By the time the summer of 2000 rolled into fall, David Lucius Harper's life had shifted from smoky dive bars and guitar strings to boardrooms and billion-dollar conversations.
The music was still there, but lately, his days began with calls to Harvey instead of rehearsals, and ended with paperwork instead of chord sheets. He didn't mind it. For once, the chaos in his life felt productive.
Harvey had taken over the corporate side like a storm in an Armani suit. Within weeks of their first meeting, he'd already redlined, negotiated, and restructured three of David's acquisition targets — Marvel, Amazon, and Netflix.
David had made the initial contact himself. It wasn't luck; it was foresight. He'd been quietly watching the tech and media industries, spotting undervalued potential. He wanted to make sure some of it were similar to the trajectory of his old world.
What he lacked in legal polish, Harvey made up for tenfold. Together, they were a dangerous combination, David's knowledge and Harvey's precision.
***
A few months after the Coachella breakthrough, David's days became a blur of contracts, meetings, and sleepless nights. Gravity Dreams was climbing fast, and so was he — not just as a musician, but as a businessman. Harvey had helped him structure a private trust, shifting his earnings smartly, investing through shell companies to make his next moves quiet but decisive.
It started with Marvel.
The company was struggling after the comic bubble burst in the late '90s, their film rights scattered like confetti across Hollywood.
The executives at the table were desperate for stability, and Harvey could smell that desperation before he even entered the room.
The meeting was in a downtown L.A. boardroom, a mix of stale coffee and panic lingering in the air.
David sat quietly at the head of the table, black shirt, sleeves rolled, calm but intense. Harvey, in his perfectly cut pinstripe, was the one doing the verbal fencing.
"Forty-five million," Harvey said flatly, sliding the papers across the table.
One of the executives blinked. "That's less than what our board approved as the floor offer."
Harvey leaned back, unbothered. "Sure. But your board isn't the one sitting on the edge of bankruptcy court. My client here isn't buying nostalgia, he's buying your rebirth. You want to gamble, go to Vegas."
David hid a grin. He loved watching Harvey work. Every word was surgical.
A few rounds later, the Marvel team caved. Forty-five million, cash. Deal closed.
As they left, Harvey smirked at David. "You just bought yourself a comic book company, rockstar. Maybe you'll finally get your own superhero movie."
David chuckled. "Only if you promise to play the villain."
"Hey, I'm too charming to be a villain." Harvey retorted with a grin.
***
Not long after, another opportunity crossed his radar. Amazon was still an online bookstore that most of Wall Street ignored. But David saw the numbers — the rapid expansion, the increasing demand for digital purchases, the potential for something far greater than anyone imagined.
The Amazon meeting took place a week later, at a small Seattle office that still smelled like printer ink and fresh ambition. Jeff Bezos wasn't the mogul the world would one day know; back then, he was a book-seller trying to expand.
David had already made an initial offer — eight million for a controlling share — and Harvey was there to finalize.
The negotiations were tense, but Harvey's tone never changed. Calm, cold, commanding.
"I understand your growth model," Harvey said, flipping through the documents. "But you're burning cash faster than you're earning it. My client is willing to invest, but he's not throwing his money into a bonfire."
Bezos looked at David. "Do you even know what you're buying into?"
David smiled. "A future where people don't have to leave their homes to buy anything. That's a bet I'll take."
The deal closed quietly that night. No headlines, no cameras. Just a handshake and a contract that would one day look absurdly cheap.
***
Netflix was the most trickiest.
They were stubborn, arrogant, and believed their streaming concept was worth more than it was. They wanted $52 million, an outrageous number for a company barely out of infancy.
Harvey worked his magic, flying between New York and Los Angeles, charming executives and intimidating holdouts. David joined for the final meeting in a minimalist conference room high above San Francisco.
The meeting stretched past midnight. At one point, David leaned over and whispered, "You sure this is worth 52?"
Harvey's lips twitched. "I don't lose, remember?"
After hours of circling, Harvey put down his pen. "Forty-seven million. Forty upfront, seven deferred. Or we walk."
The silence that followed felt like holding your breath underwater. Then, reluctantly, the Netflix CFO extended his hand.
"Forty-seven," he said.
Harvey shook his hand once, firmly. "Pleasure doing business."
When they stepped out of the building into the cool night, David exhaled, laughing under his breath. "You really hate losing."
Harvey gave him a sideways glance. "You should've seen me in court."
David grinned. "I think I just did."
***
By Christmas, all three deals had been sealed, notarized, and wired. Harvey had his retainers set, and David had roughly five million left in his account — an insane figure, considering that just a year ago he'd been living out of motels, scraping gigs to pay rent.
Money, to David, wasn't about showing off — it was about freedom. But with Scarlett working long hours in Hollywood, he wanted a place where both could feel at home.
He bought a modern mansion tucked away in the Hollywood Hills — sleek glass walls, minimalist design, panoramic city views. The kind of place where the night lights of Los Angeles glittered like constellations scattered at your feet.
Now, he was sitting in his new Hollywood Hills home, overlooking the city lights. Scarlett had insisted on helping decorate, filling the house with life — photos, plants, a piano by the window.
Scarlett loved it immediately.
"It feels like something out of a dream," she said, running her fingers across the marble counter.
David smiled. "Then I'll call it our dream house."
She threw her arms around him, laughing softly.
Next, he purchased a recording studio nearby for Gravity Dreams. Spacious, acoustically perfect, it became their creative sanctuary — walls lined with instruments, cables, and soundproof rooms. It wasn't just a studio; it was a second home.
He named it Dreamforge Studios — a place where their sound would evolve, where their future albums would be born.
Then came the Malibu beach house — a serene getaway near Charlie's place. Mornings there were slow and peaceful, the ocean breeze drifting through open windows.
"A man needs somewhere to think," David told Charlie one afternoon, sipping beer on the deck.
Charlie chuckled. "You mean somewhere to hide when the Hollywood life gets too loud."
David grinned. "That too."
***
He wasn't one to flaunt wealth, but a few indulgences were non-negotiable.
And for Scarlett, he'd gone all out — a BMW 7 Series, silver, elegant, with her initials engraved inside the door. She'd screamed when he handed her the keys and spent the rest of the night showing her gratitude in ways words couldn't describe.
He'd laughed the next morning, voice hoarse. "You better promise to drive safely."
Scarlett had kissed him and replied with a grin, "I promise to drive fast but safe."
David also treated himself to a Jaguar XJ8, but he couldn't let go of his old '69 Impala. That car was history, memories, and stubborn pride rolled into one. He sent it to a custom garage, had it rebuilt with a new engine and leather interior — same soul, new heart.
Later, lying together under silk sheets, she rested her head on his chest and whispered, "Promise me you'll drive safe too."
He chuckled. "I should be saying that to you."
She playfully bit his shoulder. "I drive safer than you think."
He only grinned.
Between meetings, band rehearsals, and photo shoots, life turned into a blur. "Gravity Dreams" had become one of the hottest rising rock acts in the country. They played a handful of small shows, each one louder and more packed than the last.
People were singing their songs — his songs — in bars, cars, and college dorms. David sometimes caught his own lyrics drifting from strangers' radios and felt a strange mix of disbelief and pride.
He wasn't just a musician anymore. He was becoming a brand.
And Harvey made sure that brand stayed bulletproof.
One morning, David was at the studio when Harvey called.
"You know what I like about you?" Harvey's voice came smooth through the line.
"I'm scared to ask."
"You actually listen when I tell you to keep receipts. Most of my clients burn their empires before they're even built."
David chuckled. "I learned from the best."
"You're damn right."
****
The band continued to explode in popularity. With Harvey managing the legal side and Sony pushing their music worldwide, their singles topped charts across Europe and the U.S.
They performed at the MTV Music Awards, The Tonight Show, and several charity events. Fans chanted their names, reporters called them "the band that saved alternative rock."
David handled fame with quiet grace. He stayed grounded, often disappearing from parties early to write lyrics or plan his next move. Mney had nearly destroyed him once — now, he used it as fuel.
When the year turned over to 2001, Charlie called him.
"Hey, little bro! Sean Penn's throwing a party this weekend. You're coming."
David raised an eyebrow. "Should I bring Scarlett?"
Charlie hesitated. "...maybe not this time. It's one of those parties."
David smirked. "Ah. The kind that starts classy and ends with someone jumping into the pool naked?"
"Exactly. And that's just the warm-up."
He told Scarlett later that night. She was sitting on the bed, reading a script, her hair tied up in a bun. When he mentioned the party, she smiled knowingly.
"Go," she said. "Have fun. You've earned it."
David blinked. "You're sure?"
Scarlett leaned in and kissed him deeply, her voice soft near his ear.
"Look, if it's just some random hookup, I don't care. You're a rockstar I get it. Just… don't get stupid. Don't fall for anyone else. And for God's sake, don't get anyone pregnant. Only I get to have your kid."
David laughed, shaking his head. "I must be the luckiest guy alive."
She winked. "You finally realized?"
He grinned, leaning in to kiss her. "Yeah. Took me a while."
Driving down the Pacific Coast Highway that night in his Impala, the lights of Los Angeles stretched behind him like a galaxy of gold.
He thought about everything that had changed — from a lost man scraping by to a musician, entrepreneur, and soon-to-be legend.
He'd bought not just success, but a future. And yet, in quiet moments like this, he still felt the same heartbeat — the same hunger, the same spark that had carried him from the edge of ruin to the heights of the world.
The night breeze rushed in through the open window, music softly humming from the radio.
Harvey once told him that the difference between a gambler and a player is control. A gambler bets on luck. A player makes his own.
David smiled to himself, the distant echo of waves from Malibu calling faintly in the night air.
He wasn't gambling anymore.
He was finally playing.
***
Sean Penn's house in the Hollywood Hills looked like something straight out of a Vanity Fair dream—modern, sleek, glass-walled, and glowing from every angle. The kind of place where you'd expect scandal, laughter, and deals to unfold in the same breath.
Music from the Red Hot Chili Peppers thumped through the air, the bass line shaking the pool water under a thousand reflections of L.A.'s skyline. The smell of expensive perfume, champagne, and faint cigarette smoke clung to the night breeze like the scent of sin.
David parked his car at the bottom of the long, twisting driveway. The car looked almost out of place amid the fleet of Ferraris and polished Porsches lining the entrance. But that was David—he liked being the odd one out. He adjusted his tailored black jacket, ran a hand through his wind-tousled hair, and smirked at his reflection in the glass before walking toward the entrance.
Charlie was already outside, laughing with a group of people, a drink in each hand, clearly halfway to chaos. When he spotted David, his grin widened, that trademark "you're in trouble now" look shining through.
"Look who finally decided to show up!" Charlie called out, slapping David on the shoulder. "Man, you've been dodging every party since Coachella. What's the deal? Sacrlett keeping you chained to the bed, or are you just too rich for us mere mortals now?"
David chuckled, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I've just been busy making sure the world's worth buying."
Charlie tilted his head and gave him that signature smirk. "Yeah, I heard about that. Harvey said you actually pulled off the Marvel deal. And Amazon? Netflix? Dude, you're not a rockstar—you're a Wall Street fantasy with better hair."
"More like a musician who learned math," David replied smoothly. "And before you ask—no, I'm not telling you how I knew they'd blow up. Trade secret."
Charlie laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, just don't forget who got you your first gig at the Viper Room."
David smirked. "You'll get your credit, man. Right after the chapter titled The Man Who Almost Ruined My Liver."
The two burst into laughter, then made their way inside the mansion.
The main room was a blur of glamour and chaos. Gold lights flickered off crystal glasses and sequined dresses. Leonardo DiCaprio was leaning on the bar, talking animatedly with Kate Beckinsale, who looked like she'd just stepped off a red carpet.
Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore were laughing so hard near the pool table that everyone nearby started smiling too. Brad Pitt was at the far corner chatting with George Clooney, the two of them effortlessly pulling attention like human magnets.
Sean Penn himself stood near the patio, whiskey glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, arguing politics with Benicio del Toro in a way that sounded half-debate, half-friendly shouting match.
Charlie pointed toward the kitchen area. "Bar's that way. Try not to start another fight with a record exec this time."
David raised an eyebrow. "Hey, that wasn't my fault. He called our music 'post-garage-wannabe nonsense.' I defended artistic freedom."
"You poured tequila on his shoes."
"Same thing," David deadpanned.
Charlie cracked up again and wandered off toward a group of models, leaving David to explore.
As he moved through the party, heads turned. Some out of recognition, some curiosity. Fame was still new enough to him. Everyone seemed to see something different when they looked at him.
At the bar, he nodded at the bartender and leaned against the counter. A familiar face appeared beside him, Steven Tyler, drink in hand, blue eyes glinting with mischief.
"David Harper," Steven said, smiling. "Man, Coachella. You killed it."
David grinned. "Thanks. You planning to steal my spotlight next year?"
Steven smirked. "Oh, definitely. I'll need you to open for me next time."
They clinked glasses and laughed, swapping a few words about music before he drifted away to mingle.
As David turned back, a woman brushed against his arm. He turned and found himself face-to-face with Julia Roberts, smiling in that effortlessly warm way that made everyone melt.
"You're the musician everyone's been buzzing about," she said, her voice playful. "I caught your interview on MTV. You've got the charm, I'll give you that."
"Coming from you, that's like Michelangelo complimenting someone's stick figure," David replied with a grin.
She laughed, touching his arm briefly before her agent whisked her away.
Moments later, another familiar face appeared. Kate Beckinsale, holding a martini glass and an amused smile. "I was just telling Leo you're the only person here not pretending to be cooler than they are," she said.
David raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment. You're not pretending either, though—you're actually cool."
She laughed softly. "Flattery at a Hollywood party? How original."
"Hey, I'm a musician. It's literally my job to sound poetic and questionable."
She smirked, clearly entertained, and they exchanged a few more words before Leo interrupted, pulling her away toward a producer he wanted her to meet. David just smiled and sipped his drink, watching the chaos unfold like a director watching a film he didn't plan to star in.
He caught glimpses of George Clooney holding court in one corner, charming a crowd of actresses. Brad Pitt gave him a nod of recognition across the room, one of those silent "you're in the club now" gestures.
The night rolled on in a blur of laughter, smoke, and clinking glasses.
At one point, Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore dragged him into a photo near the pool, insisting, "You're too serious, lighten up, rockstar!"
He ended up laughing so hard his drink nearly spilled. A few models asked for selfies, and one particularly bold young actress slipped her number into his jacket pocket when she thought no one was watching.
He had to drink everytime he met someone, and shared some conversation, part of the networking efforts. By late night, he was drunk. Thankfully his self control helped him not to make a fool out of him self.
"Hollywood parties, huh. Always chaotic." He chuckled to himself.