Chapter 97: The Marvel Expansion
October 2010. Marvel Studios. Burbank.
Kevin Feige's office is exactly what you'd expect. Concept art. Action figures. Movie posters.
He's behind his desk. Two executives flanking him.
"Stuart. Thanks for coming."
"Of course."
"We want to expand your role."
I'm sitting. Waiting.
"Your consulting's been invaluable. Iron Man 2 benefited from your input. Thor's in post-production. Your notes on Asgardian culture—spot-on."
"Thanks."
"We're planning Phase Two. Captain America sequel. Thor sequel. Avengers 2. Guardians of the Galaxy. Ant-Man. Six films over four years."
"That's ambitious."
"That's the plan. And we want you involved in all of them. Full-time cultural consultant. Every script. Every set. Every prop."
"Full-time."
"Yes."
"Define full-time."
"Forty hours weekly. On-site when needed. Remote work otherwise. Flexibility for your shops. But committed. Exclusive to Marvel."
One of the executives slides a contract across the desk.
I read the first page.
$5,000 weekly. 52 weeks. $260,000 annually.
Plus benefits. Health insurance. Travel allowance.
"This is—generous."
"You're worth it. Your authenticity makes our films better. Fans notice. Critics notice. We notice."
I'm doing math.
$260K from Marvel.
$150K from shops (net profit across three locations).
$410K annually.
Plus investments growing.
At 27.
"Can I negotiate?" I ask.
Kevin pauses. "What are you thinking?"
"$6,000 weekly. Same commitment. But I need flexibility for shop expansion. Fourth location planned for next year."
"That's $312,000 annually."
"I know."
Silence.
Then: "Done."
"Done?"
"You're worth it. And we want you committed. Not distracted by money concerns."
Contract's amended. Right there. New numbers inserted.
I sign.
Hand steady.
$312,000 annually.
Plus shops.
Plus investments.
Total income over $500,000.
At 27 years old.
Because of supernatural advantages I didn't earn.
Leaving the building. Parking lot.
My phone rings. Katie.
"How'd it go?"
"I got it."
"Of course you did. How much?"
"$312K annually."
"Stuart. That's—that's incredible."
"It's a lot."
"It's deserved. You're good at what you do."
"Thanks."
"Celebrate tonight? I'll cook."
"Perfect."
She hangs up.
I sit in my car.
Staring at the contract on the passenger seat.
$312,000 annually.
For being a "cultural consultant."
For having opinions about comic accuracy.
The Magnetism power opened the door. Made them want me.
But I still had to deliver. Prove value.
That's—something.
Not pure cheating. Half-earned.
I start the car.
Head to Pasadena shop. Tell Jake the news.
He high-fives me. "You're killing it."
"We're killing it."
"Don't do that. This is your win. Own it."
That night. My penthouse. Katie cooking.
She's making pasta. From scratch. Actual from scratch.
"When did you learn this?"
"YouTube. While you were at Marvel."
"You learned to make pasta in three hours?"
"Apparently."
It's good. Really good.
"To your success," she toasts.
"Our success."
"Yours. Mine's—auditioning and hoping. Yours is tangible. Contracts. Money. Growth."
"Yours is art. Different kind of success."
"Still feels less—real."
"Katie. You're on a TV show. You walk red carpets. That's real."
She's quiet. Twirling pasta.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'll always be—supporting actress. Never the lead. Never the name people know."
"You're 28. You have time."
"I'm 29 in January."
"Still time."
She smiles. Weak. Uncertain.
"What if this is it? Supporting roles. Semi-famous. Never breaking through?"
"Then you had a career most actors would kill for."
"That's settling."
"That's succeeding."
We eat in silence. Something's shifted.
Her ambition. My success. The gap between them.
I didn't see it before.
But it's there.
Later. She's asleep.
I'm on the balcony. Alone.
The Marvel contract is life-changing money.
But Katie's career is stalling.
She's talented. Beautiful. Hardworking.
But Hollywood's a lottery.
And I'm winning because of cheat codes.
She's playing fair and losing.
That's—uncomfortable.
I go back inside.
Slide into bed.
She rolls over. Mumbles something.
I hold her.
And ignore the growing distance.
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