Isabella had no idea about the scheming inside the Anti-Isabella Alliance. Honestly, even if she did, she wouldn't have cared.
Those people were all small fry anyway—one swing of her fist the size of a sandbag and she could flatten them.
Cough, cough…Alright, that did sound a bit like bragging.
If Isabella actually knew Ted Turner and Steve Case weren't done stirring trouble, or that Michael Eisner planned to cause one last headache before surrendering, she'd have taken things more seriously.
But she didn't know.
So… counting the money first?
Hehe~
Their victory in this "war" brought them literal, physical piles of cash.
Let's start with Warner—
Because all their attacks had been organized and well-timed, Barry Meyer and his team shorted Fox stock before launching their media assault.
When Fox's market value dropped by 1.3 billion in five days, Warner pocketed nearly a billion in profit, with Barry personally earning over a hundred million. He was ecstatic, practically manic with joy.
Was it illegal?
Well, let's just say that when Luckin Coffee's fraud was exposed, Muddy Waters—the firm publishing the report—was also the biggest short seller.
Why just look at the K-line when you can draw it yourself?
Barry was basically exposing Wall Street's underwear, putting their everyday tricks right out in the open.
A guy making 80 million in ten minutes? Child's play on Wall Street. They've been daylight robbing people for decades.
Now, that billion-plus was Warner's own gain—they'd spent plenty to take Fox down, covering PR and protest costs, after all.
Still, Warner's windfall directly benefited Isabella.
Barry Meyer flew to the U.K. the very day Fox surrendered to sign a full franchise deal with J.K. Rowling and David Heyman: as long as the Harry Potter novels didn't collapse, Warner would finish the film series. The production money was already locked in.
Thanks, Uncle Murdoch, for the contribution.
Next, Disney—
Robert Iger hadn't used the stock market like a personal ATM, but Fox's surrender still brought him a huge win.
The most obvious proof? American Idol's cancellation sent every advertiser scrambling to The Voice.
Sponsors poured in, desperate to get on board.
With Idol gone, The Voice truly became the king of reality shows. Anyone with half a brain could see Season 2 would explode, with average viewership starting at thirty-five million. A single ad slot could turn a startup brand global.
According to Iger, if all went well, The Voice's second season would bring in around 2.3 to 2.4 billion in ad revenue—Isabella's cut alone would clear a couple hundred million.
Compared to Warner's one-week billion-plus, The Voice's money-making pace wasn't exactly fast. But finance is a strange beast—you can rob others, sure, but others can rob you too.
Physical industries rarely go totally bankrupt; finance can wipe you out with a single number turning red.
Now, onto Chris Columbus—
Once Fantastic Four became entangled in racial controversy, Columbus was done.
Since the studio had caused the issue, Constantin had to pay him 20 million in damages per the contract.
And because the film obviously wouldn't meet its 2006 release date—and the fault wasn't his—they owed him another 40 million.
Total: 60 million.
You might think that math's wrong—he quit, so why double-count both clauses?
In theory, if he took the 20 million now, he shouldn't get the later 40 million.
But… he wanted both. Any objections?
Bernard Eichinger kept insisting he wasn't to blame, that he knew nothing of Murdoch's chaos.
Columbus didn't care. "I don't need you to think you're guilty. I need me to think you're guilty."He demanded 60 million, so Eichinger paid 60 million.
And that was only the beginning. Columbus also wanted to "make three more deals."
Constantin "insisted" on selling him Fantastic Four rights for $250 k.
Constantin "insisted" on selling him Resident Evil rights for $250 k.
Constantin "insisted" on transferring all Resident Evil 1 film rights and distribution for $500 k.
Columbus "reluctantly" accepted.
Basically, if Eichinger sold, they'd just do the trades: pay him 59 million and hand over the IPs.
If he refused… well, if Murdoch could force your hand, so could Columbus.
Everyone in the game has to pick a side, and losing your bet means paying the price.
On May 14, Michael Barnathan returned to London.
At Leavesden Studios, he laid the 59 million and the two IP contracts in front of Columbus.
He looked exhausted, so Columbus gave him 19 million as a "tea fee."
The remaining 40 million?He originally wanted to give Isabella 20 million in thanks.
She refused—she didn't need it.
So—
"Ugh, Isabella, you're getting harder and harder to deal with," Columbus grumbled on May 15 in Leavesden. "That's twenty million dollars! You just turn it down?"
"Chris, I get it. The truth hurts," she said with a grin. "Twenty million might sound big to you, but for me? That's just what I make lying around for a few days." Isa wiggled her tail smugly.
"…Can I punch you?"
"Nope~ heehee~" She winked.
When he raised a fist, she laughed and waved.
"Okay, okay, no jokes. Twenty million takes a while to earn, but I don't need it right now. Keep it."
Columbus relaxed, smiling again. "Then take the rights. You can't just walk away empty-handed. Barry renewed his contract with us, Iger promised you a bigger cut—you deserve something too."
"Oh, Chris, such a sweet talker." Isabella understood perfectly: no one eats alone.
Even Barry, the great short-seller, brought his allies along for the profit.
So when Warner carved up Fox's carcass, Isabella naturally got a slice.
Given that—
"I'll just take one, Fantastic Four or Resident Evil."
"Sure. Which do you want?"
"Which do you hate more?"
"I? I prefer Fantastic Four."
"Okay, then I'll take both."
"Didn't you just say one?"
"How else would I know if you actually liked Fantastic Four?"
Columbus just stared, then sighed. "Fine. One dollar for both."
Truthfully, Isabella didn't even care much for either IP—she just couldn't resist free stuff.
But the moment he agreed, she realized something was off.
"Uh… Chris, let me ask—Resident Evil 2 is in production, right?"
"Uh… Michael said they're prepping, shooting starts in August."
"And that project's funding…"
Isa squinted.
"Obviously whoever holds the rights pays the budget. We can't keep the IP and expect Constantin to fund it too. Plus, you'll need your own distributor—since taking the rights, we've terminated with Sony. Howard Stringer doesn't want that fight."
He caught her drift and raised a brow. "Sweetheart, didn't you say you make money fast?"
Isabella's face twisted like she'd swallowed a lemon. "So everyone else wins money, and I win a bill? What the hell is this? Totally unfair…"
"Hahahahaha!" Columbus burst out laughing. "You chose this yourself! I offered you twenty million—you said no!"
She pouted but didn't argue. The sequel's budget was only forty-to-fifty million—pocket change to her anyway. And Resident Evil had long-term profit potential, even if it paid out slowly.
Uh...
Fine.
There's no way to sugarcoat this.
Compared to Isabella's current money-making speed, this franchise just didn't shine at all in the gold-digging department.
Still, Isabella didn't care.
She wasn't short on cash anyway, so she'd just throw some in for fun.
Consider it "expanding her network and IP portfolio," she told herself.
Once the contracts were signed and the copyrights in hand, Isabella even poached someone from Chris Columbus.
She hired Michael Barnathan as the producer of the Resident Evil series—someone to keep an eye on things, oversee production, and handle distribution.
Because she really didn't have time to babysit Resident Evil herself.
Or rather, except for a few projects like Harry Potter, she didn't have the time or patience for any of them. Hire people, let them deal with it. That's not arrogance—it's efficiency.
If a small project tanks, who cares.
That's not her being cocky. It's just... reality.
After transferring Resident Evil and Fantastic Four, Columbus grinned and said,
"Isabella, since we're done dividing the spoils, maybe we should talk about other matters, hmm?"
"What kind of matters?"
The girl blinked, her head fuzzy from his nasal sing-song tone.
Then Columbus suddenly dropped his smile, frowning.
"You're pretty sneaky, huh? Arranging work for me behind my back? You know I'm busy, right?"
"Huh?" Isabella looked confused—until he mentioned Iron Man.
Realization hit, and she rolled her eyes.
She jabbed two fingers into his chest and tried to act mad, but she broke into laughter anyway.
"Chris, this isn't on me—blame the public for loving you too much!"
Only four players had fought in the "Raccoon City Defense War": Warner, Disney, Chris Columbus, and Isabella Haywood.
Once they'd split the spoils, the battle should've been over.
Except it wasn't.
The ripple effects spread worldwide—again stirring up the endless debate over race in Hollywood.
Should adding minority characters count as inclusion or tokenism?
Every academic, journalist, and self-proclaimed cultural expert had something to say.
Meanwhile, Columbus's open love for Marvel sent Marvel fans into orbit.
They shot him straight to the top tier of celebrity directors.
Yes, seriously.
Once they found out Columbus was a genuine Marvel fan, they exploded like fireworks.
You couldn't really blame them.
At the time, apart from Spider-Man and X-Men, Marvel films were mostly unwatchable disasters.
So hearing that a world-famous director—the guy who'd turned Harry Potter into a global juggernaut—was interested in their heroes felt like divine intervention.
Someone muttered, "But wait, no media outlet said Columbus is actually directing a Marvel film, right?"
Oh.
My.
God.
Come on. When a man loves Marvel that much, of course he'll direct one!
Right?
And conveniently, Columbus did have time to shoot Iron Man!
Why?
Simple: even The Hollywood Reporter said Columbus had signed a deal with New Line and sent an invitation to Isabella Haywood herself.
Isabella—aka Hermione Granger.
She'd never abandon Harry Potter, right?
So if she could find time for Iron Man, then Columbus must have time to film it!
Right?
And sure, maybe she didn't exactly fit the Pepper Potts role.
Didn't matter.
Fans didn't care. She'd be in it somehow.
And just like that, Marvel fandom collectively lost its mind.
Columbus had only said he liked Iron Man—and suddenly the fans had crowned him director.
It was like saying "it's chilly today," and someone wraps you in a royal robe and calls you king.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
But Isabella was right: people adored him, they thought he was brilliant.
So he accepted the chaos. The details could wait.
He didn't actually have time to direct Iron Man anyway.
With Goblet of Fire split into two films, his schedule was jam-packed till next year.
Order of the Phoenix couldn't start before Goblet was finished, but once Goblet wrapped, The Devil Wears Prada was next.
And after Prada? Order of the Phoenix.
Nice thematic flow: bright young girl leaves the ivory tower, gets devoured by the adult world.
By then Isabella would be sixteen—young, confident, unstoppable.
Columbus could ignore Iron Man, but Marvel fans sure couldn't ignore him.
As they flooded online forums, shouting and speculating, search engines everywhere lit up with "Columbus," "Isabella," "Iron Man," and "Marvel."
Then someone noticed—
there was no actual evidence of him working on Iron Man.
Tragic.
But, being fans, they just entertained themselves.
If there's no info, they'd invent it.
They started studying Columbus's earlier works, convinced they could reverse-engineer his "creative process."
If they understood how he adapted Harry Potter, maybe they could guess how he'd adapt Iron Man—and how Isabella might fit in.
Thus began a glorious wave of insanity.
Within days, the internet flooded with memes of "little-Beaver" (Isabella's cartoon avatar) wearing Marvel gear.
Beaver-Iron-Man.
Beaver-Spider-Man.
Beaver-Thor.
Beaver-Captain America.
They even made comics.
Spider-Beaver shoots a web to block Iron-Beaver's helmet;
Thor-Beaver's hammer comes crashing in;
Spider-Beaver snatches Cap-Beaver's shield midair;
She blocks the hit—but the force still sends her flying.
Iron-Beaver raises her hands, blasts Spider-Beaver with repulsor beams;
Spider-Beaver, mid-flight, slips on the One Ring and vanishes.
Behold—the One Ring!
She reappears behind Thor-Beaver, brandishing a wand—green light flashes—boom, Thor-Beaver down.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Deadpool-Beaver, narrating the chaos, yells:
"She broke the fourth wall!"
"Ref! She's cheating!"
"How can someone cast an Unforgivable Curse and wield Cap's shield?!"
"That shield only works for the pure of heart!"
"What? That was Thor's hammer? Oh. Carry on."
Before he can finish, a massive green fist crushes him flat.
Spider-Beaver had copied Hulk-Beaver's power.
And thus began The Beaver Multiverse War.
The memes spread like wildfire.
Everywhere.
Except at Warner Bros., every studio in Hollywood was fuming.
Because the date was May 15, 2004—
barely a week before Memorial Day.
The start of the summer blockbuster season.
And now?
Fans were obsessing over Isabella memes and Harry Potter DVDs while analyzing how Columbus might adapt Iron Man.
They imagined her as Hermione Stark, Hermione Parker, Hermione Thor, Hermione Banner—
Perfect. Free. Publicity.
They weren't promoting Iron Man…
They were giving Prisoner of Azkaban free marketing on a silver platter.
Hollywood was losing its collective mind.