He led me down the short hallway into his private den, a small, wood-paneled sanctuary filled with old wrestling plaques, weight-lifting trophies, and the scentof leather and gun oil. According to Silas, it was the one room where anyone could ensure absolute, undisturbed privacy.
We sat across from one another, Scott dropping into his recliner while I leaned forward on the edge of the loveseat, my hands resting on my knees.
“We have a flight to Orlando at noon,” I started, my voice direct. “Presley ordered us back. We’re written off TV, but he’s forcing us to be present for training.”
Scott’s jaw tightened. “Vindictive little prick.”
“I’m going to need your help. Yours and Maverick’s.”
Scott straightened up in his chair, his entire demeanor turning into that of a veteran general preparing for a tactical briefing. “Anything, Cal. Name it.”
“First.” My voice dropped into a deadly serious tone. “You do not say a single, solitary word about this conversation to Silas. He’s already hanging onto his sanity by a thread, and if he thinks I’m behind his back moving pieces, he’s going to spiral into a panic I can’t pull him out of. I’m coming to you because I need you to tell Maverick. But—” I paused, my eyes narrowing behind my glasses. “I’m only telling you this if you can guarantee me, on your life, that Maverick can keep his mouth shut.”
He gave a single, firm nod, his expression serious. “He will. When it comes to his son, Mav knows how to hold a line. What’s going on?”
I took a slow breath, finally opening the vault. I told Scott everything that had been happening behind the curtain since the night we got outed on the beach. I didn’t sugarcoat a single detail. I told him about the separate locker rooms, the explicit ban on our wedding rings, the targeted harassment from the corporate office, and the nuclear detonation that had occurred backstage in Boston. I told him about the indefinite suspension, and finally, the personal promise Presley had made to blacklist me from ever stepping foot on the production side of the industry.
As the words spilled from my mouth, I watched the color completely drain from Scott’s face, replaced by a dark flush of pure rage. The veins in his neck werebulging, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair so hard the leather groaned under the pressure.
“He threw my nephew in a closet?” Scott whispered, his voice a jagged, trembling rasp of pure hatred. “He threatened your livelihoods because you’re married?”
“Tate Martin and Jim Dallas are already on it,” I continued. “They’re furious. They’ve been kept out of this bullshit by Presley’s sycophants, but they’re pulling the strings now. They are putting a plan together to put Presley in his goddamn place once and for all, and to protect Silas’s future. But Tate told me we need leverage. We need guys to stand with us so Mr. Murran can’t sweep it under the rug.”
Scott didn’t say a single word. With a swift, violent motion, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and slammed a number into the screen.
“Mav.” Scott barked the second the line connected, not even waiting for a hello. “Get your ass over to my house right now. Walk across the yard. Don’t wake anyone, just get to the den. Now.”
He hung up, tossing the phone onto his desk.
“Maverick needs to hear this.” Scott ‘s eyes burned with a lethal intensity. “And he needs to hear it directly from you. If Presley thinks he can use the Reed name as a doormat to protect his own pathetic ego, he’s about to find out exactly what this family does to people who threaten our boys.”
The side door of the den clicked open. Maverick stepped into the room, and for a split second, a chilling jolt of recognition crashed into me. It was eerie how much Maverick and Silas looked alike when they were in a state of frantic panic. Maverick’s hair was a wild, unbrushed disaster, his jaw locked in the exact same jagged line I’d traced on my husband’s face. His eyes were wide and bloodshot with the same volatile anxiety that Si carried under his skull.
“What’s wrong?” Maverick rumbled, looking between me and his brother. “Is Si okay? Did the UWF call?”
“Sit down,Mav,” Scott commanded.
Maverick dropped into the seat next to me, his chest heaving as Scott began furiously repeating every single detail I had just laid out. His voice tore through the timeline, while I chimed in periodically to verify the specific logistics, the dates, the names, and the threats from the production desk.
Maverick sat there, his entire frame going dangerously, terrifyingly still as the reality of the abuse settled into his brain. I was mid-sentence, explaining the production blacklist Presley had threatened me with, when Maverick suddenly raised his hand, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“Does Tate Martin know about this?” he asked.
“Yes, I called him from Boston the night it happened. He knew immediately.”
He let out a long, slow, and incredibly heavy sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping just a fraction of an inch as he leaned back in his chair. He rubbed a hand over his face, an exhausted, knowing look crossing his features.
“Good,” Maverick muttered, looking over at Scott before looking back at me. “If Tate knows, we have a fighting chance. I know without a single doubt in this world, Tate will go to the fullest, most lethal extent to protect my son.”
I kept my mouth shut, but internally, my mind was racing a mile a minute.Tate will protect Silas as if he were his own son?I had been in the United Wrestling Federation for years, and I had always known Tate was a close, respected colleague of the Reed family. But I never, not once, knew they werethisclose. The sheer gravity in Maverick’s voice told me there was a history there that went decades deep, a bond forged in blood and old locker rooms. In fact, looking at the relief on Maverick’s face, I almost wondered if Silas even knew the true extent of this closeness himself.
“Go get on your flight. Play the game. Do what you’re told, keep Silas quiet, and let us move.”
The travel day was an exercise in pure psychological torture.
Both Silas and I were extremely, visibly nervous about being back on the road. We spent the entire journey in a tense silence, our fingers tightly interlocked across the center console of the rental car and the airplane armrests.
By early afternoon, the rental car came to a stop in the subterranean parking garage of the venue. The world around us was completely off. The usual bustling, high-velocity camaraderie of a UWF backstage area was completely dead. Production assistants who usually ran up to Si to hand him interview schedules took one look at us and immediately turned down opposite hallways. Writers who usually pitched ideas to me looked at the floor, scurrying past like guilty children. The locker room doors were shut tight, the distant sound of whispers echoing off the concrete.
