Luke politely turned down Director Ang Lee's offer.
He had just ended that call when his phone rang again.
🎵 "I'll be with you to watch the meteor shower, falling down on Earth…" 🎵
It was Meteor Shower, one of the big hits of 2001.
Since this was the ringtone he'd set for Director Cohen, he didn't even check before answering. "Director Cohen, what's going on?"
"Half an hour ago, Director Sommers jumped. He leapt from the window of the Conrad Hotel. It's been confirmed—he's gone."
"..."
"My mood's a bit heavy," Cohen added when Luke stayed silent.
Though he hadn't been especially close to Sommers, they'd known each other for years. Otherwise, Cohen wouldn't have tried earlier to introduce Luke for The Mummy Returns.
Even after things turned sour between them, Cohen had never wished to see Sommers end like this.
"This wasn't your fault. If he hadn't tried to run you out of Hollywood, he wouldn't have ended up this way. He brought it on himself," Luke said gently.
"I know. Still, it's hard not to feel sad. I won't keep you—goodbye."
"Goodbye." Luke ended the call.
Sommers had truly "fallen to Earth." Luke didn't feel the slightest pity.
Cohen didn't know that, if Luke hadn't provoked Sommers in that Cairo theater—forcing him to mortgage his house and lose everything—Sommers might not have gone down that road.
But Luke wasn't the type to play saint. For an enemy who had tried to break his career, he had no sympathy.
The path to fame and fortune was brutal by nature. He would hit back with equal ruthlessness.
What an enemy chose to do after defeat wasn't his concern. That was their decision.
He put the matter out of his mind quickly. Opening the door, he drove off toward Douglaston.
It was Luke's first time at Mr. Eisen's home.
As one would expect of a billionaire, the mansion was stunningly luxurious.
In Eisen's study, the two men sat across from each other.
"Your recent performance has been impressive. You've proven to me that you really can achieve the goals you've been talking about," Eisen said, more talkative than usual.
"Unless I die on set one day, nothing can stop me from moving forward." Luke's tone was light, unflinching in the face of life and death.
"You surprise me. With your looks and the wealth you already have, you could be living the kind of life most men only dream about—cars, women, fine dining, luxury. Why risk everything chasing such a dangerous road?"
He wasn't wrong.
Most people with Luke's appearance and budding fortune would gladly take it easy. Enjoy life while young—why risk dying early?
"I don't want to look back someday and regret wasting my youth, or feel ashamed for accomplishing nothing."
"How the Steel Was Tempered—that's a fine book. Some of its truths came to me too late. I wasted too much of my youth chasing pleasures. But at least in my later years, I have you to fight alongside me again."
Eisen's words had a touch of that old-money humility that still manages to boast.
What he meant was this: he had spent too much of his life chasing money, and only now, late in the game, did he realize that legacy mattered more than wealth.
"You won't be disappointed. Your dream is my dream," Luke said firmly.
"Then here—this is a formal partnership agreement. Take a look." Eisen slid a document across the desk.
Luke accepted it with care and began reading.
Up until now, Eisen's support had always been provisional, like a test. He could have walked away at any time.
But Luke's death-defying performances and the box office results of his two films had proven his worth.
Now, finally, came a formal contract.
This meant their partnership would be legally bound. They would move forward as true allies.
As Luke read, his chest burned—not with anger, but with the thrill of being valued.
The agreement stated that Eisen would invest $500 million to found a film studio built around Luke, with Eisen himself serving as his manager.
Ownership was set at 90% Eisen, 10% Luke.
Luke had no complaints.
Eisen was fronting all the money. Giving Luke 10% outright was essentially a $50 million gift.
And with $500 million in backing, the "studio" could even self-finance films.
Calling it a studio was modest—it was already the size of a mid-tier film company.
Eisen's naming strategy was deliberate: stay low-key while building power.
And beyond money, Eisen brought something even more valuable—his vast network and influence in Hollywood. Money alone couldn't buy access to the inner circle. Without connections, outsiders would always be rejected and pushed aside.
For all that, Eisen keeping 90% was more than fair.
But what stunned Luke was the performance clause.
The deal promised that if Luke hit the annual profit targets with his action films, he would receive an additional 15% stake each year.
In just three years, if he kept hitting his marks, he'd own 55%—becoming majority owner.
After six years of success, Eisen would step out entirely, leaving Luke with 100%.
Yes, the targets were ambitious, and only action-film profits counted—no commercial endorsements, no side deals.
But that was as it should be. Eisen's vision was to build Luke into an unparalleled action star.
And the key detail? The clause was one-sided. If Luke failed, there was no penalty. If he succeeded, he got rewarded.
Eisen's message was crystal clear: Yes, I'm the boss now. But if you prove yourself, I'll give you everything.
The sheer generosity floored Luke.
He'd seen too many backstabbing businessmen fight over scraps. No one ever gave away power this freely.
Signing this contract would put Luke on the express lane to the top.
But would he sign?
Luke looked Eisen in the eye and declared, "I don't agree to these terms."