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Lucas was caught off guard. The idea had come from nowhere — but one look at Jennifer's face told him she wasn't throwing it out casually.

"I just think Daciana has already been through so much," Jennifer said, her voice quieter now. "She deserves a family. A real home. Not just care — a family."

He listened carefully. Truthfully, the thought had crossed his own mind before. But there were reasons he'd held back on it. "I'm not against it. But we'd have to ask Daciana first. If she's settled at the foundation, happy with the other children there — we can't just impose that on her."

Jennifer nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't want to force anything." Then she said, "In the documentary her face was blurred. Do you have a photo of her?"

Lucas pulled up his phone — there was one he'd taken with her and Neil at the foundation. He handed it over.

Jennifer looked at it for a long moment. "Poor girl. You can see it just in her eyes." She handed the phone back. "The sadness is just sitting there."

"It is," Lucas said. "Which is why I'm going after Geoffrey. If enough pressure lands on him, there's a chance her sister is still findable."

Jennifer frowned. "If you've known about this for a while — why didn't you have the police search his property sooner?"

"I did. Investigators went in and found nothing. And the authorities weren't willing to conduct a wider search on the island — a young girl's account alone wasn't considered reliable enough grounds." He said it plainly, without bitterness, though the frustration was there underneath.

"God." Jennifer shook her head. "I hope he rots."

"The documentaries have done their job. The FBI is most likely opening a formal investigation by now — that's probably why Geoffrey is getting frantic. The lawsuit, the interview — it's a distraction tactic more than anything."

Jennifer looked at him steadily. She'd seen what he'd done with Harvey. With Sean. She didn't need to say anything else.

---

Geoffrey's lawsuit made noise in the press, but inside the house it was mostly background static. The reporters had returned to their usual post — cameras ready, parked just outside the steel gate at the end of the driveway — but Lucas had long since stopped registering them.

He had other things to focus on.

He and Jennifer initiated the adoption process for Daciana through the LK Foundation's New York branch. Before any paperwork moved, though, they set up a video call with her first.

They'd half-expected hesitation. A child who had been through what she had wasn't necessarily going to leap at the idea of strangers offering to take her in.

Instead, when Lucas explained what they were asking, Daciana's face broke into something unguarded and bright. "You will really adopt Daciana, Lucas?" Her English had come a long way — confident now, clear.

Lucas and Jennifer glanced at each other.

"Of course," Lucas said. "If you want us to. And if you do — you can call me papa."

Jennifer leaned in toward the screen. "And you can call me mama. Or mom, whichever feels right."

Daciana looked between the two of them. Then, without missing a beat: "Papa. Mama!"

She said it so openly, so immediately, that neither of them was quite prepared for it. Lucas felt something shift in his chest. Beside him, Jennifer had gone very still in the way people do when they're trying not to show that something has gotten to them.

"Then we're your parents from now on," Lucas said.

Jennifer stayed on the call a while longer, talking with Daciana about small things — the foundation, the other children, what she liked. By the time they ended the call, the room felt different.

"She's such a sweet girl," Jennifer said softly.

"She is."

"Sera's going to have an older sister to grow up with." Jennifer smiled to herself. "Someone to play with when she's bigger."

Lucas looked at her sidelong. "Is that what this was actually about? Getting Sera a playmate?"

Jennifer laughed. "It's not a bad plan."

"I don't hate it." He smiled.

They were joking, and they both knew it — but underneath the lightness, the decision had been anything but casual. They'd sat with it seriously, turned it over, considered what it meant for their family and for Daciana. It wasn't an impulse they'd acted on without thought.

As for what the media would make of it — neither of them particularly cared. Celebrity adoptions were nothing new. Angelina Jolie had built a family across continents. Sandra Bullock, Tom Cruise, Charlize Theron — there was a long list of people who had chosen to expand their families that way, and the world had largely moved on each time. Whatever the tabloids decided to print would blow over the same way it always did.

What mattered was the girl on the other side of that video call, who had said papa and mama like she'd been waiting to say it for a long time.

---

A week had passed, but the adoption process was proving to be exactly what Lucas had feared — slow, layered, and bound by systems that didn't bend easily. Months, at minimum. Possibly a year. Maybe longer.

Jennifer couldn't hide her impatience. She wanted Daciana home. The waiting was its own kind of frustration.

Which was why Lucas picked up the phone and called William.

He laid it out plainly — Daciana, the foundation, the circumstances, the plan. William listened without interrupting.

When Lucas finished, his grandfather was quiet for a moment. Then: "I may be a retired senator, but I have sons in office and no shortage of friends who still owe me favors. Leave it with me. I can't promise overnight, but a few months — that I can work with."

Lucas was genuinely surprised. The system in place was not the kind that bent for most people. For William to say that with that kind of certainty meant the strings he was pulling ran further than the state — into Romania as well, through whatever diplomatic and political channels a man of his connections could still reach.

He sat with that for a moment after the call ended.

'Power really is a remarkable thing when it's pointed in the right direction.'

He wasn't entirely comfortable with the backdoor nature of it. But he wasn't uncomfortable enough to turn it down either. Not for this.

When he told Jennifer, her expression moved from surprise to quiet relief inside of a few seconds. She didn't say much. She didn't need to.

---

Time moved. January arrived, and with it, the Oscar nominations.

On January 24th, the Academy announced its 2023 shortlist.

Lucas securing a Best Actor nomination for Joker 2 was, at this point, the kind of news that barely registered as news. Expected. Filed away.

What nobody had quite expected was K-Pop: Demon Hunters.

Best Animated Feature. Nominated.

The film hadn't come out of Disney. Hadn't come out of Pixar or DreamWorks or any of the studios that had traditionally owned that category. It had come out of a production company founded by a retired basketball superstar — Kobe Bryant — with Lucas Knight as co-owner, and a first-time feature director in Maggie at the helm.

THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER: "'K-Pop: Demon Hunters' Lands Shock Oscar Nomination for Best Animated Feature — Industry Caught Off Guard"

DEADLINE: "Kobe Bryant's Animation Studio Crashes the Oscars: How a Non-Disney Film Earned a Best Animated Feature Nod"

VARIETY: "Lucas Knight Double Nominee at 2023 Oscars — 'Joker 2' and 'K-Pop: Demon Hunters' Both in Contention"

The internet had thoughts.

"The movie was genuinely great, I'm not disputing that. I just didn't think the Academy would actually nominate something that didn't have a Disney or Pixar logo on it. Wild."

"Good for them honestly but let's be real — when has a non-major studio animation ever actually won Best Animated Feature? The nomination is the achievement here."

"I watched K-Pop Demon Hunters with my kids and it was better than half the Disney releases this year. The nomination is deserved. Winning is a different conversation though."

"The Academy nominating it is one thing. Actually handing it the award over whatever Pixar put out this year is another. History is not on their side."

"Kobe really built a whole studio and got an Oscar nomination. The man doesn't know how to do anything small."

Fair concerns, most of them. The category had a pattern, and the pattern didn't favor newcomers regardless of quality.

Maggie, for her part, did not appear to care about any of that.

Her call came through within the hour.

"Lucas! We got nominated! You have to be there — if we win, I want to get up on that stage with you."

Lucas laughed. "I'll be there. I'm nominated for Best Actor too, in case you forgot."

"I know, I know. I just wanted to make sure. You have a habit of skipping these things even when your name is on the list."

He didn't deny it. "I'll be there."

Kobe called not long after, the same energy coming through the phone — barely contained excitement, the particular satisfaction of someone who had built something real and just watched it get recognized for it.

Lucas made the same promise.

He'd be there.

The Oscar was still two months out, in March. Lucas had time.

He settled into the rhythm of it — early mornings with Seraphina, the quiet satisfaction of being present for the small things. A few weeks of that, genuinely unhurried.

Then Tobias called. And not long after, Netflix did too.

Lucas had teams already handling the Geoffrey litigation on both fronts — lawyers, PR, the whole apparatus. But Tobias had been specific about wanting him in the room personally. The lawsuit had Geoffrey pointing a finger directly at "L.K." as the architect behind the documentaries, and with Lucas's name as a stakeholder appearing in both platforms' corporate filings, his presence at the table carried a different weight than any legal team could replicate. It was optics as much as strategy — and Tobias understood optics.

Besides, he wanted to check in on HBO Max's content progress while he was there. His involvement with the platform had grown considerably over the past year, and from what Neil had been feeding him, the library was in considerably better shape — several of the titles he'd steered toward greenlight were already in production or post.

"I'll be out for a while," he told Jennifer. "Back soon."

Jennifer was holding Seraphina against her shoulder, one hand patting her back with practiced rhythm. "Go. Me and Martha can handle this little troublemaker."

Martha — their housekeeper from the Beverly Hills days, now working as Seraphina's nanny — gave a small nod from across the room.

Lucas left them to it.

Jack and Simon fell into step behind him. Shawn had the car waiting at the front. The moment they cleared the gate and rolled out onto the road, the cameras found them.

A cluster of reporters surged toward the vehicle, blocking the path forward.

Jack stepped out. "Please clear the road."

"We just want Lucas's comment on the Geoffrey lawsuits!"

"Is he the L.K. behind the documentaries?"

"Did he coordinate with Netflix and HBO Max to target Eckstein?"

From the back seat, Lucas could hear all of it clearly enough. He exhaled, then rolled the window down.

The cameras swung toward him immediately.

"Lucas, do you have a comment on Geoffrey Eckstein's lawsuit against Netflix and HBO Max?"

"Is it true you were personally behind the documentaries targeting him?"

"Geoffrey named L.K. directly — are you the one who coordinated this campaign against him?"

He looked at them calmly. "A man with an island and a team of lawyers is very upset about a documentary. Draw your own conclusions." He rolled the window back up.

Shawn, Jack, and Simon all had the same reaction — a quiet chuckle passed through the car. It was rare to see Lucas throw something that dry at a press scrum without breaking stride.

The reporters stood there for a moment, caught mid-question, before the convoy pulled away.

---

Bel Air to Burbank ran about twenty-five minutes on a clear morning. They took the private access road into the WB lot, bypassing the main entrance entirely, where a studio escort was already waiting to guide them through to the executive floor.

The conference room was familiar ground by now. Tobias was at the head of the table, and he stood the moment Lucas walked in.

"Lucas." He extended his hand warmly.

"Tobias." Lucas shook it, then worked his way around the room — a few senior executives, a couple of faces from the legal team, one he recognized from HBO Max's content division.

He settled into the chair across from Tobias.

"The lawsuit," Lucas said. "I'm assuming you're not pulling the documentary."

"Absolutely not," Tobias said. "We stand behind it completely. Our legal position is solid — every claim in that documentary is sourced and verified." He paused. "But that's actually why I wanted you here in person. Geoffrey's filing names L.K. directly. With your name attached to this company in the public record, we need to align our response carefully — what we say publicly, what we don't say, and how we frame your role. If we're going to fight this, I'd rather we're coordinated than running parallel strategies."

Lucas listened. That was a reasonable ask.

Lucas nodded slowly. "Geoffrey naming me directly was predictable — he needed a face to put on it, and mine was the most convenient one available. What matters is that the documentary stands on its own. Every claim sourced, every victim verified. That's our ground." He leaned back. "As for how we frame my involvement publicly — I'd keep it simple. I'm a stakeholder in this platform. I support content that serves the public interest. That's it. We don't need to say more than that, and we definitely shouldn't say less."

Tobias agreed. The executives around the table took notes, traded a few thoughts on language, and within thirty minutes they'd arrived at a shared position — what each party would say if pressed, what they wouldn't be drawn into, and how to keep the two legal teams moving in the same direction rather than across each other.

Truthfully, Geoffrey wasn't entirely wrong. Lucas was the reason both documentaries existed in the form they did — the access, the funding, the quiet steering of which stories got told and how. But there was a meaningful difference between being the architect of something and being the subject of a lawsuit, and that difference was exactly what the legal framing needed to protect.

By the time it was done, a plate had appeared in front of Lucas — steak, coffee refilled without him asking — and the conversation had shifted into something more relaxed.

If anyone had walked into that room without context, they'd have had a reasonable question about who actually ran this company.

It wasn't an entirely unreasonable thought.

HBO Max sitting at number two in global streaming wasn't an accident. Before Lucas's involvement, that position had been a revolving door — Disney+, Hulu, Paramount passing it between themselves like nobody wanted to hold it too long. Now HBO Max had it, and held it with a gap wide enough to the third slot that the passing had stopped. Netflix was still ahead, but the distance had narrowed into something that felt competitive rather than aspirational.

A meaningful portion of that was sitting in this room eating their steak.

"Let's set the lawsuit aside for now," Lucas said, setting down his cup. "How's the platform doing overall?"

The room lifted immediately. Whatever weight had been sitting over the Geoffrey conversation lifted clean off.

"One Piece is performing extremely well," Tobias said, visibly pleased. "We made the call early to keep Oda closely involved — he approved the cast himself, had meaningful input on the direction. That relationship paid off. The fan reception has been strong."

"Good call," Lucas said.

"The Witcher, Invincible, Last of Us — all solid. Fallout season two is already in development." Another executive chimed in. "The back catalogue is healthy and the originals are carrying their weight."

"The Roblox integration has been a genuine surprise," Tobias added. "The games are pulling in younger subscribers in numbers we didn't project. Barbie World in particular — the girls are obsessed with it. And the animated film with the Roblox aesthetic has done well across age groups."

Lucas nodded. He'd take credit for a lot of things, but the Roblox angle had been genuinely his own instinct rather than anything lifted from his previous life's knowledge. That one felt different — a creative bet that had paid out on its own terms. It gave him a quiet confidence about what he was about to say next.

"Progress is solid," he said. "I'm impressed, honestly."

Tobias and the others exchanged glances — the particular look of people who understood, intellectually, that the man across the table was an actor, and yet somehow still felt validated by his approval.

"One more suggestion," Lucas said. "If the production capacity is there — I'd look seriously at Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood for a live-action adaptation. Beyond One Piece, I think that's the one that could really move the needle."

Someone down the table sat up straighter. "That anime? I've seen it." He looked like he was already doing the math in his head. "Why hasn't anyone touched it yet?"

Lucas smiled slightly. He didn't say what he actually thought — that a properly produced Fullmetal Alchemist live-action, done with the same care they'd given One Piece, had the potential to outperform it. The story was tighter, the emotional arc more contained, and the alchemy system translated to screen in a way that didn't require the same sprawling commitment One Piece demanded.