Chapter 102 - 102: The Santa Monica Plans
January 2011. Third Street Promenade. Santa Monica.
The space is perfect.
3,000 square feet. Corner location. Windows on two sides. Natural light flooding in.
The real estate agent—Michelle—is talking numbers.
"$5,200 monthly. Triple net. Two-year minimum lease."
Katie's with me. Helping negotiate. Using her actress charm.
"That seems high for the square footage," she says smoothly.
"It's Third Street Promenade. Prime retail."
"It's also January. Post-holiday slump. How long has this been vacant?"
Michelle hesitates. "Three months."
"So you're motivated. $4,500. Two years. We'll sign today."
"I can't—"
"Sure you can. Call the landlord. We'll wait."
Michelle steps away. Phone to her ear.
Katie grins at me. "See? Actress skills."
"That was impressive."
"I've negotiated contracts. This is nothing."
Michelle comes back. "Landlord says $4,800. Final offer."
"Deal."
We shake hands.
Fourth shop secured.
Outside. Walking the promenade. Tourist crowds.
"This is going to crush it," Katie says.
"You think?"
"Beach community. Tourists. College kids from UCLA. Perfect demographics."
"You've been thinking about this."
"I pay attention to your business. It's important to you. So it's important to me."
She's right. The location's ideal.
Pasadena: Original. Established customer base.
Burbank: Studios. Industry connections.
San Diego: Comic-Con. Katie's hometown.
Santa Monica: Beach. Tourists. Different demographic entirely.
Four shops covering Southern California comprehensively.
"When's it open?" Katie asks.
"May. Three months to build out."
"And then?"
"And then—maybe Orange County. Irvine or Anaheim. Close the ring."
"Five shops."
"Eventually."
"Stuart. That's an empire."
"That's a regional chain."
"Same thing."
We stop at a coffee shop. Order drinks. Sit outside.
"How much are you making now?" Katie asks.
Direct. No dancing around it.
"From shops? About $200K annually."
"And Marvel?"
"$312K."
"So—over $500K total?"
"Yes."
"At twenty-eight."
"Twenty-seven. Birthday's in March."
"Still. That's—incredible."
She's stirring her coffee. Not drinking. Just—processing.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just—thinking."
"About?"
"My career. I'm making maybe $80K this year. If the show gets renewed. If I book other work. Maybe."
"You're doing great."
"I'm doing okay. You're doing great. There's a difference."
"Katie—"
"I'm not jealous. I'm just—noticing. The gap. Between where we are."
"We're both successful."
"You're building an empire. I'm hoping for renewal."
"Different industries. Different timelines."
"I know."
But she sounds sad.
That night. My penthouse. Katie's packing.
She's officially moving in this weekend.
Boxes everywhere. Her life compressed into containers.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Just—thinking about the shop thing."
"What about it?"
"You're expanding. Growing. Succeeding. It's—attractive. But also intimidating."
"Why intimidating?"
"Because what if I don't keep up? What if my career stalls and yours keeps climbing?"
"Then we deal with it."
"How?"
"Together. As partners."
She's folding clothes. Precise. Methodical.
"My dad asked if you're going to propose soon."
"What'd you say?"
"I said probably. Eventually. When you're ready."
"And if I'm ready?"
She stops folding. Looks at me.
"Then I'd say yes."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Good to know."
She laughs. "You're very romantic."
"I'm very practical."
"I've noticed."
We keep packing. Moving her into my life.
Our life.
This is happening.
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