As mentioned before, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire is a famous British quiz show.
China's Happy Dictionary was modeled after it.
Then, in 2001, the show was rocked by a scandal. On September 9 of that year, a man named Charles Ingram won the top prize—a million pounds—by cheating.
The way he cheated was… ingenious, in a dumb sort of way.
During filming, whenever Ingram got stuck, he would read out all the possible answers one by one. As soon as he mentioned the correct one, either his wife or an accomplice named Tecwen Whittock would give a deliberate cough.
That cough was his signal to "confidently" pick the right answer.
As for how his wife and Whittock always knew the correct one? That's another miracle.
First, Ingram's wife was a die-hard fan of Millionaire. She'd actually been on the show herself once and won £32,000—ten correct answers in a row. Her brother was even better: he'd been on four times and also won £32,000. They all trained together, which was basically their foundation for success.
Second, Whittock had been obsessed with quiz shows since childhood. He'd appeared on over 50 of them—not that he was good—but his general knowledge was broad as a barn.
Third, both he and Ingram applied for the same taping session. According to the rules, contestants from the same batch could sit in the studio while others played. That meant Whittock could listen in during Ingram's turn and time his coughs precisely.
Their plan was airtight—well, almost.
Ingram himself was an idiot.
During recording, everyone noticed he struggled with the simplest questions. On the first day alone, he burned through two of his three lifelines. It was obvious this man wasn't destined to win anything.
So, after the game, the production team launched an investigation.
Then came the lawsuit.
Why did a 2001 case take years to reach trial? Simple: the show's investigation was filthy.
When the producers suspected cheating, they didn't go to the police right away. They started digging on their own. And, as capitalists do when they panic, they went too far.
They found out Whittock suffered from chronic respiratory issues—hay fever, asthma, all that—so coughing was "normal." But then they used their corporate influence to obtain the Ingrams' and Whittock's phone records from telecom providers. Since the three had publicly claimed not to know each other, those dense call logs were a smoking gun.
The problem? Only the police are allowed to access such data.
They'd played their hand perfectly—and still lost the moral high ground.
"Oh—so what happened next?" Isabella asked curiously.
Millionaire had been a national obsession. In its first two years, the British viewership alone topped 20 million per episode. Even when it dipped later, it still held around 11 million.
So even Isabella, who rarely watched TV, had heard of the scandal.
Robbie scrolled through a webpage and said, "The latest court session just ended. The official ruling will come next week, but according to the show's lawyers—they've already won."
"Ingram's going to jail."
"So that means it's officially treated as fraud?" Isabella said as she entered the dorm, Vivian following behind.
"Seems like it." Robbie nodded and turned toward Vivian. "Ingram and his wife will probably be convicted of fraud. Whittock's a co-conspirator—he'll get prison too."
"Oh, I think the show's gone too far," came Catherine's voice as she walked in last, changing her shoes. "Their way of getting evidence was totally illegal. And now they still want to send the Ingrams to prison? Don't they care if they destroy the show's reputation?"
Due process is a cornerstone of Anglo-American law:
"Evidence obtained through illegal means cannot be used to convict."
The most famous example: the O.J. Simpson murder trial. The police made major procedural errors, and some key evidence was gathered illegally. Result? Simpson walked free.
Of course, being rich helped. He could afford elite lawyers.
Ingram couldn't. And his opponents had already poured £1 million into their legal team. So… yeah. This time, the poor guy was going down.
"Keisha, doesn't Millionaire care about its reputation anymore?"
Robbie kept reading. "According to BBC, after the scandal broke, ratings plummeted. The newest season averages only eight million viewers."
"Plus, they're drowning in plagiarism lawsuits. Four people have sued Millionaire's producers for stealing their quiz-show concepts. Each case was settled privately."
A lot of people think out-of-court settlements mean you lost. That's not exactly true. Losing requires a judge's decision—and if there's no ruling, there's technically no defeat.
But still, when a corporation believes it's in the right, it doesn't settle quietly.
So, yeah… things were complicated.
The others soon lost interest. Only Isabella stayed quiet, tapping the table thoughtfully before tilting her chin toward Robbie.
He got the hint immediately, closed the Millionaire news, and opened the music section on Yahoo and MSN.
"Love Story is the best song I've heard this year! Isabella amazes me again!"
"I love the ending! This is the greatest love song of the new century!"
"The only regret is she didn't promote it! When's she coming to the U.S.? I want an autograph!"
Leaning back like a lazy landlord, the little beaver soaked in pure joy.
Even the fan reactions were being read to her. Bliss.
In the Haywood household, the Millionaire scandal was a distant curiosity.
But across Britain, it hit harder than the Iraq War.
For years, Millionaire had been the nation's comfort show—millions spent their evenings shouting answers at their TVs. People studied obsessively just to earn a seat in the studio.
Now, to learn contestants could cheat? And the producers might break the law?
If both were true—then all those years of excitement, laughter, and dreams were just a joke.
The public felt like clowns.
When judgment day came on April 7, 2003, all of Britain tuned in.
The verdict:
Charles and Diana Ingram: 18 months in prison, suspended for two years. Tecwen Whittock: 12 months, also suspended for two years.
The country froze.
Because that made no sense.
In Britain, fraud involving over £1 million counts as a major crime—normally 7 years minimum, up to life imprisonment. Only small-scale frauds get community service or probation.
So how did these "million-pound" fraudsters walk away with suspended sentences?
The answer was obvious.
"Bloody hell! The show clearly broke the law! The court knows it! But under corporate pressure, they had to label the Ingrams as guilty—so they could hand out light sentences!"
"This whole show disgusts me! Both contestants and producers cheated? Then what's real? Maybe every past winner was planted by the producers to boost ratings!"
"I'll never trust Millionaire again! The justice system's a joke—full of corporate lapdogs!"
"No wonder they kept swapping jurors! Someone must've pushed back!"
The backlash was volcanic.
Usually when capitalists get roasted like this, they respond the old-fashioned way: silence critics, crush dissent, restore control.
But Millionaire's producer, Celador, didn't.
First, they couldn't silence the entire nation.
Second, they played a surprising card.
They announced a documentary.
Celador claimed they'd been misunderstood—and that they'd filmed everything: conversations, investigation details, the evidence process. They promised to release it in late April.
They said the truth would clear their name.
That announcement stunned Britain.
The trial, it turned out, wasn't the end—it was the beginning.
The upcoming documentary became a mountain on everyone's chest, holding their anger in place while fueling their curiosity.
"Rob, do you think Celador's innocent?"
"Uh… if they actually have a documentary, maybe."
"But that makes no sense! If they're innocent, why did the Ingrams still get convicted? That's a million-pound fraud, not ten thousand!"
"Yeah… weird. Maybe the documentary will explain it."
April 8, 2003 – Scotland.
The Prisoner of Azkaban film crew was at Loch Shiel, shooting the Black Lake scenes. The shots of the Dementors boarding the Hogwarts Express would be filmed across the lake at the Glenfinnan Viaduct.
While the set builders and prop teams were working like maniacs, the kids—Daniel, Robbie, Tom, Ginny, and the rest—were lazing around, arguing about the Millionaire case.
Their heated debate made director Columbus chuckle.
He glanced at the sunbathing girl beside him.
"Psst."
"What?"
"They're all fired up about that Millionaire thing. Don't you have an opinion?"
"Why would I? I don't care about Millionaire."
"Oh really? I seem to recall you once said The Voice was inspired by it."
Columbus grinned. "I figured you'd be interested. Guess I was wrong."
"Eh? Don't tell me you stopped watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire because you thought the questions were too hard and felt dumb?"
"Get lost!" Isabella shot Columbus a sideways glare.
Lounging lazily in the deck chair, she gave a little snort. "You're the dumb one! I stopped watching because the questions were too easy!"
"Ha ha ha ha ha—"
Columbus burst out laughing, clearly not buying a word of it.
To be fair, Isabella had once mentioned that the "challenge" format of The Voice came from Millionaire, but that was just a cover story to hide that she'd lifted the idea. She'd never actually cared about Millionaire.
As for why?
Exactly what Columbus said.
In her past life, even watching China's Happy Dictionary made her feel like her IQ was being sandpapered.
So this time around, why on earth would she bother watching the original version?
It wasn't that Millionaire was harder than Happy Dictionary—it was that she understood the East far better than the West.
So… while the feeling of your brain being plowed by trivia might be nice in theory, if the knowledge doesn't actually stick, then that "high" is just an empty thrill.
And when you think back on it later, you even start feeling guilty about wasting brainpower.
If entertainment with thinking involved only makes you tired, then why not just ditch the brain and enjoy life from the start?
Which is exactly what Isabella was doing—sprawled out, basking in the warm spring sunlight. Oh, bliss.
Like a lazy cat, she squinted as Columbus chuckled twice, watching the crew still setting up not far away.
"Isabella," he said, shaking his head, "you'd better watch out. Bob might be in trouble."
"Hm?" Isabella frowned, not following.
"Bob who?"
"Robert Iger."
Columbus sat up, leaning forward, elbows on knees. "The American version of Millionaire was a project Bob imported from the UK. It used to be ABC's flagship show. And he's been wanting to reboot it."
"So if Bob's desperate to revive Millionaire, and the show gets torn apart by bad press…"
He gave a pointed look. "Then Bob and Michael's power balance might flip."
"Michael's not an easy opponent."
"He won't just back down. And if Bob gets dragged into the mud, his ability to help you is going to shrink real fast…"
When Millionaire blew up in the UK, it immediately grabbed the world's attention. Every country's TV networks wanted in. The U.S. rights went to Disney.
And the guy who handled the negotiations for ABC? Robert Iger.
Landing Millionaire got him promoted to Disney COO.
Why? Simple.
Before that, ABC's average daily ratings were the worst of the Big Three. FOX, which was in fourth, was breathing down its neck.
To put it bluntly, if ABC didn't pull off a miracle soon, it was going to lose its place among the top three, letting FOX join NBC and CBS as the new Big Three.
With that kind of pressure, Iger was desperate.
So when he saw how huge Millionaire was in the UK, he decided to gamble everything on it.
And he won.
Season 1 of the U.S. Millionaire averaged 15 million viewers per episode.
Season 2? That number doubled to 30 million.
But the craziest part?
Season 2 made TV history by airing three new episodes a week.
To boost ABC's ratings, Iger had Millionaire running three times weekly, with each episode stretched from 45 minutes to an hour.
Even then, the average stayed over 30 million viewers.
That kind of performance didn't just save ABC—it rocketed the network to the number-one spot in America.
And that same year, ABC's revenue was the highest of any broadcast network.
Those results made Iger Disney's COO.
But because the show aired way too often, by 2001, the U.S. audience was sick of it. Ratings crashed.
By 2002, Millionaire wasn't even ranking among the top entertainment programs anymore.
Disney axed the show.
Still, "axing" didn't mean "delete forever." Iger liked the quiz format and wanted to give Millionaire an upgraded reboot.
And just as he was betting on reviving it… the original British version blew up in scandal.
Which meant—
"I don't agree to a reboot!"
Meanwhile, in California—
At Disney headquarters in Los Angeles, during the monthly senior management meeting, Michael Eisner stared straight at Robert Iger with a smile.
"Millionaire has reached the end of its life cycle," he said.
"Its two feet are already in the coffin. What we need to do is respect reality—respect the market."
"Close the lid, shovel the dirt, and bury it properly."
"ABC needs a brand-new project. A new show."
"And you'll be the one in charge of it—"
"Bob."