New York, Conrad Hotel.
"Director, we just got the final numbers for the opening weekend box office."
A blonde assistant in a tight black skirt and high heels walked over, carrying a folder in her hands. Instead of sitting on the couch, she slid right onto Director Sommers' lap before flashing a sweet smile and opening the file for him.
Her movements were smooth and practiced; the initial hesitation she once had was long gone.
She'd only started working for Sommers last month, and when he first made inappropriate demands, she'd resisted fiercely. But after being threatened with losing her job—and tempted with a hefty paycheck—she eventually gave in.
Did she resent her beauty for drawing men's attention? Of course not. Without her looks, there was no way she could have landed a high-paying job like this one.
After all, it paid $30,000 a month—a golden opportunity.
And did she resent Sommers for using his power to coerce her? Again, no. In fact, she felt grateful for the transaction. Refusing it wouldn't have made her life better.
A woman's youth is fleeting, and meeting the right buyer at the right time felt, to her, like fortune smiling down.
Her body relaxed even more in his arms.
Sommers, holding the warm figure close, felt his head heat up and his desire stir—but he managed to keep control. Years in Hollywood had given him discipline, at least in public.
"One hundred and twenty million dollars—twenty million higher than we projected! The movie's a huge hit, Director. You're amazing. Everything you touch turns to gold," the assistant cooed, batting her lashes.
But instead of looking pleased, Sommers' face darkened.
That number wasn't what he'd expected. Despite theaters giving The Mummy Returns a generous 40% screening share, the movie had only grossed $120 million.
He knew that included the $30 million he'd spent himself buying out tickets.
That meant the real audience turnout had brought in only $90 million—ten million short of projections, despite burning through an enormous marketing budget and manipulating ticket sales.
The realization hit him hard.
"How are our showtimes looking for next week?" he asked sharply.
Showtime allocation was everything—it determined whether a movie's box office held steady or collapsed after week one.
"There's a small problem," the assistant said carefully. "Our screenings will drop by about eight percent."
"Eight percent? That's not small! Why?"
"Because that new movie, Shrek, has been performing incredibly well. The audience ratings and word of mouth are through the roof, so theaters are giving it some of our slots."
"Damn it! Some stupid cartoon is stealing my screens?!" Sommers roared.
The woman trembled in his lap, too afraid to move.
"Then ramp up ticket purchases again," he growled after a long silence. "If we can keep our attendance numbers high, the theaters won't dare cut us."
"But our marketing budget's already maxed out. That kind of spending isn't covered in the plan," she reminded him.
"I'll pay for it myself," he snapped. "Once the profits come in, I'll take it back from the box office share."
It was a painful decision, but he had no choice. He wasn't about to be humiliated and run out of Hollywood.
Still, even as he tried to stay composed, the assistant pressed on: "We can fake ticket sales, but the reviews are another issue. Our word of mouth isn't good."
"Then fix it. Get the critics to write positive pieces. Full-page features, whatever it takes."
"We already tried that," she said softly. "It didn't help much."
"What do you mean it didn't help?!"
"People don't really read newspapers anymore. The younger crowd shares opinions online—mostly on a website called IMDb."
Sommers frowned. "IMDb? What are our numbers there?"
"We're at 6.2 out of 10," she replied. "Shrek is at 7.7."
"That stupid cartoon again! Get our PR team to fix the score—bribe whoever runs that site if you have to."
"They already refused our offer," she said. "Actually… they mocked the movie instead."
"Damn IMDb!"
Of course, Sommers didn't know that Mr. Eisen—Luke's backer—had quietly invested in IMDb, giving Luke influence over the site. There was no way Sommers' film was getting favorable treatment. If anything, Luke would make sure the mockery was louder.
Nothing was going smoothly. Sommers clenched his fists.
He hugged the trembling woman tighter, his mind filled with dread. The good days, he realized, might be over.
No. He refused to believe that.
Those "yellow-skinned nobodies" were the ones who should get out of Hollywood. This was supposed to be the territory of the proud Anglo-Saxons. How could just anyone come in and take a piece?
"Director," the assistant asked quietly, "another movie's opening tomorrow. Should we be worried?"
"You mean Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone? It's just a kids' movie—a fairy tale. It won't affect us much."
"But it's a big production—budgeted at $130 million."
"They spent all that on the movie itself, not promotion. Their marketing budget is less than half of ours. They won't touch our screens," he said confidently.
If Luke had heard that, he would've laughed himself breathless.
You think that movie's not a threat?
In the years to come, the Harry Potter series and The Lord of the Rings trilogy would dominate global box offices, trading the number one and number two spots year after year.
Every other movie that crossed their paths would be crushed—no contest.
And because of the butterfly effect from Luke's rebirth, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was premiering six months earlier than in the original timeline, landing in early June instead of November.
That was why, when Luke had seen the release schedule back in that boardroom meeting, he'd immediately known—The Mummy Returns was doomed.
This was what he meant by timing.
The Mummy Returns was a solid film, sure—but caught between Shrek and Harry Potter, it would be squeezed out of theaters entirely.
Sommers, still ignorant of the coming storm, dismissed Harry Potter as a "children's movie."
What he didn't realize was that his own star-studded cast had eaten up a fortune in salaries, while Harry Potter's young actors were paid next to nothing.
On paper, their production budgets were close—but in reality, the money spent on-screen wasn't even in the same league.
That's why Harry Potter would utterly outclass his film in quality.
And soon, Sommers would feel the icy sting of that reality—the chill that comes when a true giant arrives on the scene.