The popping sound of champagne corks echoed through the air, like distant fireworks in celebration.
Above the clouds — cruising at roughly 39,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean, on the long stretch from Amsterdam to Los Angeles — laughter erupted once again. But this wasn't the casual chuckle of businessmen or the idle giggles of tourists. No. This was the laughter of gods — gods of an empire called the music industry.
And this wasn't your typical private jet either.
This aircraft was custom-built, a flying palace, larger than even most billionaires' private Gulfstreams or Bombardiers. No, this was an Airbus ACJ — the kind of private jet built off the same design as commercial airliners, but stripped and refitted into a floating luxury penthouse. Polished oak floors, thick imported cashmere carpets, gold trim, crystal fixtures; fine art hung on its walls as if mocking gravity itself.
Because when you carried the most powerful man in the music industry, nothing less would do.
Sitting comfortably near the expansive lounge area was Lucian Grainge, CEO of Universal Music Group — the undisputed kingpin of the modern music world. His face, round and pale, beamed under the dimmed mood lighting as he chuckled deeply, the weight of global influence practically vibrating off him.
When people thought of power in music, they thought of titans — Taylor Swift, Beyoncé, Bad Bunny, Drake — names that could fill stadiums, set social media on fire, and crash streaming services on release day. The biggest cultural forces on the planet.
But pure power? The kind that could pick up a phone and have Apple Music renegotiate contract terms, or call Spotify's board into an emergency meeting before lunch? The kind of power that could greenlight global tours, crush competitors, and dictate the future of entire genres with a single nod? That power didn't live in front of the flashing cameras.
It wore a tailored Brioni suit, rested quietly in leather armchairs, and traveled in private jets like this one.
Yes — as with most things at the highest echelons of global capitalism — it was often still an older, extremely well-connected Jewish man, sitting in the shadows, pulling the levers. And in the music industry, that man was Lucian Grainge.
His face was flushed from the wine as he lifted his glass high.
"To Julia!" he boomed, his British accent slicing through the laughter as the rest of the cabin quieted. "Because without Julia... none of this milestone would've happened. None."
The others in the jet laughed, raising their glasses in unison.
Julia — head of A&R for Universal, elegant and sharp-eyed, smiled graciously as Lucian toasted her. "Thank you, Lucian," she said softly, always poised, always measured — as all great gatekeepers were trained to be.
Around them sat the inner circle:
Jack, the young CFO, only in his late 20s but already holding one of the most dangerous seats in the company a seat he got thanks to the very powerful background he cane from being the eldest son of one of the shareholders.
Lucas, the COO — calm, experienced, the steady ship that kept the company's business arms operating with ruthless efficiency.
Sarah, head of global marketing, impeccably dressed, her phone buzzing non-stop even in the air.
And a few assistants, analysts, and secretaries sitting off to one side, silent but observing everything, ready to take notes or respond at a moment's notice.
As they sipped their drinks, conversation buzzed in small pockets — chatter of upcoming deals, artist launches, the next big contract up for renewal. But underneath it all was one unspoken truth: Lucian Grainge wasn't returning to America as a CEO simply traveling between offices.
No. Lucian Grainge was returning home as a king returning from conquest.
After spending a little over a year stationed at Universal's Netherlands headquarters — restructuring, consolidating, preparing for the next phase of dominance — the company's transition phase was nearly complete. And now, with the numbers they were seeing, they weren't just surviving the streaming age—they were rewriting the playbook.
Lucian sat back, exhaling deeply, his eyes distant for a moment as if doing the math again in his head. "Five. Hundred. Million. Dollars," he whispered under his breath, almost in disbelief.
Lucas, hearing him, chuckled and leaned over.
"Seems you still can't believe it, sir," Lucas said with a knowing grin.
Lucian looked over, his eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation. The jet hummed softly as they sailed through the dark, starless sky.
"Oo, Lucas... don't misunderstand. I knew this tour was going to do massive numbers. That was never in question," Lucian said, swirling the wine in his glass slowly, watching the red liquid catch the dim light like molten rubies. "But this... this is something else, isn't it? This is historic."
And it was.
The tour had broken past every projection they had printed back in Amsterdam. The projections were conservative, of course — but even the most aggressive models hadn't dared to estimate that after tonight, Ethan Jones' world tour would break into the Top 10 Highest Grossing Tours of All Time.
And not just that.
The fastest to ever reach that level.
A soft hum of admiration filled the cabin again as Lucian spoke — this was what made Universal untouchable. They didn't just ride the wave of the music industry — they were the wave.
Behind his smile, though, Jack — the young CFO — sat more rigid, his face serious. His mind wasn't lost in the champagne or the historic milestones. He was already running numbers on what came next: the revenue splits, the merchandise percentages, the mounting expenses of a growing operation, the risks of the bubble eventually bursting. Every high came with a price.
But right now, tonight, no one in this plane wanted to hear caution. This was a moment for victory.
Lucian smiled again as he looked around at his team. "We've spent fifteen months grinding it out in Europe, away from home, tightening everything — and now we go back to America stronger than we've ever been." He raised his glass once more. "Ladies and gentlemen — to the new empire."
They all clinked glasses again, the champagne bubbling under the soft rumble of the plane engines.
High above the world, with the moonlight bouncing off the metal wings of the aircraft, the most powerful man in music flew toward America — with Ethan Jones as the crown jewel of his empire.
He couldn't lie — the number still left him stunned.
Five hundred million dollars.
Half a billion in ticket sales, and the tour was only halfway through its nation run.
By all internal projections, if things continued on this track — and every model, every analyst, every data point suggested it would — they were on pace to cross the unthinkable: $1.2 billion dollars by the time the final curtain fell.
If that happened, this wouldn't just be a successful tour. It would be the tour.
The highest-grossing tour in the entire history of the music business.
Lucian Grainge let the thought simmer, his smile stretching wider, almost involuntarily. His wrinkled fingers swirled the red wine in his glass as he leaned back into the cream leather chair, staring out into the endless dark ocean beneath the jet. The low hum of the engines was like a purring beast beneath his feet, adding rhythm to the symphony playing in his mind.
He had gambled — and God, had it paid off.
When Universal Music Group went public last year, the tremors were felt across the entire entertainment world. A company of this size, carrying such enormous market share — nearly 35% of the global music industry — stepping onto the trading floor wasn't just a corporate event; it was a tectonic shift.
But with that move came changes. Dangerous ones.
Suddenly, he wasn't just answering to artists, agents, managers, or even board members. Now there were shareholders. Funds. Hedge fund managers with no love for music, but with an obsession for quarterly earnings. Activist investors who saw artists not as creators, but as "assets under management." And with them came questions — about growth, about margins, about whether Lucian, the old lion, still had the killer instinct that built Universal's empire in the first place.
The pressure was crushing.
The rumors had started swirling in private conversations — was it time for new leadership? Fresh blood? The vultures circled.
But Lucian wasn't just another CEO.
He wasn't a man who loved music because it stirred the soul.
No — he loved music because it was the perfect ecosystem for power.
And power was what Lucian Grainge understood better than anyone alive.
He could smell weakness in boardrooms the same way sharks smell blood in the ocean. And when the storm clouds gathered, he did what men like him always did:
He moved. Ruthlessly.
That's when he found his weapon: Ethan Jones.
The kid had everything — the perfect blend of marketable charisma and raw, undeniable talent. His voice melted across genres. His looks were genetically engineered for magazine covers. His following was global and obsessive. But more importantly, Lucian didn't just see an artist — he saw an industry.
He saw merchandise. Branding. Licensing. Streaming leverage. Stadiums full of screaming fans paying thousands of $ a ticket. Brand deals with companies begging to attach themselves to him. The monetization possibilities were endless.
But that wasn't enough. Not for Lucian.
To prove his dominance — not just to Wall Street, but to every snake inside and outside Universal who doubted him — Lucian did something UMG had never done before in its century-long history:
They hosted their own tour.
You see, Universal had always been dominant.
Their catalogs were unmatched — they owned the rights to legends both living and dead: The Beatles, Drake, Ariana Grande, Kanye, Justin Bieber, Kendrick Lamar, Lady Gaga, Billie Eilish, U2, Bob Dylan — the list was a small pantheon of modern gods.
They controlled streaming negotiations. Publishing. Licensing. They were the artery that fed the lifeblood of the entire global music industry.
But one area had always eluded them: touring.
For decades, companies like Live Nation and AEG had ruled that domain — the venue bookings, the production logistics, the global networks of stadiums and arenas. The live industry was its own kingdom, and Universal, despite its wealth, had long been forced to watch from the sidelines, taking their smaller piece from artist contracts while third-party promoters gorged themselves on billions in tour revenue.
No longer.
Lucian had made a brutal decision:
They would do it themselves.
No Live Nation. No AEG. No more sharing.
He built an entire touring division almost overnight, assembling top logistics coordinators, venue brokers, engineers, stage designers, and transport coordinators — most of whom had been poached aggressively from the very companies they were now replacing.
The logistical nightmare was unprecedented.
They spent nearly $150 million upfront — buying customized tour buses, building stage sets, chartering private freight planes for equipment, building entire mobile cities that could leapfrog continents. The final bill? No one even knew yet. Every stop cost millions.
But now? Now, they owned it all.
No outside cuts. No third parties eating from their plate.
Every dollar generated stayed inside Universal's walls.
And leading that empire's first fully in-house global tour was none other than Ethan Jones — their shining prince.
Lucian's grin twitched wider as he stared through the glass.
He wanted Ethan.
Not just as a signed artist — as property. As legacy.
Ethan would be the face of Universal. The perfect puppet king to project the company's newfound dominance. Every album, every tour, every endorsement — under their complete control.
He would belong to Universal. To Lucian.
Lucian could already taste the long-term contracts, the equity deals, the new mergers and acquisitions this would open. Ethan was the golden goose.
And Lucian would keep him close.
He sat back, breathing deeply, his chest swelling with the euphoria of victory — until a voice pierced his daydream.
"Sir? Sir?"
It was Sarah, his head of global marketing, leaning forward slightly from across the table, her voice slicing through his mental fog.
Lucian blinked, momentarily disoriented as he returned from his own thoughts. "Hmm? What is it?"
"Drake is on the line for you."
At that, Lucian's grin returned — sharp as ever.