ashes & Streets—dropped quietly into circulation. The Vanderford Distribution Desk mailed limited runs to college radio stations, underground magazines, and select indie stores. Within a week, letters arrived, scrawled in uneven hands:
"Your tape's been on loop at our station—students won't stop calling."
"This is the first protest song in years that feels real."
"Can we book them for a campus show?"
The duo performed their first Vanderford-backed gig at a cramped student union in Manhattan. The crowd, mostly students in denim and cigarettes, sang along by the second chorus. Julian stood at the back, arms folded, Mira beside him scribbling observations for the Journal.
"This isn't just music," Mira whispered. "It's mood. They're voicing something the majors don't touch."
Julian nodded once. "And mood sells longer than trends."
The limited cassette run sold out within days, and orders piled in. Marcus adjusted numbers, Sophia fine-tuned contracts, and Mira crafted narratives for the Journal. Raga Records was no longer a curiosity. It was becoming a movement.
---
But success brought new fire. Demi's name surfaced in gossip columns, often linked to Julian's. "Mystery Boy Backing Rising Star," one headline teased. Another sneered, "Ambition or Affair?" Paparazzi photos caught her leaving Vanderford's office late at night, tired but glowing.
She stormed into Julian's loft one evening, tossing the tabloids onto his desk. "They're painting me like a kept woman. As if I don't work my ass off."
Julian read the clippings, then folded them calmly. "Gossip is a currency. We can spend it or let it rot."
Her eyes narrowed. "And how do we spend it?"
"By writing the story ourselves," Julian said. "We'll place a Journal feature. A profile—not on you as my companion, but as the lead actress of Lotus's new film. We highlight your discipline, your choices, your refusal of trash roles. We make your career the headline, not your private life."
Mira, called in later, agreed. "A controlled feature reframes everything. Let me draft it. Photographs of Demi on set, not on your arm. Professional, not personal."
Demi sighed, some tension easing. "So we fight fire with ink."
Julian's smile was thin. "Ink lasts longer than fire."
---
By the end of July, the picture was clear:
Orion had yielded, proving that even majors bent to discipline.
Raga had grown, its second act igniting a niche movement.
The Journal had defended, reframing gossip into credibility.
Julian closed his ledger with one final note for the month: Credibility tested in shadows emerges sharper in light.
And as the empire crossed from fragile ambition into hardened reality, Julian knew the true wars—over IPs, over industries, over nations—still lay ahead.
---